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The Skeleton Key – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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The Skeleton Key

by David Annandale

The temple was buried far below a cemetery that had been abandoned for centuries. It was the forgotten beneath the forgotten. Its gods were dead, its idols without meaning. It was a ruin sinking deeper into the abyss of time. Or it would be, if it had been left to the dignity of its slow oblivion. But it had been reclaimed, and a new purpose imposed upon its corridors and vaults. It was a temple of sport now. And in a dugout that might once have been a prison, or a meditation cell, the most ancient of players brooded over the fallen, ruined nature of the age, and pronounced his judgement.

‘Idiots,’ Ramtut the Third muttered. The voice of the star player of the Champions of Death was a harsh whisper, scraping with the sands of history.

‘And we’re back! Jim Johnson and Bob Bifford with you once again after the Dungeonbowl opening ceremonies. Bob, weren’t they splendid?’

‘Rubbish,’ said Ramtut. He sat in the rectangular chamber that passed for a dugout, watching the CabalVision inanity unspool in the crystal ball. He clenched a bandage-wrapped fist. Dust crumbled from the wrappings. ‘Idiots,’ he said again. It bore repeating.

‘That they were, Jim. And a big shout-out to the Bloodweiser Orchestra for a knock-out performance.’

‘You know, Bob, that’s the first performance of Morrheim’s Egregious Fanfare in its original arrangement for strings and scalded cats here at the Dungeonbowl, and I can’t think of a better introduction to the match we have for our viewers today.’

‘It’s a doozy, all right. Folks, this is it – the Bright Crusaders against the Champions of Death. Doesn’t get more tense than that.’

‘Indeed not, Bob, and it’s fair to say the crowd is lapping up that tension. It’s a battle of the extremes. The Bright Crusaders are the league’s most honourable players. There isn’t a single penalty for cheating in their history, and that’s not even getting into the spectators whose lives they’ve saved, even when that meant losing the game.’

‘They’re all about the honour of the game before the glory of victory. Which is just as well, given their win-loss record.’

‘And facing them is a team that has racked up an impressive series of triumphs and body counts.’

‘They managed to take out an entire stadium of spectators five years ago, didn’t they, Jim?’

‘They sure did, and swelling the ranks of their post-life fans. So there you have it, viewers: the incorruptible heroes fighting the undead horrors.’

‘Uh, but aren’t you…?’

‘Undead horrors, Bob. Horrors.’

‘They are a bit crumbly, that’s for sure.’

The skeletons clattered back into the dugout, accompanied by the Champions’ necromancer coach, Tomolandry. They had watched the opening ceremonies from just below the bleachers. The skeletons crowded Ramtut on the bench as they clicked and shook, teeth chattering with excitement.

‘They enjoyed the show,’ Tomolandry said. He leaned against the dugout entrance. His features were obscured by the hood of his robe. Only the tip of his protuberant nose was visible. It shone in the torchlight.

Ramtut grunted. He turned a jaundiced eye on his teammates. They had glyphs on their skulls to identify one from the other, but they were faded or smeared with dirt. Even Ramtut could barely distinguish them. He could pick out some by their physical variations. Spurs had bone growths spiking out of his shoulders. Dropjaw kept losing bits of himself. Straightline had trouble with the concepts of stopping and turning. Cup was missing the top of his skull.

‘Best show ever, was it?’ Ramtut growled. By which he meant the worst. In his day, there had been real opening ceremonies, with proper ritual sacrifices. None of the diluted, undignified spectacle of the present day.

More excited clatters. The skeletons had never been good at detecting sarcasm. Spurs began to clack his fingers against his jaw, beating out his answer in code. It was amazing!

‘It was twaddle,’ Ramtut said. ‘Pap vomited onto the unthinking hordes on the bleachers. The best that can be said of it was that it and its audience were well-matched.’

Spurs lowered his hand, seeming abashed.

‘They enjoyed the fireworks,’ Tomolandry said. ‘Very bright, close and hot underground.’

‘Vulgar,’ Ramtut snorted. ‘Once, there was real grandeur to these events. None of this sad pandering.’ He turned back to the crystal ball.

‘It’s worth repeating, Bob, that the College of Wizards is really playing up the theme of this year’s championship, and who can blame them?’

‘The people who don’t want themes in their Blood Bowl matches, Jim.’

‘And what a lost opportunity that would be. What we have here is nothing less than a classic confrontation in a classic setting. Noble heroes venturing into the dark dungeon to seek out and destroy the monsters therein. That’s the story of this Dungeonbowl, Bob. And the crowd is eating it up. What a welcome the Bright Crusaders are going to receive!’

‘That could be a real advantage for them, Jim, though I see a few unhappy faces in there.’

‘Well-spotted and well said, Bob. If my eyes are not mistaken, those are supporters of Da Deff Skwad.’

‘In a crowd of humans, orcs and goblins stick out like green thumbs, Jim.’

‘Uh… yes. Quite. I must say I’m surprised they’re here at all, given their team’s surprise defeat at the hands of the Bright Crusaders.’

‘I’d say any victory through honesty is a surprise victory, but I agree.’

‘I think there is a lesson here for us, Bob. Whether Da Deff Skwad fans are here to boo the Crusaders or cheer the Champions, they’re here. And isn’t that what really counts in–’

‘Please shut up,’ Ramtut growled. He smacked the crystal ball from its mount. The images winked out and it rolled to the far corner of the dugout. He stood up. What stung was that the commentators were right. This match had a narrative. If the opposing team were anyone other than the Bright Crusaders, he would have guessed the fix was in. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. There was still half an hour before kick-off, but he was tired of waiting in the dugout.

The skeletons filed out ahead of him. The exit from the dugout opened onto the dank, dripping, nitre-encrusted walls of the vestibule. The masonry was massive, but decaying. Ramtut glanced at the crumbling blocks and sniffed. The dungeon had all the structural integrity of rotten bone. No one knew how to build anything to last anymore.

Beyond the iron door on the other side of the chamber was the Champions’ end zone.

‘We’ll be going on first,’ Tomolandry said when Ramtut reached the doorway. ‘The crowd is filled with Crusaders supporters, so they get the build-up.’

Ramtut pulled his shrivelled lips back over his teeth. ‘Monsters before heroes, is that it?’

Tomolandry shrugged.

‘And that, I suppose, is your stirring pre-game speech?’

‘The skeletons don’t need one, and you would walk out before I was finished.’

Point taken. Ramtut could remember some speeches of old, though, that had value. That fired the spirit. That he had memorized the first time he heard them. Like everything else, oratory was a fallen art in this sad age.

‘About the skeletons,’ said Ramtut. ‘Are you sure we don’t need at least one ghoul? Or even a zombie? It feels like we’re conceding before we start.’

Tomolandry tapped the side of his nose. ‘They’re vital to the strategy,’ he said. ‘You know that.’

‘I still say it’s a bad idea.’

Tomolandry clapped his cloth-wrapped shoulder. ‘Trust me. I know what I’m doing.’

Ramtut didn’t trust him and didn’t believe him.

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