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Doc Morgrim’s Vow – Josh Reynolds

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A Black Library Publication

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Doc Morgrim’s Vow

Josh Reynolds

‘This is a mistake,’ Doc Morgrim growled. The thickset dwarf stood braced against the rail of the gondola, staring out of the window, listening to the omnipresent cacophony of creaks and groans. The Makaisson and Sons airship echoed constantly with the stress of travel through northern skies, and its crew were ever in motion, repairing this, tightening that, and muttering prayers to Grungni, Valaya, and whoever else might be listening.

Morgrim flinched with every squeak and squeal. He was of the opinion that if the venerable ancestors had wanted dwarfs to fly, they’d have given them golden wings and instruction manuals. Others didn’t agree, as the airship proved. Makaisson and Sons ran three flights a week from Praag to Sjoktraken, and once a month to the Dragon’s Hold. Airships were the latest thing and said to be safer than sea travel. Fewer dragons, at any rate.

‘No, this is an opportunity,’ replied Morgrim’s companion. Tyros Bundt was big for a human, mostly width-wise. The coach of the number-four-ranked Middenplatz Manglers was a former blitzer, one of the best Nuffle had ever seen fit to bless, and starting to run to fat, as the old muscles went flat from lack of use. Even so, he was still more than capable of prying an opponent’s skull open like a bottle of Bloodweiser.

‘It can be both,’ Morgrim said. In contrast to Bundt, Morgrim was as hard as slate. Beneath the greasy smock he habitually wore in his capacity as team sawbones, his broad form was covered in tattoos and scars. His hair and beard had been stiffened with bear fat and dyed in Manglers’ colours, giving him the look of someone who’d lost a fight with a feral rainbow. Despite his appearance, he was one of the best physicians in the league.

‘Stop ruining this. I’m happy. Why won’t you let me be happy?’

‘I’m a dwarf. We are not at home to happy.’ Morgrim thumped a fist against the side of the cupola and stared down at the white wasteland visible below. Norsca. Why did it have to be Norsca? The high, snow-capped crags below reached up towards the underside of the airship like the claws of some vast beast. Somehow, it looked worse from the air.

Morgrim had always hated Norsca. It wasn’t the cold, so much as everything that went with it. Also, the cold. He’d sworn never to set foot in these wild lands again, but Bundt had insisted. And Morgrim had taken an oath, on the field of battle, to always stand by his teammate. To stand by the manling who’d saved his unworthy life. ‘Never should have played in that game,’ he muttered.

‘What?’

‘This is a mistake.’

‘You already said that.’

‘And I intend to keep saying it until you listen.’ Morgrim turned from the window. ‘The Tournament of a Hundred Woes is a meat grinder. It’s chewed up and spat out more teams than I can name.’

‘Then it’s due an upset.’

‘I don’t know how I let you talk me into this.’ Somehow, the Manglers had been invited to the tournament. It might have been their win in the Doom Bowl, or maybe Bundt had put out feelers. Regardless, there weren’t many teams interested in travelling that far north, and the ones who were often went for one of the better known tournaments – the Manticore Bowl, the Troll Country Classic – rather than trekking into the mountains to take part in a tournament known only to a few dedicated enthusiasts. The Dragon’s Hold Drakeslayers were probably desperate for opponents. Which only made them more dangerous. And there were other perils than those to be found on the playing field.

Despite his misgivings, Morgrim had agreed to go. He still wasn’t entirely sure why. Perhaps some part of him missed his home town. Also, without his skills, he had no doubt the Manglers would return in more pieces than they’d left in. And there was no denying that it’d be a coup to pull off. Like the Chaos Cup or Mork’s Thumb, the Angry Dragon Cup was a legendary artefact in Blood Bowl circles. The sort of trophy spoken of in whispers.

‘I didn’t have to talk you into anything. Deny it all you like, but you’ve been wanting to come back to Norsca for ages. And how better to do it, but as a champion?’ Bundt flung out a hand. ‘Feel that, Doc? Winds of change!’

‘Yes. That’s why the hull is studded with protective runes.’ Morgrim frowned. ‘The Dragon’s Hold is dangerous. They play for keeps up here. There’s a reason the Angry Dragon Cup has never gone south.’ The dwarfs of the Dragon’s Hold were staunch traditionalists. It would be a cold day in Grungni’s forge before they surrendered any of their treasures, especially that cup.

‘Like I said, it’s due a change, then,’ Bundt said, stubbornly. ‘Besides, we’ve got a secret weapon. Isn’t that right, Fiducci?’

The black-clad shape froze in its attempt to creep past them, towards the galley. Franco Fiducci was a Tilean by birth, a necromancer by inclination and a horse, if you judged by appetite. This would make the fifth time he’d gone to the galley since they’d left Sjoktraken, and it showed. Wrapped in black robes, black furs and black feathers, with black-stained teeth and black spectacles, he was his own best advertisement. The robes were looking a bit tighter than they had before.

Morgrim hadn’t yet warmed to the little man, but he’d come in handy the last game, after the Manglers’ star player, Marius Hertz, had succumbed to a bout of pre-game hijinks. At the moment, a large portion of the team was only in one piece thanks to Fiducci’s abominable rites. Thankfully, they had him on retainer.

Fiducci straightened and whipped off his spectacles. He began to clean the lenses on the edge of his sleeve. ‘Ah… yes?’ he said, hesitantly.

Bundt’s eye twitched. ‘The team are all intact, aren’t they?’

‘Well, yes…’

‘Don’t say “but”,’ Bundt said.

Fiducci swallowed. ‘But–’

Morgrim interposed an arm, halting Bundt’s murderous lunge. Normally, the coach’s temper was fairly slow burning. But the Manglers’ recent victory in the DeathHex Doom Bowl had added some fuel to that simmering fire. The team had climbed a ranking, deposing their long-time rivals, the Haakenstadt Screechers, and were now being sponsored by DeathHex – ‘DeathHex – When they absolutely, positively have to die overnight!’ – which meant more money, more fame… and more trouble.

The stress of success had shortened Bundt’s fuse drastically. He’d headbutted a reporter from Errantry magazine before they’d left Drachenstadt, and fed a photogit from Fungus Digest to his own squig in Wolfenburg. At this point, Morgrim was just praying that Bundt wouldn’t snap and run amok through the airship, tossing crewmen left and right. If that happened, they might not survive long enough to die horribly later.

‘What’s wrong?’ Morgrim demanded, glaring at the necromancer.

‘It’s the cold,’ Fiducci said. ‘It’s making the zombies stiff. Stiffer than normal, I mean.’ After the Doom Bowl, half of the Manglers’ current starting line-up were ambulatory corpses of one description or another. Zombies made for excellent linesmen. They could take a punch or six, and didn’t mind being set on fire. Always a plus, when it came to Blood Bowl players.

‘Can you fix it?’

Fiducci shrugged. ‘I know a few rituals that might help.’ He smiled thinly. ‘If you’re willing to pay extra, that is.’

Bundt growled. ‘You’re already on retainer.’

‘I have expenses.’

‘Expensive tastes, you mean.’ Morgrim poked him in the belly.

‘Winter weight,’ Fiducci said, looking offended.

Morgrim snorted. ‘Don’t think I didn’t notice that powdered warpstone you’ve been putting on your puddings.’ At Fiducci’s incredulous look, he added, ‘Doktor, remember? I know the signs of warpstone bloat when I see it. Besides, your teeth glow in the dark.’

‘I can quit any time I want!’

‘I don’t care. But if you so much as sprout an extra finger, you’re done.’

‘You can’t fire me,’ Fiducci spluttered.

‘Who said anything about firing you?’ Morgrim patted the axe in his belt meaningfully. Fiducci goggled at him, eyes wide behind his spectacles.

‘Stop it, the pair of you,’ Bundt snapped. He pointed at Fiducci. ‘You want a raise? Fine. But you’re going to earn it. Clear?’

Fiducci glowered, but nodded. ‘Clear.’

Bundt looked at Morgrim. ‘See? No problems. We’re fine. Everything’s fine. Manglers never lose.’

‘We did two years ago,’ Morgrim said, annoyed.

Bundt blanched. ‘You promised you’d never mention that.’

‘The Grimfane Grundle Bowl. You remember?’

‘A statistical anomaly,’ Bundt sputtered. His eye was twitching again.

‘We lost the game and half our players.’

‘A technicality!’

Morgrim shook his head. ‘This is a mistake.’

‘Stop saying that,’ Bundt said. He looked at Fiducci. ‘How’s Marius? Moving smoothly?’ Marius Hertz had been the Manglers’ star player, before he’d overdosed on poison. Now he was a dripping, violet corpse that occasionally tried to bite the other players. All in all, not much had changed.

‘He’s stopped leaking.’

‘Wonderful,’ Bundt exclaimed.

‘By which I mean, it’s all frozen,’ Fiducci said.

Bundt’s face fell.

‘Can he play?’ Morgrim asked. He hoped the answer was ‘no’. Without Marius, he might be able to convince Bundt to return south.

‘As well as can be expected,’ Fiducci said. ‘Corpses are delicate things – too much heat and they rot, too little and they go brittle. It’s all about balance…’

‘Balance? Balance – this is Blood Bowl,’ Bundt hissed, grabbing a double handful of Fiducci’s robes. ‘I don’t care if they’re losing bits and pieces… Get them in fighting shape or, so help me, I’ll find a necromancer who will.’

Before Fiducci could reply, a horn sounded somewhere in the depths of the airship. The melancholy sound reverberated upwards and outwards through the gondola. Bundt looked around. ‘What was that?’

‘We’re either being attacked by a manticore, or… ah.’ Morgrim gestured to the window. ‘Behold, Karaz Ankor. Known to my folk as Krakadrak or the Dragon’s Hold.’ Even now, the sight of that great city took his breath away. Even now, it was magnificent. A jutting edifice of carefully hewn rock, every peak and cliff shaped to perfection by generation upon generation of dwarfen artisans. To the untrained eye, it was merely one mountain among many. But to one who knew, it was the very essence of a mountain – a mountain among mountains, crafted by a folk who knew what a mountain ought to be.

‘That’s it?’ Bundt asked.

Morgrim looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Only, it looks like a mountain.’

‘It is a mountain,’ Morgrim said. ‘A fine mountain. The greatest mountain in this range. Look at those crags. You think snow-capped peaks like that come natural, my friend? No, that is all hand crafted and organically produced.’

‘It’s snow,’ Fiducci said.

‘Dwarf-made snow,’ Morgrim said, sharply. ‘Better than the other kind.’

‘It’s snow,’ the necromancer repeated.

‘Artisanal,’ Morgrim snapped.

‘You sound like you’ve been here before,’ Bundt said, peering at him. ‘You’ve never mentioned that.’

‘No,’ Morgrim said. ‘I haven’t.’

Bundt, for once, took the hint.

The landing was rough. They always were, this side of the Sea of Claws.

The crater on the southern slopes of the mountain hold had been specially carved and flattened for airship arrivals. Protected from the deadly winds by a rising barrier of stone, it was the only place in the mountains safe enough to attempt a landing. Even with the crags acting as a windbreak, it was still precariously gusty. Even so, the crew were old hands and had mooring ropes secured and anchor weights deposited within moments of arrival.

As the Manglers disembarked down an iron gangplank lined with safety ropes, Morgrim heard a scream from above and peered upwards. ‘What was it?’ one of the players asked from behind him. He glanced back at Sora Oflrsdottir. The crimson-haired, late-season trade from Vannheim Valkyries was an experienced blocker and another expatriate from the grim north.

‘Doom diver. Someone heard we were coming.’ Waaagh! Monthly employed photogits strapped into aerial harnesses, and launched from catapults, to get the best pictures. Or so they insisted. Mostly what they got was a slew of blurred images, followed by a splattered photogit. ‘Must’ve launched him from nearby. Looks like he caught an updraft.’ He watched the tiny figure spiral up and away.

A series of flashes startled him. He heard Fiducci curse and turned. The necromancer stood poised halfway up the gangplank, glaring up at the side of the gondola. ‘Paparazzi,’ he snarled, summoning a handful of amethyst energy. He hurled the crackling purple ball at a half-frozen skaven dangling from a strut on the airship, snapping away with a flash. The skaven gave a despairing squeak as the energy enveloped it, and reduced both it and its image-capture device to dust and bits of bone. ‘I hate paparazzi,’ Fiducci spat.

‘Still, you have to admire their dedication,’ another player said, as he pushed past the trembling necromancer and made his way down the gangplank. Horst Mueller was the team’s thrower, with an arm like a catapult and a brain like something a catapult might throw. His face, never the prettiest to begin with, was a mass of angry red scars – a parting gift from the Haakenstadt Screechers. ‘Little fella must have hung on all the way from Sjoktraken, just to get the perfect shot.’

‘The perfect shot of the back of our heads,’ Berkut Balcan, the Manglers’ catcher, said. The Arabayan was wrapped in three layers of furs, and still shivering. ‘Why is it so bloody cold here?’

A pale hand laced with dark veins stroked his furs, causing him to jump. ‘Is it? I find it quite balmy.’ The woman’s voice was a thing of unnatural resonance, echoing through the marrow of Morgrim’s bones. Then, that wasn’t surprising, given her unnatural nature. Mimi Scream, the Manglers’ newest blocker, had joined the team in Drachenstadt. The banshee was beautiful, at a distance. It was only when you got close that you realised you could see her bones through her flesh. By then, it was too late.

Berkut flinched away from her skull-like visage and hurried down the gangplank. Mimi laughed and took Fiducci’s arm. The necromancer patted her hand in paternal fashion. He’d introduced Mimi to Bundt, not long after they’d secured the DeathHex sponsorship. Between the banshee and the zombies, the Manglers had more dead team members than living. Not that that was exactly a disadvantage.

Bundt was last down the gangplank, dragging the remainder of the team behind him by their chains. The zombies were a stumbling, moaning lot, wrapped in armour and studded with spikes. There was no point in removing their uniforms, and it was dangerous to make the attempt besides. What was left of Marius Hertz was easily distinguishable from the others – his flesh had turned a vibrant shade of violet, and he lurched with purpose. There was an evil glint in the former blitzer’s eye – a bloodlust that was far from human. He wore an iron muzzle over the front of his helmet, to prevent any unfortunate biting incidents. Off the field, at least.

Morgrim wasn’t sure how much of Marius was still in there. The blitzer had been unpleasant while alive. Being dead hadn’t changed his disposition much. Marius groaned and threw up his hands, clawing at the air, as if to strangle it. ‘He’s testy,’ Morgrim said, as Bundt guided the zombies down the gangplank.

‘I think the trip riled them up,’ Bundt said. They’d left the zombies penned in the hold with their gear. It was the only way the airship crew had been willing to transport them. ‘You know how excitable they are. Especially Marius.’

‘Nice to know some things never change,’ Morgrim said. He ran his hands through the stiff bristles of his hair. ‘This is a mistake, by the way.’

‘Still harping on that,’ Bundt said, sourly. He took a deep breath and looked around. Besides the crew scurrying about their appointed tasks, there was no one else around. ‘Where is everyone? Where are the journalists? The fans?’

‘What fans? What journalists? The Dragon’s Hold has neither.’

‘No fans?’ Bundt looked shaken at the thought. ‘Then who are we playing for?’

‘No one. The Tournament of a Hundred Woes is played only for a select group of nobles and notables, who watch from the comfort of their clan halls.’ Morgrim shook his head. ‘I warned you. There’s a reason few teams bother with it, besides the obvious.’

Bundt’s features hardened. ‘Well, we’ll see about that.’

Morgrim shrugged. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘It’s not like you’d ever let me forget it,’ Bundt said, acidly. ‘This is our shot, Doc. A win here puts us in soup bones and sponsorships. It’ll add lustre to our gold.’ He swept out a hand, eyes vague with imagined triumphs. ‘Think of it – the Middenplatz Manglers, undefeated holders of the Angry Dragon Cup. From strength to strength.’

‘The Wolfenburg Harpies beat us last year,’ Sora said. ‘And quite badly.’

‘A momentary setback on the road to greatness,’ Bundt said, fixing her with a glare. His eye was starting to twitch again. ‘Manglers never lose. Now come on… I want to get these lads out of the cold before their fingers start snapping off.’

‘Not that they need fingers,’ Morgrim said.

‘Don’t worry, I can replace them,’ Fiducci said. ‘As long as we don’t lose them. Everyone keep an eye out. Nothing more frustrating than a missing digit.’ He peered at the ground for emphasis.

A set of massive double doors occupied an immense archway in the far wall of the crater. The archway had been carved to resemble the brooding countenance of the creature which gave the hold its name. As Morgrim and the others made their way towards it, the great doors ground open with a thunderous whine of ancient hinges. Morgrim stopped, and Bundt ran into him.

The doors swung outwards ponderously, releasing a gust of relatively warm air from within the mountain. The faint sounds of industry reverberated up from within. A dwarf city sounded like any other, just a bit louder due to the echoing effects of the mountain’s interior. A group of dwarfs trooped out. They carried handguns and wore mail beneath their vibrantly dyed furs. At their head marched a heavily armoured dwarf, his face hidden behind a helmet, and a massive hammer braced on his shoulder.

The newcomers came to a stolid halt before the astonished Manglers, and lowered their handguns from their shoulders. While the gesture wasn’t entirely hostile, it wasn’t friendly either. ‘What’s going on?’ Bundt hissed. ‘I thought they knew we were coming.’

‘They did.’

‘Is this a welcoming party?’

‘Of sorts,’ Morgrim said, tersely. He eyed the Thunderers with suspicion. He’d been afraid of this. He’d hoped to avoid it until after the tournament, but some people had no patience.

‘Morgrim,’ the armoured dwarf said. The Ironbreaker was shorter than Morgrim, but twice as broad, with shoulders thick enough to support a cannon barrel. His heavy armour was adorned with gold and silver, and his war mask was chased with bronze and sapphires.

‘Gazak,’ Morgrim said, fists clenching. He had an axe stuffed through his belt, but the Thunderers arrayed behind the Ironbreaker would fire if he so much as twitched towards it. Gazak Thunorsson nodded, as if reading Morgrim’s mind.

‘You won’t make it.’

‘I know,’ Morgrim said. ‘And I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction anyway.’

‘You always were disagreeable.’

‘How’s your sister?’

‘Better, now that you’re here.’ Gazak’s eyes glittered icily behind his war mask. ‘She insisted we provide you a proper honour guard upon your arrival. Our father agreed.’

‘Of course he did,’ Morgrim said, sourly. An image wavered across the surface of his mind – the face of the woman he’d loved and then left behind when he fled Norsca, never to look back. Or so he’d thought. The old guilt came back, bringing with it its boon companions, shame and anger.

Bundt leaned over. ‘Something you want to tell me?’

‘Yes. This is a mistake.’

‘You’re married?’ Bundt said, staring at him. His voice carried strangely. As a group, they had been herded into an antechamber just inside the doors. The antechamber was open on three sides, looking out over the hollowed-out interior of the mountain, and the civilisation that had taken root in its depths. Reinforced flues over their heads allowed for the open flow of air and free-standing steps descended from the antechamber plateau into the depths of the hold. Wide, tall pillars, marked with runes and intricate carvings, rose along the edges of the antechamber, marking its borders.

‘Yes,’ Morgrim said. Gazak had departed to summon whoever had asked him to take the Manglers into custody. But the Thunderers were still there, stationed in ones and twos throughout the antechamber. Bundt and the others remained clumped together, looking variously worried, calm, annoyed or, in the case of the zombies, vacant. Blood Bowl players, as a rule, took a lot of scaring. A few dwarf handguns pointed in their general direction wasn’t going to do much more than make them wonder what was going on.

‘You?’ Bundt said.

‘Yes.’

‘Married.’

Morgrim sighed and tugged on his beard. Behind him, he heard the tromp of feet on the ancient slab steps. ‘Engaged, actually. I swore no oath of marriage.’ He’d made sure to leave well before that.

‘Merely an oath to swear an oath, which you broke.’

Morgrim turned. ‘Hrulda,’ he said, hoarsely. Hrulda Thunorsdottir was as lovely as he remembered, with shoulders you could crack stones on, and a round face that put him in mind of a perfectly formed dumpling. But there was something different about her. He blinked. ‘Are you doing something different with your hair?’

The yellow plaits he remembered had been replaced by a stiffened coif, dyed a vibrant orange and arranged in artful spikes. His heart sank. ‘You took the Slayer oath,’ he said. ‘Are you mad, woman? Why would you do something so foolish?’

‘Why, he asks,’ Hrulda said. ‘Why do you think, husband?’ She looked around fiercely. Nearby Thunderers edged back, grips tightening surreptitiously on their weapons. The roster of the Dragon’s Hold Drakeslayers was made up exclusively of the mad, the bad and the dangerous to know. Every player had to take the Slayer oath at the shrine of Grimnir before being allowed to don the blue and gold.

‘Technically, we were never married.’

‘Technically, we weren’t not married either,’ she growled. For the first time, he noticed that she wore not robes or even ceremonial armour, but instead the war-plate of a Blood Bowl player. It had seen much use. Too much. ‘In the eyes of the gods, it’s all the same. You deserted me. Dishonoured me. And now… you’re back.’

Morgrim hesitated. Then, weakly, ‘Surprise?’

A second later, he was staring up at the ceiling, wondering how he’d gone from vertical to horizontal. The pain caught up with him soon enough. ‘Ouch.’

Bundt looked down at him. ‘In fairness, you deserved that.’

‘Shut up and help me.’ Bundt, Fiducci and Horst helped him to his feet. He saw Hrulda eyeing him balefully from the other side of a Manglers wall, composed of Sora and Mimi. He rubbed his mouth. His fingers came away bloody. ‘You always could throw a punch, Hrulda.’

‘I’ll do worse than that,’ she began. She took a step, and Mimi hummed a trill of warning. Morgrim winced. The sound made his molars ache. Hrulda shook her head and stepped back. ‘Why did you come back, Morgrim?’

He glared at Bundt. ‘It wasn’t my idea.’

‘If you’d said something,’ Bundt began.

‘Would it have mattered?’

Bundt opened his mouth. Closed it. He shrugged. Morgrim snorted. ‘That’s what I thought.’ He looked at Hrulda. ‘You’re wearing Blood Bowl colours.’

‘So are you.’

‘I don’t play anymore, Hrulda. These days, I just put players back together.’

Hrulda laughed. ‘Safer on the sidelines, is it? Why am I not surprised?’

Morgrim shrugged. ‘I didn’t expect you to be. Just like I didn’t expect your father and your brother to let you join the Drakeslayers.’

‘We didn’t let her do anything,’ Gazak said, as he entered the antechamber, followed by a second, older dwarf. Gazak clutched his helmet under one arm, revealing a stern visage, partially obscured by a thick flare of black beard. ‘I tried to stop her and she broke my arm in three places.’

‘Takes after her mother,’ the older dwarf said, as he pushed past Gazak and stumped towards the Manglers. ‘I told you not to come here, girl. Not until I had spoken with the oathbreaker.’

‘It was my dishonour, father. I have a right…’ Hrulda began. The old dwarf waved her to silence and fixed a steady glare on Morgrim.

Morgrim eyed him right back.

‘You look well, Thane Thunorsson,’ he said.

Thunor Thunorsson, second of his name and Delvemaster of the Deep Tunnels, was as imposing as Morgrim remembered. He was as broad as two boulders, with the muscles to match. His battered features peered out of a well-groomed hedge of ice-white hair and beard. He wore Drakeslayers colours like his daughter, which was only fitting, given his position as coach. He looked Morgrim up and down, his gaze lingering on Morgrim’s hair. ‘And you look as foolish as ever, Ironbane.’

‘Who’s Ironbane?’ Bundt said, looking back and forth between them.

‘Me,’ Morgrim said.

‘Your name is Ironbane? Why didn’t I know that?’

‘You never asked.’ Morgrim inclined his head towards Thunor. ‘And you are as perceptive as always, Thunor Thunorsson.’ He straightened. ‘Tyros Bundt, coach of the Middenplatz Manglers, might I introduce Thunor Thunorsson, coach of the Dragon’s Hold Drakeslayers.’

‘Always a pleasure to meet a peer.’ Bundt offered his hand. Thunor looked at it as if it were spillage from a pump. Morgrim pushed Bundt’s hand down, even as the coach’s eye began to twitch. As bad as things were, they would only get worse if Bundt punted Thunor out of the antechamber.

‘If you wanted to join a team, Ironbane, I would have welcomed you into the ranks of the Drakeslayers. You didn’t have to foreswear yourself and flee south.’ Thunor eyed Morgrim’s smock with distaste.

‘Oh, I think I did,’ Morgrim said. ‘Why did you detain us?’

‘You have much to answer for,’ Thunor said.

‘But we just got here,’ Bundt said.

Morgrim waved him to silence and said, ‘I demand to see the king.’

‘It is my clan you have shamed. And my right to clear the grudge. The king agrees.’ Thunor spoke confidently, but Morgrim knew that wasn’t the whole of it. It never was, with thanes like Thunor.

‘Does he?’

‘When I ask him, I’m sure he will,’ Thunor replied, grudgingly. As coach of the Drakeslayers, and the thane of one of the hold’s largest and most influential clans, he could get away with that sort of thing. Thunor had done plenty worse in his time. ‘Until then, this affair will be kept private.’ He looked at Bundt and the others. ‘You lot are free to go. I have no quarrel with you.’

Bundt hesitated. Then, with a sigh, he dropped his hand onto Morgrim’s shoulder. ‘You have a problem with one Mangler, you have a problem with the whole team.’ He smiled. ‘Besides, we’re here to play a game.’

‘Game?’

Morgrim peered at the thane. ‘The Tournament of a Hundred Woes. Someone invited us.’ He’d assumed it had been the king, or the council of thanes. But if Thunor didn’t know… He realised the truth, just as Thunor did. They both turned towards Hrulda. ‘Hrulda…?’

‘What did you do, girl?’ Thunor demanded.

Hrulda frowned. ‘We needed an opponent. It’s getting harder to find decent challengers. They’re all afraid of us.’ She glanced at Morgrim. ‘I caught the Manglers’ last game on the Necromancers Broadcasting Circle. Living men might fear us, but dead ones…’

‘So you went behind my back?’

‘If it helps, my people go behind my back all the time,’ Bundt interjected.

Thunor glared at him and Bundt stepped back, hands raised. ‘Guess not.’

‘That wasn’t the only reason, was it?’ Morgrim said. Hrulda looked away.

‘It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.’ Thunor slashed the air with his hands. ‘There will be no game. You will be wed, and that will be that. Honour will be satisfied.’

‘Wed? That’s why you detained us?’ Morgrim laughed. ‘I doubt either of us would be happy with a forced marriage.’

‘Your happiness is immaterial,’ Thunor growled. ‘You will be wed. And the grudge will be satisfied.’

‘What grudge?’ Morgrim snarled. Always the oaths and grudges. They were part of the reason he’d fled. Thanes like Thunor were another reason. Blood Bowl was more honest, even if Morgrim didn’t play anymore. The rules were clear and simple. ‘I made no oath.’ He looked at Hrulda. ‘Tell him!’

‘I have,’ she said, sourly. Morgrim blinked. She didn’t sound like a woman interested in marriage. He looked at Thunor. The thane glowered at him. Like many dwarfs, he’d set his mind on the world working a certain way and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to make it do what he wanted.

Morgrim met Thunor’s glare. ‘I won’t be bullied into marriage.’

Gazak tapped the floor with his hammer. ‘Then you’ll be buried, oathbreaker.’

Morgrim felt, rather than saw, the other Manglers stiffen. Sora stepped forward, thumping her fist into her palm. Marius stirred in his chains, as if excited by the scent of impending violence. Morgrim’s hand dropped to his axe.

Bundt, red faced, eye twitching, said softly, ‘I told you – mess with one of us, mess with all of us.’

Gazak stepped back, an order on his lips. Incipient violence hummed on the air.

‘Wait,’ Hrulda said. All eyes turned towards her.

‘Girl, I told you…’ Thunor began.

‘I’m team captain, father, whether you like it or not. And I have as much say in how and when we play as you do. And I say we play the Manglers.’ She met her father’s gaze and held it. Thunor looked away.

‘Enough of this foolishness. Gazak, take them…’

This time, Morgrim interrupted. ‘We came in good faith, Thunor Thunorsson. Would you now break one oath, in order to avenge another?’

Thunor whirled, face darkening, fist raised. ‘You talk to me of oaths?’

‘I talk to you of honour. Yours and ours. I know a way to keep both intact,’ Morgrim said, talking fast. Thunor grunted, eyes narrowed.

‘Speak.’

‘If the Drakeslayers win, I will wed Hrulda. If they lose, I am free of all oaths, real or imagined.’ He spread his hands. ‘Either way, the dishonour is expunged.’

Hrulda stared at him, in what he thought might be consternation. She glanced at Gazak, who shook his head. Then at her father, who gave no sign of what he felt either way. Then Thunor smiled without humour and nodded. ‘So be it. The Tournament of a Hundred Woes will commence at daybreak.’

Dawn found Morgrim standing in a makeshift dugout on the mountain’s northern slope. A strange wind was blowing in off the Sea of Claws, and the air tasted of warpstone. At any other time, he might have thought that it was the perfect weather for a match.

‘You look sour, Morgrim.’

He turned. ‘Shouldn’t you be over there, Hrulda?’ He gestured to the mountain’s summit, where the Drakeslayers’ dugout sat on a high crag, overlooking the ruins.

‘I will go there directly. But until then, I am here.’ Hrulda was dressed for war, or the closest facsimile thereof. She had even daubed her round features in ash, as was the tradition. She carried her helmet in one hand, letting it bounce against her leg. ‘Will you really stay?’

‘Despite what you might think, I am a dwarf of my word.’

She laughed. He couldn’t help but smile. It was a lovely sound, like hammers ringing on an anvil of silver and gold. ‘Perhaps I don’t want you to.’

‘No?’

She didn’t answer. Morgrim sighed. ‘Why did you invite the Manglers here?’

‘I told you,’ she said. ‘We’re running short of decent opponents. And sponsors.’ She grimaced. There was more going on beneath the surface, Morgrim thought, than was immediately obvious. When he’d left, the Drakeslayers had been in a relatively stable position. But if interest were flagging, it was no wonder Hrulda had gone looking for a different calibre of opponent. Blood Bowl teams, especially small, isolated ones, lived or died by their sponsorships. ‘And… perhaps, yes, I wanted to see you once more.’ She tugged at a spike of hair. ‘When I saw you in the dugout during the Doom Bowl broadcast, I knew I had to bring you here. To ask you…’ She trailed off.

‘Ask me what?’

‘It doesn’t matter now.’

Morgrim was silent for a moment. Then, ‘Thunor looked as if he wanted to kill me. Gazak too. They might have, if you hadn’t interfered.’

She frowned. ‘That interference saved your life. We take oaths seriously, here. When you broke yours–’

‘I broke nothing,’ Morgrim said, firmly. ‘I wasn’t ready to be married. I wanted more than to sit in this hold forever, petrifying.’

‘Even if it was with me?’

He looked at her. ‘You weren’t any readier than I was. Thunor only started up with the whole scheme because you decided you wanted to play Blood Bowl, and he was against it. Not proper, for a rinn.’

She sighed and looked at her helmet. It had a hole cut lengthwise along the top, so that her crest of hair could stand upright. ‘Father has always been a traditionalist. Especially when it comes to Blood Bowl.’

‘And you’ve never met a tradition you didn’t want to pulverise.’

Morgrim looked away, out over the snow and rock. Ruins climbed towards the mountain’s summit, following the curve of the peak. There were hundreds of semi-collapsed buildings, broken bridges and shattered statues littering the slope. He looked back at her. ‘Admit it… My leaving was the only way for both of us to achieve our dreams. I saw the world. And you get to pummel all the players you like.’

She laughed, not unkindly. ‘Maybe so, Morgrim Ironbane. But it looks as if our dreams have come to an end.’ She put on her helmet. ‘The Drakeslayers have never lost a tournament, and I don’t intend to start now.’

‘If it must be done, let it be done well,’ Morgrim said, softly.

She smiled, briefly. ‘That is the only way to do anything.’ She turned towards the steps. ‘I will see you when this is done… husband.’

Morgrim didn’t reply. He watched her trudge across the field and sighed. Some days, he wondered what it might have been like, if he’d just accepted his fate. And on other days, he knew. From behind him came a polite cough.

‘Everything all right?’ Bundt said.

‘Is it ever?’ Morgrim glanced at Fiducci, as the necromancer sat cross-legged on the hard stone floor. ‘Things will be starting soon.’ The rest of the team soon joined them. They were in their away-game gear, which was, if anything, more brutal than their normal uniforms. Spike-studded pauldrons and helmets, heavy gauntlets and boots, all reinforced to the barest edge of what was considered legal. The Manglers had a reputation for casual violence to uphold. Besides, it wasn’t really Blood Bowl unless you had someone’s brains on the bottom of your cleats.

‘Good.’ Bundt rubbed his hands together. ‘I think we have a shot here. Where’s the field?’ He leaned over the stone rail and peered out. ‘Is it underground?’

‘You’re looking at it.’

‘Behind the ruins?’

‘It is the ruins.’

‘That’s not a proper field,’ Bundt said as he gazed up at the heat-blackened ruins, which sprawled across the mountain’s northern slopes. ‘What sort of field goes vertical?’

‘This field. Also, I told you so.’ Morgrim shook his head. ‘It used to be an elgi trading city. Good riddance.’

‘What happened to it?’ Fiducci asked, adjusting his spectacles.

‘A dragon, what else? The very beast that the hold is named for. When it was slain, my people moved into its lair and created a hold worthy of legend. This is all that remains to mark the beast’s passing.’ Morgrim looked at Sora and the other players. ‘We’ve all played Dungeon Bowl, so you know how this goes – find the ball, get it to the end zone. Dragon Bowl is a little different in some aspects, however…’

‘How different?’ Berkut asked. The Arabayan had traded his furs for a uniform bedecked in spikes. He flexed his fingers, causing the joints of his gauntlet to creak.

‘Instead of explosive chests, it’s monsters.’

The players looked at one another. ‘Monsters,’ Berkut repeated.

‘Lots of them,’ Morgrim said. He studied the ruins. ‘Also traps… fire pits, deadfalls, collapsing walls, self-launching ballistae, war machines… I could go on.’

‘I’m starting to see why they called it the Tournament of a Hundred Woes,’ Bundt said. ‘No wonder no one comes to this thing.’

‘I told you so,’ Morgrim said. ‘We have one advantage.’

‘Most of us are already dead?’ Mimi said. She bumped knuckles with Marius, who then stared at his fist, perplexed.

Morgrim nodded. ‘Two advantages. The second is that the Drakeslayers are – well – Slayers, and that means they’re mostly more concerned about the monsters than the game. In fact, they’ve never actually won, save by default.’ Slayers, as a general rule, tended to get distracted by the opportunity to die gloriously in battle.

Fiducci started. ‘You mean they’ve never found the ball?’

Morgrim chuckled. ‘I doubt they ever actually looked for it. That’s not really the point, from their perspective.’ He looked around. ‘They expect the ruins to kill you, the same way they’ve killed every other team that tried its luck.’ He gestured to Marius and the other zombies. ‘But we’re the Manglers.’

‘And Manglers never lose,’ Bundt said, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘All right team, you heard him. Now get out there, and win one for the grint.’

Morgrim frowned. ‘Did you just refer to me as a piece of waste rock?’

‘We’re all waste rock, in our hearts,’ Bundt said, piously. He rubbed his hands in glee. ‘Now, get out there and play some Blood Bowl!’

‘No announcers, no crowds – are we sure this is even Blood Bowl?’ Bundt said. He leaned over the dugout rail, his breath pluming in the frosty air. The team had dispersed quickly at the distant clangour of a gong, after briefly squaring off in the middle of the field. There’d been no coin flip. That required a referee, and the Drakeslayers had lost theirs in the ruins and never bothered to replace him.

The tournament was like some weird hybrid of Dungeon Bowl and Blood Bowl. The teams had to find the ball and then race to their end zone, while battling monsters, angry dwarfs and booby traps, if they wanted to win. The Manglers’ end zone was just below them, on the edge of what was left of a market square. The Drakeslayers’ was nearby, on the other side of the square. The field wasn’t large, but it being ridiculously dangerous made up for that.

‘There are announcers, we just can’t hear them out here. And there are crowds.’ Morgrim pointed at the ground. ‘Sitting quietly. Down there. Proper dwarf crowds.’

‘I’ve seen dwarf crowds. Sitting quietly isn’t what they’re known for.’

‘Southern dwarfs. These are proper dwarfs. Real dwarfs.’ Morgrim tugged on his beard. ‘Or so they like to think of themselves.’

Bundt shook his head. ‘I’m starting to see why you left.’

‘And why I didn’t want to come back.’

‘I said I was sorry. I – never mind. It’s starting.’ Bundt looked up at one of the crystal balls set into the wall of the dugout. The enchantments laid on the ruin captured images of what was going on from every angle, and sent them back to the crystal balls. Morgrim watched as the two teams searched the ruins, dodging the opening fusillade of traps. Or in the dwarfs’ case, looking for monsters to kill.

He winced as the ground gave way beneath one of the zombies, dropping the corpse into a hole filled with ravenous snow-wyrms. One of the Drakeslayers’ linesmen was caught coming and going, first by an unbalanced section of street, and then hurled into the path of a ballista bolt. It wasn’t an honourable death, but at least it was messy.

The Manglers split up, moving quickly. Most of them had played Dungeon Bowl before – find the ball, win the game. He saw Sora slam a spiked fist into the skull of an ice-troll, knocking the lumbering brute senseless, even as Berkut hunted for the ball. Across the ruins, two of the Drakeslayers rushed Horst, even as he leapt out of the path of a snarling arctic sabre tusk. The Manglers’ thrower stumbled back, cursing, as the two Slayers charged at him. One ignored him entirely, bypassing him for a chance at the sabre tusk. Horst ducked the other, and scrabbled for safety.

Morgrim flinched as Mimi’s scream echoed over the ruins. One of the crystal balls fuzzed and squawked as the banshee’s cry interfered with the enchantment. ‘Where’s Marius?’ Bundt asked, peering up at the crystal balls. He sounded anxious, as well he might. In life, Marius had been tough. In death, he was nigh unstoppable, and the most valuable member of the team. The other zombies were little more than mobile obstacles for the Manglers’ opponents, but Marius was still the best blitzer in the league, as a pair of Drakeslayers soon discovered to their chagrin.

‘There he is,’ Morgrim said, as he watched the purple-faced dead man bull through the two dwarfs, bowling one over and tossing the other through a free-standing wall. Marius was on the hunt, and there was little that could stop him from getting his hands on the ball. Even dead, he hogged it at every opportunity.

Bundt nodded in relief. He glanced at Fiducci, who was concentrating on his charms and runes. The carved stones and bones were scattered on the ground before him, and he waved his hands over them as he muttered incantations beneath his breath. ‘How are the others?’ Bundt asked.

‘Still moving,’ Fiducci said, without looking up. The strain of controlling the zombies under such conditions showed on his face and in his voice. ‘Now stop bothering me.’

Bundt twitched, but said nothing. Short tempered as he was, he knew they needed Fiducci in one piece. He looked at Morgrim. ‘Nervous?’

‘About what?’ Morgrim said, not looking away from the crystal balls.

‘The prospect of your potential nuptials.’

‘Manglers never lose.’

‘Then you’d better hope that this isn’t one of those times we don’t not lose.’

Morgrim made to reply when he caught sight of a familiar figure on one of the crystal balls. Hrulda was moving fast, for a dwarf, skimming in and out of the ruins, a look of determination on her face. She had something in her arms.

The ball.

He heard Bundt’s intake of breath, and hunched forward, heart thudding. Then he saw why Hrulda was moving so determinedly. The dragon wasn’t large, as far as such creatures went. Its scales were the colour of frost, and it had a long, almost serpentine body. Stubby wings flapped as muscular limbs propelled it along with ever-increasing speed. A mountain-drake. ‘Looks like you might not have to worry about getting married after all,’ Bundt said, as Hrulda ricocheted off of a chunk of rock and launched herself at the monster.

The dragon burst through an archway, scattering frost-covered stones. One clipped Hrulda on the shoulder and interrupted her attack. The blow sent her tumbling through the snow. The ball bounced from her grip as she rolled. A gout of fire spewed from the dragon’s mouth, nearly catching her. She threw herself into the snow to extinguish the flames that clung to her armour.

Bundt was still talking, but Morgrim couldn’t hear anything save the thud of his heart. Hrulda had taken the Slayer oath. All she’d ever wanted was to play Blood Bowl, and this was a Blood Bowl player’s death. He wondered if this was what she wanted. Then he realised that it didn’t matter.

Morgrim snatched his axe from his belt and vaulted over the rail, dropping to the snows below. Bundt was shouting, but Morgrim ignored the coach and started to run towards the smoke from the dragon’s fire. He’d wanted to be free of this place, of his responsibilities, but not like this. He heard shouts and screams as he stumped along – the game was still going on and, from the sound of things, the Manglers were giving as good as they got. Small comfort.

He burst through a hole in a crumbling wall and skidded to a stop as he got a face full of dragon scale. The dragon was small, as most northern dragons were. But it was still more than large enough to swallow a man or dwarf whole. It padded towards Hrulda, head swaying, jaws open. Heat rolled from its mouth, melting the snow, as she scrambled to her feet. ‘Hrulda,’ Morgrim roared. He swung his axe, chopping into the beast’s flank.

The dragon whipped around, jaws snapping shut just shy of his beard. Morgrim stumbled back, and the dragon followed. It snapped at him again and again, coming perilously close each time. With a convulsive lunge, it caught hold of his smock and slung him aside. His axe clattered from his hand as he fell into a pile of rubble. The dragon approached, tail lashing, steam rising from its nostrils. Past it, he caught sight of Hrulda, scrambling for the ball. Even if she got it, he wouldn’t be able to fulfil his vow. But she’d be alive. He saw his axe, lying on the ground. One jump would place it within reach. The dragon reared up over him, jaws sagging open, its scales gleaming as the heat built up in the blast furnace of its stomach. Snow boiled to steam as it took a step towards him.

‘Oi – turn around, you overgrown newt,’ Hrulda shouted as she hurled the ball at the dragon. The dragon whirled and plucked the ball out of the air. It vanished down the creature’s snaky gullet with barely a ripple. Even so, she’d bought him time. Morgrim lunged for his axe. He felt the heat of the dragon’s breath as it clambered after him, shrugging aside pillars and broken statues in its haste. Morgrim didn’t turn around. No sense in wasting his last moments counting a dragon’s teeth.

He snatched up his axe, and came face-to-shin with a familiar pair of spiked greaves. He looked up, into slack, purple features. Marius stared down at him, as if wondering where he’d come from.

‘The ball, Marius – get the ball,’ Morgrim shouted.

Marius lunged towards the dragon, hands outstretched. The dragon jerked back in surprise and belched fire. The zombie blitzer vanished. For a moment, Morgrim thought he’d been consumed. Then, blackened bone fingers burst through the flames. Whatever spells Fiducci had cast on the blitzer’s corpse were still holding strong. Marius was still in the game. Fleshless hands caught hold of the dragon’s upper and lower jaw and wrenched them apart. The dragon yelped then gave a strangled squawk, as Marius stamped on its bottom jaw and thrust a smoking arm down its throat.

The zombie retrieved the ball and released the dragon. The creature wriggled away, whining in pain. Marius clutched the partially melted remains of the ball to what was left of his chest and started to stumble swiftly towards the Drakeslayers’ end zone. He was still on fire, but it didn’t seem to bother him overmuch.

‘Are you alive, Morgrim?’ Hrulda asked, approaching him.

‘Singed, but breathing.’ He gestured. ‘You lost the ball.’

‘How about that,’ she said, pulling off her helmet with one hand. Her other arm hung at a wrong angle. ‘I’m injured.’

Morgrim touched her gingerly. ‘Dislocated.’ He took hold of her wrist and shoulder. ‘This will hurt.’

‘It always does.’ She winced as he popped things back into place. She rotated her arm and then drove her fist into his nose, knocking him onto his rear. ‘That’s for interfering with a play in progress. Illegal participation is a penalty. You’re lucky our referee got eaten by cave-squig last year and we never bothered to replace him.’ She flexed her fingers.

‘You’re welcome,’ Morgrim said, feeling his nose. ‘I think you broke my nose.’

‘Good. Consider our grudge settled.’ She helped him to his feet. A gong sounded, echoing through the ruins. ‘Game’s over. I guess your friend made it to the end zone.’ She frowned. ‘We should increase the size of the field.’

‘Probably.’ Morgrim tugged on his beard. ‘Thunor will be livid.’

Hrulda laughed. ‘Yes. Grimnir save us, we might actually have to leave Dragon’s Hold to get our cup back. He’ll hate that. But at least the team will survive.’ She looked around. ‘It’ll be nice to play somewhere else for a change.’

Morgrim nodded. ‘What now?’

Hrulda smiled. ‘What else? Rematch.’ She gave his beard a tug. ‘It was nice seeing you again, Morgrim.’ She turned and trotted away. Morgrim watched her go, suddenly feeling a lot lighter. As if some heretofore unnoticed weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He turned at the sound of running feet. He saw Bundt hurrying towards him, followed by Fiducci.

‘We won,’ Bundt shouted.

‘I suppose we did.’ Morgrim smiled. ‘Maybe this wasn’t such a mistake after all.’

About the Author

Josh Reynolds is the author of the Blood Angels novel Deathstorm and the Warhammer 40,000 novellas Hunter’s Snare and Dante’s Canyon, along with the audio drama Master of the Hunt, all three featuring the White Scars. In the Warhammer World, he has written the End Times novels The Return of Nagash and The Lord of the End Times, and for Age of Sigmar he has written the Legends of the Age of Sigmar novels Pestilens and Black Rift, the Realmgate Wars novel Fury of Gork and several audio dramas including The Lords of Helstone. He lives and works in Northampton.

Dirk Hoffnung takes to the field for four epic novels covering his career in that greatest (and most deadly) of sports: Blood Bowl!

A Black Library Publication

Published in 2016 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.

Doc Morgrim’s Vow © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2016. Doc Morgrim’s Vow, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, Warhammer, Warhammer Age of Sigmar, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
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ISBN: 978-1-78572-582-1

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