In the highest seats of the stand, the commentators of Fester Match Special, winners of the '98 Sporting Entertainment Award For A Cabalvision Channel With Double-Digit Viewing Figures, were going live.
"Yes, it's a gorgeous morning here at Old Ghoul's Green as the Orctown Oldboyz take on the Eekster Chieftains. You're live with me, Tough Nell, and my constant commentary companion, Blue Earz. For the refreshing taste of Pilznah beer in your mouth all day long, try new Pilznah Breath Mints. 'Life's A Party – With Pilznah!'"
Tough Nell glanced across at the hunched, pestilent, furry figure beside her.
"You're an ex-Skaven player, Blue," she continued. "What do the Chieftains need to do to win this match?"
"Meet-meet the Oldboyz on their terms, Nell. They cannot hope-hope to match them physically, so they're going to have to run-run. Keep the ball moving, stay out of contact, maybe get involved with a poisoned dagger or two while the ref-ref isn't watching…"
"Prediction on the scoreline?"
"Too close-close to call. But the fans will be very, very unlucky if they don't see some horrible mauling-mauling and even maybe a touchdown."
"Here come the Chieftains now," Nell continued, "led by their captain, Scrit Shearclaw. And – oh, my, looks like they've been feeding up their rat ogre, uh, 'Deathkiller'. Some real imagination went into that name, eh, Blue?"
Little shapes in black-and-yellow robes were scurrying out across the field, below, their tails flicking in perfect rhythm as they went. Behind them, moaning dully and swiping at thin air with its enormous, twisted paws, was a hideous and horrifying abomination, eight feet high, the shattered remnants of blades and spears lodged in its hairless flesh.
Tough Nell regarded it critically.
"Did that always have two heads?" she asked.
"And the home crowd is up-up in their seats," Blue Earz shouted, "because here come the Oldboyz!"
"Team captain Wazguttle heading across to the referee to decide the coin toss there, as coach Edwyrd Kettlebelly takes his seat in the dugout…ah! And sections of the home crowd have started an all-out brawl with the away crowd. That should keep us all entertained in the tedious seconds before the match actually begins."
Edwyrd sat down, ignoring the habitual volley of projectiles and crossbow bolts from the opposition crowd that rattled harmlessly off the dugout wall behind him. He glanced across to the Skaven coach, a gaunt-looking human, who sat with his arms crossed, gnawing his own lip with apparent nervousness.
"Good luck to you," Edwyrd said, leaning over to shake his hand.
The human turned, and gave him a look of pure, whimpering terror.
"They're going to crucify me," he whispered.
Edwyrd frowned.
"Um…" he said. "I'm sorry?"
"The fans," the opposition coach moaned. "They say if I lose this match, they're going to crucify me. They've bought the nails and everything."
Edwyrd gazed into the human's sweat-laced, ashen face.
"I…hope you win, then," he managed.
The opposition coach shook his head weakly.
"If we win," he said, "then the players are going to burn me alive inside a giant wicker rat to celebrate the victory."
"Have they bought the giant wicker rat yet?" Fourtooth asked.
The human stared at him.
"Not yet," he mumbled. "They ordered it but it hasn't arrived yet and I think you have to assemble it yourself."
"Bloody postal service," Fourtooth said, nodding sympathetically. "I ordered some unicorn hooves from Middenheim once and it took ten days for them to arrive. Now they're the ones who deserve to be ritually murdered. Am I right?"
Out on the pitch, the two teams were taking up their positions; in the centre, Wazguttle, having won the toss, requested that "we get der ball".
Flirksmasher glanced at his opposite number at the line of scrimmage, a black-furred ratman, almost as tall as a human, dressed in full metal armour adorned with spikes, chains and even a couple of skulls. The Stormvermin stared back at him, defiantly.
Flirksmasher leant over to him and whispered,
"Yoos got sumfink in yer teef."
The Skaven frowned.
"Yeah-yeah?" it hissed.
The referee, a tiny goblin painted all over in black-and-white stripes, glanced up at the sky for a moment, checking the position of the sun, before blowing his whistle.
Flirksmasher swung his arm around, hard. Blood jerked up into the air, and the Skaven went tumbling backwards.
He was lumbering halfway across the pitch before he remembered to quip.
"Yeah," he said, a little uncertainly. "Me fist."
He gazed at the fallen figure of the Stormvermin, twitching back by the line of scrimmage.
"Ahh, zog it," he muttered, kicking at the grass, and turned away just as the ball went flying over his head.
A spinning flurry of fur launched itself into the air; the rat-man snatched the ball up, mid-flight, and landed.
Dok McKlowd saw the Skaven runner dash forward into the Oldboyz' half, twisting beneath the legs of Bob Blackteef. His little face brightened, and he tugged down his pair of smoked-glass goggles. He felt backwards for the lever attached to the side of the jet-pack tied to his back.
He pulled it. A bubbling sound; fluid began to flow through the glass chambers and up into the sphere marked with a big red X.
He bent downwards, aiming his body vaguely in the direction of the fast-moving Skaven.
"Ter infinity," he declared, "an'…an'…an' sum uffa places too."
The ensuing explosion was quite a large one, and it drew an appreciative ripple of applause from the crowd.
Grobb and Luggen carried Dok McKlowd off the pitch. The little orc's face, bloodied, smoking, and coated in ash, was beaming.
"I mus' be flyin'," he murmured, "'cos I can see all der starz…"
"No, no," Fourtooth said, calmly, pipe in mouth, rummaging through his apothecary's bag. "Those stars are just the result of your frontal lobe melting. Hold still, now, I think I have a wet sponge in here somewhere."
On the pitch, both teams had taken advantage of the distraction and were now busy stamping on the heads of the fallen.
"Some good old-fashioned, meat-and-potatoes foul play there, Bluey," Tough Nell said into her microphone.
"It's got the crowd-crowd on their feet. And it looks as if we're going to be treated-treated to the Oldboyz fan-fan anthem."
In the highest end of the stand, a man with a silly little moustache and a blue-and-black scarf had, indeed, got to his feet. Clapping his hands high above his head, Frederick of Cinnabar, Secretary of the Official Orctown Oldboyz Fan Club, otherwise called 'Der Bonkers 'Orde', hollered aloud,
"Buddy, we're Oldboyz, make a big noise, burning down the street, gonna take on the Auld World some day!"
And the roar spread through the crowd, punctuated by a single, rhythmic clap,
"You got blood on your face, and that other guy's face – looks like you hit him too hard with that mace. Singin', WE WILL, WE WILL, BASH YOU. OI!"
The Oldboyz roared back, pounding their chests to signal their approval and raising their arms to the crowd in appreciation. Wazguttle had grabbed hold of a Skaven player by its tail and was whirling it around like a rattle.
"Concentrate!" Edwyrd screamed, from the dugout. "The ball! Focus on the ball! Grobb! Grobb!"
Grobb turned, hearing his name called, and gave Edwyrd a friendly wave.
"Don't look at me!" yelled Edwyrd, his frustration mounting. "The ball! The ball!"
Grobb shrugged, and raised a hand to his ear.
"Can't 'ear yooz, kotch," he mouthed, as a small rat-man in a long, trailing cloak dashed across his feet, the ball clutched in both hands.
The Gutter Runner streaked down into the Oldboyz' half, ducking easily past the flailing grasp of Badpipes. Then it made the mistake of glancing over its own shoulder to see if it was being followed.
Cressida kicked it in the face, studs-first, then tapped the ball up into the air, caught it, and began to run.
A Skaven player launched itself at her, screeching madly; she simply extended her free arm, raising the long iron spike attached to her elbow, and kept running until they collided.
The weight of impact knocked her over, tumbling forward, the little creature wailing as the spike drove itself into its shoulder. She hit the ground, but kept clinging on to the ball.
Tiny claws snatched hold of her wrist, digging in, trying to prise the ball away. Cressida cried out in pain, and kicked upwards with both of her knees. The Skaven squealed, and tumbled back.
She leapt up, ducking to avoid Wazguttle's enormous fist, which was swinging around violently at her attacker without a great deal of concern for her safety, and kept running. The grass tore up beneath her feet.
Dodging a flaming projectile being hurled at her from somewhere in the crowd, she tripped, stumbled, but kept herself upright, aware of the horrid hissing and click-clack of iron claws that suggested rat-men were close behind her.
As the end of the pitch came into focus, she gritted her teeth and pressed on, her legs aching, pounding away at the turf-
-and shrieked as a gigantic hand tore through the air and snatched her up.
Deathkiller, lifting the struggling human to eye-level, gave her a curious look. The rat-ogre licked at its raw, bloody lips, and turned Cressida about in its fist, trying to consider how best to fit her in its mouth.
Cressida closed her eyes.
This is it, she thought. This is really it.
Sigmar's arse, I hope I give him runny-tummy.
And then from somewhere below, punctuated by the sound of thumping feet, growing louder, and louder, she heard a familiar, bellowing battle cry,
"WAAAAAAAAGH!"
She opened her eyes.
Luggen leapt.
He snatched on to the rat-ogre's wasted arm, clinging on around the elbow, kicking out with both legs. Deathkiller staggered, and snarled, lashing out at the orc with its free paw.
"Luggen," Cressida yelled, "take the ball! Let go of it and take the ball!"
She lifted it high, stamping her foot across Deathkiller's nose. Luggen, either unhearing or uninterested, was pounding experimentally at the rat-ogre's bicep with his great stumpy fingers.
"Waz," Cressida shouted, giving up. "Waz, take the ball - no, Waz, don't-"
"'EEEEEEEREEEEWEGOOOOO!"
Wazguttle took a running jump, launching himself up onto the great beast's arched back, and began to pound his fist into its skull. Deathkiller howled, straightening upright to try and dislodge at him, and took a step backwards.
Cressida caught sight of Badpipes, a dopey grin on the big troll's face, lumbering towards them with an implacable gathering momentum, his arms extended as if he wanted to hug everybody and everything in front of him.
"Oh, no," she muttered, trying to prise herself out of Deathkiller's grasp, "oh, Sigmar, Badpipes, don't-"
Badpipes crashed headlong into the flailing rat-ogre, his sinewy right arm knocking Luggen up into the air, and for a moment the two entwined monsters remained upright. Then Deathkiller's legs, buckling beneath the weight of the troll, began to give.
"Oooh," Cressida yelled, as she found herself being carried downwards in the rat-ogre's outstretched hand, "oooh, ooossshhhiii-"
There was a thump. And, a split second later, the unmistakable and rather nasty sound of bones snapping beneath a great body of pressure.
And as Deathkiller's hand spilled open, Cressida went tumbling out, ball still in hand, and fell, face-first, into the grass of the endzone. She gazed foggily at the blurred, spinning green vista stretching out before her.
Weakly, with a tired little groan, she stretched out her hand, and tapped the ball once against the ground. Then she fell over.
"TOUCHDOWN!" Tough Nell roared. "TOUCHDOWN TO THE ORCTOWN OLDBOYZ!"
The crowd erupted.
After a few moments of quiet, aching contemplation in which the world went a funny shade of white, Cressida pushed herself to her feet, staggering just a little from one direction to the next, and looked about for her teammates.
The team, as one, were gazing down at Deathkiller, who was lying perfectly still on the ground, its torso pressed down into the sunken earth of the endzone where Badpipes had landed on top of it.
"Fink it's dead?" Grobb asked.
Luggen raised his boot thoughtfully, and stamped four or five times on the rat-ogre's head.
"Dat oughta do it," he said, with a certain quiet satisfaction.
