The crowd’s cheering had subsided quite a bit during the delay. And without the deafening roar of the human fans, the low and evil chanting of the Nurgle worshippers was much more prominent and unnerving. Blitzkrieg Brockman hated Nurgle fans – and he hated Nurgle stadiums. Every single one seemed to be in a stinking, infected marsh, full of bugs, soaked in rain, with unnatural footing and an ever-present cold mist that made his injuries hurt. Brockman rubbed his aching collar bone bitterly. A massive knot of bone and scar tissue beside his left shoulder was his body’s best attempt to heal a grievous injury he had received years ago in a stadium just like this one. A wound gained here today by any of the Kruelty’s players was likely to become just as infected. Just as unhealing.

He didn’t know why any of his players really needed to be here risking injuries and death today anyway. The Human League Premiership title was all but secure. The gods themselves would practically have to slow time to a standstill to give the rival human squads enough games and wins to catch the Kruelty in the points total. The Fallen Heroes were good, but they were still only human. This game was decided upon hastily by the management, greedy for the extra revenue. They had signed on the dotted line with their badly damaged team under the pre-tense of trying to secure one last win to enter the HPL’s Hall Of Fame with the highest Premiership Sprint points total ever. And as an after thought the owner had said it would be even more glorious to get the team’s 100th victory to end it’s best season by far. Brockman thought otherwise. He was sure it was about the money. Luckily they had drawn a game close enough to home to allow thousands of fans to be here. In theory it could be a glorious victory. But it would pale in comparison to winning the 100th match at home, in Kingston. The 100th victory sounded like a great way to open a season and start a sprint.

‘Highest point total ever.. bah!’ Brockman muttered to himself. ‘The league isn’t even that old.’ Borris Bane remained as superstitious as ever. As if he were still on a lucky streak – but could he not see that was clearly not the case. Their hopes of completing the first ever undefeated sprint were smashed by a band of orks the previous game. A band the Kruelty should have beaten easily. Three players were now side-lined with bad injuries while the Kruelty were forced to try and punch well above their current weight in the coming match. Blitzkreig had a bad feeling about the game, and the fact that the team was still without a captain.

Brockman looked up at the source of the delay. Despite the low cloud which threatened to sink and engulf the stadium, he could clearly see the giant canon and its staff up on the stadium’s ramparts, just below the score board. The Black Box League officials were apparently not satisfied with the set-up of the stadium’s ‘time keeping device.’ The firing of a massive canon to end each half of play was the most popular method of tracking time in the sport. So to every match, Box league officials brought a number of standardized, regulation length, slow burning fuses which were precision crafted by dwarves in a secretive hold. Before a game the officials had to inspect the fuse and it’s connection to the canon, the cannon’s charge, as well as the fuse’s long burn path. The fuse needed to be shielded from both weather and fan interference, and anything less than strict league supervision often led to “misfires” and extended halves, usually to the benefit of the home team.

More accurate methods of keeping game time did, of course, exist. Elf teams favoured delicate hour glass devices, trusting the falling grains of sand to drain at a uniform rate each time the glass was turned over on itself. The small size of the contraptions did not lend well to the appearance of impartiality, and the end of any half which saw elves in the lead often led to fans and coaches questioning the honesty of elvish time keeping. Often to the point of pitch invasion. Larger, more visible timing glasses were vulnerable to meddling magic or crossbow bolts, usually to the benefit of the visiting team. Thus, rowdy stadiums favoured their canons and the dwarven fuses, which burned amazingly bright once lit. The visual representation of the time remaining added to the fan’s anticipation as the end of a close game approached. It was also well known that the massive roar of a canon firing was often the high point of a dull game.

Kingston’s stadium kept time in the same fashion. Kingston’s mighty golden cannon ‘Krucifier’ was a holy relic, a rare ‘Kilo-Cannon’ that had been blessed by the Emperor himself after attaining one thousand confirmed kills during the last chaos incursion. It fired a huge shell over the head of the crowd and into the lake twice per game. Kingston’s cannon did not misfire. It would never misfire. It had not misfired in the 150 years since the battles that had pushed the chaos hoards back from the city’s walls - back to dark places like this one, where this den of Nurgle followers had been festering ever since.
Today, League officials did not look so sure about the reliability of the dark weapon that loomed over the impatient crowd. It was a black and evil looking thing, cast in the shape of a terrible beast, with the muzzle resembling a gaping maw of destruction. Brockman was glad it pointed directly out into the swamp, vice risking the lives of those in the stadium.

After another 5 minutes of fiddling and inspection, the cannon crew and officials signalled over to the press box that the game could begin. The human cheering rose to a deafening level once more, and unless Borris Bane were 100 miles away he would know by the chanting of his name that game time had arrived. Brockman’s attention was drawn over to the Nurgle coaching staff on the other side of the field. Dozens of enemy staff and helpers were all dressed alike, in black robes that covered their faces and concealed all but their most obvious body language. Several of the dark beings standing along the side-lines started gesturing in unison, as if in a ritualistic dance. They would bend over, scoop their hands low, and then raise them up to the sky in a waving motion. Brockman quickly realised they must have been the stadium’s special effects wizards, for after a few seconds the mist on the ground thickened around them, and rose up to waist height all over the field, partially obscuring the entrance tunnel from which the teams were about to emerge. It was a common effect in the league to make the entrances more dramatic. Brockman thought it an unusual place for the minor wizards to perform their craft though. Usually they were in a separate box slightly farther back from the field, where officials could keep a close eye on them. The Kruelty had the only sanctioned wizard today, and the blitzer coach hoped it stayed that way.

Due to the glaring difference in the official annual salary’s being paid to each team’s players in today’s match, the human team was permitted one thunder-bolt or fireball to be cast by old Payne Stayte. The team’s aging, near-sighted wizard hadn’t actually made a difference in any of the matches Brockman could recall, but there was always hope. His blasts were usually ill-timed, but they had at least never harmed the team’s chances. Yet.

The signal came down from the press box allowing the visiting team’s heralds to invite their team on the field. Twenty-five Imperial Trumpeters, one for each game in a sprint, plus one extra for each season played, sounded the familiar call. It was always so loud that it rose above the crowd easily for a brief period, announcing the arrival of the human glory seekers. It always made Brockman’s heart swell with pride. He eyes moved to the tunnel and the thick mist. When the trumpets stopped the calls of the star players name rose again. BOAR-ISS-BANE! BOAR-ISS-BANE!

At first no movement came from the dark tunnel. Then slowly a giant figure emerged at a confident and steady pace. It was the Ogre. As soon as his form was recognisable to the fans the chanting broke off and a carnal growl arose from 14’000 throats, all imitating the Ogre’s hungry roar.

‘MAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!, ‘ was their cheer for him. He simply raised a hand to acknowledge their adoration, then made a fist with it and pounded it down into his other palm, as if flattening a dwarf skull. The crowd loved him. The rest of the team walked onto the field behind him – the speedy catcher – the other blitzers- and six linemen, two of which had no business being here. With 10 players on the field, the chanting of the star’s name rose again to an ear splitting volume. Then through the mist emerged Bane’s tall form. He was not as tall as the Ogre, but he was much taller than the men in front of him. The gold that lined his shoulder pads had been polished and shone brightly through the mist. ‘No lucky orc blood left on there,’ thought Brockman, remembering the recent defeat. With their champion in sight the fans broke off into unorganised cheering, hollering, and whistling , none of it being any quieter than the chant had been. It was a great moment before every game this season. The young star showed much promise. The city had needed a hero like this for a long while.

A few moments were given to the human crowd to enjoy the entrance as the players strode down the field to take their place on the sideline beside their coaches. Then Brockman saw the press box send the signal down to the Nurgle staff. As the effects wizards continued to do their misty dance, one robed figure trotted into the tunnel at the other end of the stadium. A few seconds later the crowd was immediately silenced by the powerful toll of what must have been a truly massive bell. The entire stadium shook, and the rumbling seemed to be coming from the ground up. No bell was visible on the pitch or the ramparts. It must have been deep inside, or even under the stadium. The noise was almost unbearable, and it brought with it thoughts of doom, plague, and death. As the ringing began to subside slowly, the human fans remained in near shock, and the Nurgle fan’s chanting became the dominant source of noise in the stadium. To the sound of the dying bell and the evil prayer the first enemy player emerged from the mist. It was an armour clad figure, as tall as Bane, only wider. Almost fat. His eyes glowed a sickening green out through his elaborate helmet. It was one of the team’s powerful and vile Nurgle Warriors. The tunnel behind him was dimly lit with the same green glow, and two more warriors emerged behind the leader. To look at them was to be repulsed by them. Several of Brockman’s teammates had flat out refused to throw a block against this type of opponent in the past, even when in the heat of battle. No matter how hard Brockman had torn a strip off of the player after a game, Brockman had never succeeded in getting a single player to apologise for their failure on the field. When asked for an explanation for their inaction against an enemy target, their answer had most often been simply, “ I wanted to, but I couldn’t.”

Following after the warriors, pestigors and rotters spilled out beside the larger players, forming a rough line that advanced slowly towards their bench at mid-field. What came next was an even larger figure. It more waddled or slid than walked, really. Tentacles thrashed the air and swirled the mist around its obese body. It was the Beast of Nurgle. An awful creature that Brockman did not miss confronting. It was a monster only the ogre might like to get his hands on. And only then if he were truly hungry.

Brockman counted quickly and was perplexed at the total. Usually the beast came last with such teams, but only ten players had taken the field so far. Blitzkrieg noticed the evil chanting getting louder, and then nearly jumped out of his skin as the evil bell tolled once more. As soon as the stadium began to shake anew another green light lit the tunnel. Brockman could not believe his eyes, but it appeared that the armoured figure walking slowly on to the field was a full head and a half taller than the massive beast of Nurgle. It was the fouth Nurgle warrior, an it had the height and weight to rival that of the legendary treemen. ‘Nuffle’s blood!’ he heard someone beside him lament. ‘How can this be?’

‘Steady yourself, brother,’ said Brockman calmly. ‘He will be as slow as the beast. A piece of garbage to run around, not run through.’ Brockman hoped he was right.

END OF PART 2