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Hoppo’s Pies – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Hoppo’s Pies

by Guy Haley

The glory days of the Grotty Stealers were far behind. Coach Diglit swung his legs despondently on the subs bench as the shower of snottle piddle the club’s owner liked to call ‘players’ tried their best to get every rule of the game wrong.

There are not a great many rules in Bloodbowl, so they were very close to achieving their goal.

The Stealers were practising their chuck play – very, very badly. Captain Snirbad ‘The Cobbler’ Greenguts was bossing the team about, making things worse. Diglit’s catchers Gufberk and Fugwit invariably ran the wrong way as soon as snotling Ned was tossed down the field, if Ned even left the giant, scaly claws of Ozbog the troll. They were on Ned Five, or maybe Ned Six, that day. Diglit counted better than most goblins, but it had been a struggle getting over five since the accident. Within the iron sleeve of his prosthetic claw, the stump of his left arm twinged at the memory. The worst time to fumble a catch was when the ball had been replaced with a juvenile cave squig.

Mork and Gork, his head hurt. It could have been the fungus brew he drowned his sorrows in or the high level of job stress, but it was probably both. He had loved being a player and hated his career change. The coach’s cap weighed on his head like a stone troll’s bottom.

‘Nah! Over there, stupid!’ shouted Snirbad.

The squealing of a lineman cut through his brain. The team’s sole orc, Nork the Dork, was laughing like a drain. Diglit shuddered and hunkered down, his long ears drooping sorrowfully.

The play was too painful to watch. His eyes were drawn to the balding pitch, then to the bench he sat upon. The paint was flaking off; the wood beneath was grey and rotten. The stadium was in a sorry state. The west stand had burned down five years ago, and was now a pile of weed-choked, fire-blackened timbers. The east stand had more holes in its roof than tiles and every rail of the spiked iron fence he’d put in to keep the opposing fans apart was bent. The turnstiles were crooked, the ticket booth boarded up for want of money to buy new glass after the last riot.

It had not always been like this. Diglit remembered the stadium when it was packed with goblins of all types, stamping and singing as he, Diglit, caught the ball and raced away towards another touchdown. The ghostly wailing of squig pipes echoed from some far away place. The remembered roar of the crowd was a torment. All that had been before he had lost his arm. The crowds these days were thin.

Diglit blinked. Movement caught his attention at the corner of the field. Not the furtive movement of goblins, but the confident swagger of… a dwarf?!

Diglit’s gripped the bench. Splinters dug into his remaining hand. The pincer of his claw crunched through the wood.

‘Oi!’ he shouted, shooting upright. ‘Oi!’

He marched across the patchy turf, kicking an errant squig out of the way in anger.

‘What you doing here, stunty?’ he shouted.

The dwarf was wearing a riveted construction helmet polished to a high shine, and a fine set of armour. A human came out of the ruins of the west stand as Diglit approached. He slowed, his natural goblin cowardice triumphing over his indignation. Hope tacked itself onto this quick emotional switch. The duo were builders of some sort, that much was clear from their clipboards, helms and interesting collections of coloured quills tucked into their top pockets. For the tiniest sliver of a second, Diglit thought that maybe, just maybe, Boss Grobblehod had sent them to rebuild the west stand.

Of course, life didn’t work out like that. Especially Diglit’s life.

‘Ah, er, well well!’ said the man, who sweated nervously in the goblin’s direction. ‘Coach Doglet is it?’

‘Diglit,’ said Diglit, grinding his pointy teeth together. The man was twice his weight, but seemed worried about something.

‘Quite,’ the man checked his clipboard. His face did the little, complex dance of a man engaged in an internal monologue he is unwilling to share. The dwarf glared at Diglit without blinking. Eventually, the human looked up. ‘Weren’t you informed?’ he said sheepishly.

‘Of what?’ said Diglit. He folded his arms over his grubby Stealers jersey. His prosthetic claw dug into his armpit.

‘Of the survey,’ said the man. ‘We’re here to look the stadium over. Boss Grobblehod is selling it off, didn’t you hear?’

‘What?’

‘No wins, no team,’ said the dwarf. He smiled, displaying two rows of gold teeth. His voice was so deep it hurt the goblin’s ears. ‘Boss Grobblehod isn’t pleased with you, little greeny. Prime land, this. Make an excellent place for real estate. Actually,’ said the dwarf with an expression of mock realisation, ‘he might have bought your hopeless band only to get his hands on your stadium. Can you imagine that?’

‘What?’ said Diglit.

‘Not for goblins. No,’ said the dwarf, answering a question Diglit hadn’t asked. His smile grew, making his black beard bristle. ‘Filthy things. All this is going to be tree house condominiums for elves.’ He whipped out a leaflet from his back pocket. Leafy Heights, it read. Arboreal Life for the Discerning Fey. ‘They don’t smell. And they pay their bills.’

‘Mr Hoffsonsson,’ admonished the man. ‘There is no need to be so… racist.’

Hoffsonsson mumbled something under his breath, his psychotic smile still plastered over his face.

‘What?’ said Diglit again, but it came out as a pathetic squeak this time.

‘It’s all here, I’m afraid,’ said the human, holding out his clipboard. A sheet of paper dense with words was thrust into Diglit’s face. He had time to read precisely none of it before it was snatched away. ‘If that’s not good enough for you, you can speak with the boss himself…?’

The man let his question hang. Diglit had no wish to see Boss Grobblehod.

He looked from the feigned sympathy of the human to the undisguised hatred of the dwarf. His temper snapped.

‘I remember this place when it was full of goblins, cheering us all the way to the touchline,’ he said. ‘We’s just in a rough patch, is all. I’ll make the Stealers great again, you’ll see! We’s got a match tomorrow, and we is gonna win!’

A horrible scream echoed around the dilapidated stadium. It didn’t seem physically possible, but Mr Hoffsonsson’s grin got even bigger as he stared past Diglit at the players.

‘Good luck with that, greeny.’

Diglit spun around. Goblins were running in every direction. Ozbog the troll was scratching his behind with one hand. In the other, he held half of Ned. His eyes stared off into that distant realm only the truly moronic can see. His jaw worked round and round on a tricky piece of grub. Ned’s head, for sure.

‘No no no no no no no no!’ said Diglit. ‘You two, wait here!’ Then he took off, sprinting back through careening greenskins to the centre of the pitch.

Only Snirbad and Nork the Dork were still in place. Snirbad was kicking a linesman in the head; Nork the Dork was bent double, laughing at the violence so hard his drool spattered the field.

The snotling’s skull cracked noisily in Ozbog’s mouth.

‘No! No! Bad Ozbog, bad!’ shrieked Diglit, waving his hands up at the troll. ‘You’s not supposed to eat ’em, you’s supposed to throw ’em!’

Ozbog’s eyes slid around to look at the coach, then at the tattered remains of the snotling. He sighed deeply, and with a nonchalant heave pitched the remains of the dead snotling all the way down the field. It hit the rotten pitch siding with a wet bang.

Diglit snatched his cap off and jumped up and down on the spot. ‘Not now! While he’s still alive! With the ball!’

Nork hooted all the louder.

‘Don’t know why you’s laughing, orc boy,’ snarled Diglit. ‘You’s so stupid you can’t tell your feet from your hands.’

Nork’s craggy forehead wrinkled. ‘I does,’ he said slowly. He held up his hand. ‘This is my, um, and this is…’ He stopped, confounded. ‘Er.’

Diglit blew his whistle. The shrill noise stopped the fleeing greenskins in their tracks. ‘Everyone back here!’ he shouted. ‘You!’ he stabbed his claw at Ozbog. ‘Stay here!’

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Wayne England.

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ISBN: 978-1-78572-602-6

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