This Saturday (29th April), to coincide with Warhammer Fest and the NAF Championships, I'm launching my first Blood Bowl novel.

Exclusive to FUMBBL, you can read the first chapter below!

The Übersreik Chronicles: Volume 1
A Blood Bowl novella
Written by Mark E. Wilson

© Blood Bowl and the Warhammer universe are trademarks of Games Workshop Ltd. and are used without permission. This publication is completely unofficial and is in no way endorsed by Games Workshop Ltd or any of their subsidiaries.

This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Distribution of this work is limited. Please contact the author before considerin distributing this work by any means.

Chapter 1

Sweat poured down his face, his eyes stung, and his joints ached but nothing could stop him. He slapped the perspiration away with the back of his glove. Steam formed before him. He burst through like sunbeams through clouds. The impact of boots on sod might have caused others to pause but Moritz was no ordinary boy. Over the thirty pace line. It felt as if he had pepper thrown in his face. His gaze narrowed on what was almost within arm's reach. The goblin. More precisely, the goblin with his green forearms wrapped around a tar black sphere which dwarfed his body. His legs pumped hard as though the hot breath coming from his mouth was from the furnaces or steam engines of the Skunkworks in Nuln. What he focused further on though was the fuse, flickering and fizzing. The greenskin hopped from one foot to the other.

Blocking his view, lurched a house-sized, blue-skinned statue. Its feet could crush his skull in the time it took him to blink. Its legs were as broad as Moritz' shoulders and its, well, its softer parts were barely concealed by a mud-soaked piece of torn sackcloth. Its torso, pitted and pocked with boils, warts, and scars, swivelled laboriously at the waist. Moritz dug his heels in and lurched to one side, any side. The troll heaved its tremendous foot as if to stamp the life from the boy. A shadow grew on the grass before him and Moritz changed tack. He pivoted onto the balls of his feet and threw himself into a tucked roll underneath the impending impact. Moritz landed, hard, on his hands, pushed himself forward, rolled over his back and up on his studded boots. The ground shook as the troll's own boot slammed into the dirt.

Moritz caught sight of his team mate to his left, pursued by an orc. The lumbering blocker had no chance of catching his prey. His body was too cumbersome, his legs too stocky. But he had hope, misguided perhaps, but that was all the pea-brained buffoon needed and any mistake would result in a wrenching, snapping end for the receiver. Not only that but the oily goblin must have seen the two players too and was now arcing his body back. If that bomb landed, it would take out both players and possibly the advertising hoardings and front row of the nearest stand, packed with spectators and unsuspecting food vendors.

Free from the threat of the enormous troll, Moritz pulled back his hands above his head. He twined his fingers together into a club. As if chopping wood, he swung his arm down.

The goblin's long nose splattered in a wet mess. He staggered and spun backwards, a gunk of blood and snot blinding him, and a strangled gurgle escaped his startled mouth. Off balance, he raised a hand to halt where he thought Moritz' impending follow-up was coming from. It looked like he was waving to someone in the crowd. Moritz' linked hands separated and cocked back to grapple his opponent. The bomb, shimmering and dull at the same time, rolled inescapably over his opponent. A squelch from beneath it told Moritz that the explosive had served to make the goblin's body match its pulverised face.

A modest cheer echoed around the shallow bowl of the dilapidated stadium. If that's what it could still be called. Moritz looked past the troll, who was still examining the sole of his foot for an answer to the question about where that little pinkskin had gotten to. Past him- or 'it' perhaps, he couldn't be sure - Moritz saw Conrad hold the ball aloft, soaking up praise from the fans. The same fans who had no clue how close they had come to being obliterated by the flattened goblin's weapon of choice.
Moritz breathed a sigh and dropped to his haunches, his hands on his thighs. Only now did he notice the slicked green stains which criss crossed his cream uniform. He wondered which were from the grass and which were from the goblin. He glanced over at the prostrate body, which breathed faintly. A bubble of viscous goop appeared, deflated, and reappeared again with each erratic breath. The player had no concern as to how the game might have ended - his only thought would be how he'd be able to smell whether his next rat-on-a-stick was edible or not. Moritz' nose twitched at a familiar scent, not like a roast pig but akin to the cinders which continued to smoulder after the food had been eaten and the drinks drunk. The fuse.

He expected something more spectacular but the sound was a whump, a sack of sand landing from a second floor balcony, a cabbage thrown into a rubbish cart. In a split second, the nearest rows of fans disappeared in a cloud of black powder smoke, splintered wood, and cartwheeling shrapnel. The edge of the pitch cratered in a perfect semi-circle, marking a new touchline with a precarious fall into a trench of jagged rock and shattered bone, one mis-timed dodge away. Blood and beer, tossed skyward, came splattering down upon Moritz and the unfortunate, unconscious goblin.

When the fog cleared and the ringing in his ears subsided, it revealed the true lunacy, the pure, ecstatic madness of the game itself. Those fans left standing, three dozen or so who were spread out in rows five and six and whose drinks containers and platters of fried meat and novelty hats and replica jerseys were smeared with the remains of those who had been sat just a few seats in front of them, let out an enormous, unrestrained cheer. Their team had won and that was all that mattered. They celebrated the fact that Slaanesh had permitted them to live whilst others were sacrificed. That - along with the cheap squigburgers - was what made attending a Blood Bowl match so exhilarating. Even this poorly attended and even more poorly contested Juniors match. Perhaps part of the appeal was that some of the players still had to hobble to school the next day.

Moritz looked for his parents in the stand. They were up in the heavens, far from the danger and gore. They preferred not to see too clearly what their only son did on the pitch or, worse, what was done to him. Moritz preferred that they were sat further away too; primarily, it allowed him to concentrate on playing the game without being concerned about impressing them; secondly, he didn’t want them to get killed, maimed, hurt, or muddied by whatever took place the other side of the advertising hoardings. The front row had been given the nickname 'The Splash Zone' after last season's league title decider between the Clan Fester Claws and Karak Azgaraz Kings. The wee dwarves splattered more than ten pups of Clan Fester that day, almost a full litter.

Felix and Manja Schrunk caught their son’s searching looks and his mother beckoned him up to greet them. He vaulted the first few shattered steps and then steadily climbed to where they had seen the match.
“Did you see me?” he asked urgently.
“Yes! You were amazing!” Manja looked at her son, soaked as he was with all kinds of unnameable fluids. He shrugged off his shirt and balled it up, stuffing it into his helmet. Only then did she wrap her arms around him. Moritz was almost old enough for his arms to overlap behind her broad back. She ruffled his hair, finally able to, now that his helmet hung loose in his hand. “That poor gobbo never saw you coming.”
“Dad?” said Moritz, peeling himself away from his mother’s grasp. “Did you see?”
The Schrunk elder shuffled in his seat to see around his wife. He had the same leather apron on which he always wore and his hands were smeared with grease. Between his hands was a brass combination look which he could hardly draw himself away from. “Yes, yes, very good.”
“Where’s Benedikt?” interrupted Manja. “Wasn’t he supposed to be playing too?” Moritz snapped straight and yelped a hasty ‘Come on’ before leaping down the backs of the wooden seats, making a bee-line for the home dugout - which was the one which still had a bit of roof to protect the coach from the elements. Moritz hopped over the hoarding.
Sat upon the exposed part of the bench was Benedikt, the mirror image of Moritz, except for his dark brown hair and the ice pack he was holding to the side of his head.
“We won!” he shrieked on seeing Moritz.
“I know!”
Their coach, Mister Hertzbruch, was collecting up pieces of uniform and stuffing them into a sack.
“Well done, lads. That tackle changed the game.” He put his hand on Moritz’ shoulder. “You’ve got a real gift, son. Keep it up.” Then he turned to Benedikt. “And don’t think I didn’t see what you did in the build-up phase. Cutting off the big ‘un was a real gutsy gamble but, if you hadn’t put your body on the line, Greta could never have made that throw to Conrad. Right, better wash all this.” He held his hand out for Moritz’ helmet and then tossed it into the sack, heaved it over his shoulder, and let out a cloud of thick breath. “See you both at training. Go Renegades!”
“How’s your head?”
“Feels like I’ve been beaten like the drum on a Norse longship.” He took away the cold compress and a bruise the size and colour of a ripe plum was beginning to show. It matched the black eye on the other side of his head, which he had picked up in the first half.
“Ouch,” winced Moritz. “Your mum won’t be happy.”
“She hasn’t seen it yet. They were too busy talking to the stadium manager about adding his venue to their next tour.” The two boys rolled their eyes.
“Hello Benedikt.”
“Hello Mrs. Schrunk. Mr. Schrunk.” Moritz’ parents climbed over the barrier and onto the lush grass segmented by white painted markings.
“How’s your head?” she asked before grimacing when she saw the lump. “Should get yourself an apothecary on retainer the amount of injuries you both pick up.”
“Oh, nonsense, it’s just another little bump. He’ll shake it off as he always does. Hello Manja.” Benedikt’s parents had evidently finished pitching their ideas to the stadium owner and had found their way to the row of seats behind the dugouts. “I’ll put some Sigmafoil in a poultice and make a nice Valerian tea. He’ll be right as rain by the morning.” She beamed, her high, red cheeks flush with confidence.
“Nice to see you Camilla. Written anything new recently?”
“Yes, of course - Stefan and I have got a whole new repertoire for our next tour. Can’t wait! You simply have to come along; you do always promise that you will...”
“I know, I know,” stalled Manja, “But Felix can be very demanding when we have a big order for keys, dead bolts, or crypt locks.” Benedikt and Moritz caught one another’s eye.
“Is it much of a seasonal trade?”
“Er, you never know, when you might get a rush order, very unpredictable. Ah! Felix! We had better dash… See you next time? Come on Moritz.”
Felix Schrunk curtly nodded at Stefan Freitag, who responded with an artistic wave of his wrist. That was as far as their conversations usually went.
“See you tomorrow, Benni,” said Moritz.
“Got to catch me first!” laughed Benedikt.