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Fixed – Robbie MacNiven

A Black Library Publication

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Fixed

Robbie MacNiven

The stadium was rocking. From the upper spires, where Grizmund and his gaggle of pale-fleshed vampire thralls had secured the best seats, to the pitch-side barricades, where half a dozen fights had already broken out between irate supporters, every man, elf and beast inside the Thunderdome Nordlander Arena was on up its feet, claws or paws. Cabal Vision were giving a pitch-side interview to a halfling pundit more preoccupied by dodging the remains of a Hackers Dunk Doughnuts advertising board being flung by the crowd, while the Nordlander cheerleading team were going through their flashiest routine, pompoms a yellow and blue blaze.

It was half time, and it was going well for the Nordland Rangers. Too well.

‘Do you think the fixers have got to them?’ Klimt asked. The rest of the Rangers shouted the lineman down, filling the dugout with their disapproval.

‘Tell Kelled that,’ Garr said over the outrage, nodding towards the medical lean-to, where the team’s apothecary, the butcher-turn-chirurgeon Mikal Frisk, was attempting to staunch the blood pouring from the catcher’s mangled arm. A Kroxigor, the biggest creature on the pitch, had caught Kelled just before the halftime whistle. His screams were lost amidst the roaring of the crowd.

‘There have been too many shock results since the split,’ Klimt went on, ignoring the abuse he was getting from the rest of the huddle. ‘Everyone knows someone’s got to halve the coaches. They’re making a fortune off these outcomes.’

‘Who in Nuffle’s name would the scalies do a deal with though?’ Torvern, the stocky little catcher, demanded. ‘They’d as soon rip legs off as take a bribe.’

‘Depends on the bribe,’ Klimt countered.

‘That’s enough,’ snapped Coach Rife. The lanky, scarred ex-blitzer took off his feathered cap to mop his brow, glaring at Klimt. ‘That sort of talk undermines everything we’ve done to make it this far. Everything I’ve done, Klimt. Do you want me to bin you?’

‘No coach,’ the lineman said, eyes on his boots.

Rife nodded, gaze sweeping the rest of the team.

‘We’re up eleven touchdowns to six, against a lizardmen team touted to finish a comfortable second in the playoffs. We’re going to put this one to bed. Break these scalies and it’s us versus the East End Boyz in the playoff final. I don’t need to tell you all that’s where we want to be.’

‘Yes, coach,’ the Rangers chorused.

‘Same as we’ve done all season,’ Rife went on. ‘Garr, take us down the middle, box formation. Vulf, can you keep up?’

Kelled’s substitute grinned and nodded.

‘Damn scalies won’t lay a claw on me, coach.’

‘Good. Dumpf, just… do what you’ve been doing all game.’ The hulking ogre frowned, squinting down at Rife.

‘Der…’ he began to say, picking at his crooked nose.

‘Tackle the Kroxigor, Dumpf. So Garr can get through. Don’t let that thing catch him the way it caught Kelled. Stop the Krox, that’s all you have to do.’

‘The… croc see what?’

‘The big lizard, Dumpf. The big, scaly bastard lizard. As soon as he makes a move for Thunderbolt here, bring him down.’ Rife smacked Garr’s battered helmet for emphasis.

‘Sure thing, coach.’ The ogre went back to picking his nose.

‘Right. Okay then. Let’s do this, Rangers!’

Garr dropped into his familiar central position, flexing his back and shoulder muscles. The comfortable score line didn’t reflect the reality of playing against lizardmen – iron-hard muscles and iron-hard scales meant a lot of hard knocks.

He glanced up at the main stand, and the rickety spire-towers occupied by Grizmund and his bloodsuckers. In over a decade of professional league Blood Bowl, Garr had long ago learned to block out the crowd, at least until they started throwing spiked projectiles or shrieking goblins onto the pitch. Today, though, he couldn’t shake the hypnotic, black gaze of the ancient bloodsucker. He owed the diabolical mobster money. Thanks to his gambling he owed half the damn town money, but Grizmund was just about the only one with the means to actually pursue a debt from the most famous and successful blitzer in Nordland history. The so-called Throat-Ripper, himself a long-retired blocker from the Arterial Jets, had ‘treated’ Garr to lunch at the Crow’s Corpse only last week, an eatery that just so happened to sit across the street from the dank, crumbling stonework and rusting iron of the debtors’ prison. For all his on-pitch success this season, Garr knew he was running out of time.

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A Black Library Publication

Published in 2016 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd,
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Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.

Fixed © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2016. Fixed, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, Blood Bowl, 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: 978-1-78572-283-7

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