“Chapter 13

“Nice.”
Coach Robsson leant back into his plush velvet throne and took a long, slow look around the opposing team’s stadium. The pitch was a desert of dry, cracked earth, broken up here and there by a clump of weedy grass. A few darker patches were clearly dried blood and a helmeted skull had been left abandoned in one of the endzones. Separating this wasteland from the dubiously constructed mass of rotten wood which went by the name of The West Stand was a low barrier made entirely from reclaimed bones. Here and there, presumably for added effect, tattered black drapes had been slung haphazardly from any available fixture which looked as if it could take the strain.
“I like what you’ve done with the place.”
There was a harsh, rasping sound from somewhere deep inside the figure seated beside him. It might have been a laugh, or possibly just an attempt to breathe.
“I give them what they want. This…” he gestured around with a pale, brittle hand that was more bone than anything else, “… makes them feel wanted.”
Robsson nodded.
“And saves you the cost of a groundsman as well.”
The figure smiled by way of reply. It seemed to be something of an effort for him to do so.
“So anyway, Monkman, what sort of shape are your boys in right now? Any missing limbs? And how are the doggies?”
Monkman the Dane, head coach of the Necro Kings II, gave a low growl. He possessed two of the finest Herning-bred lupus wolves ever to set paw upon a BloodBowl field. It showed a great deal of disrespect to refer to them as mere ‘doggies’. He would, however, let the insult pass. Gorm den Gamle and Abel were well capable of fighting their own battles and would no doubt do exactly that very soon.
“It does not pay to be too free with the jokes and insults, Coach Robsson. We played some of your wood elf kin last time out, and now there are many on that team who have many painful memories of that game.”
Robsson shrugged and the two coaches sat in silence for a while, watching as their players went through their warm up routines. Robsson had played against Coach Monkman before and knew the White Men in Black Suits were in for a tough evening. But he also knew there would be some good BloodBowl played. Monkman was not the sort of coach to let his players stand around hitting things while there was a score to be had. He played to entertain as well as to win, and that was exactly the way Robsson liked his games.
“So tell me,” Coach Monkman asked, pointing at One More Cup of Coffee. “Who is that fine specimen over there?”
“Ah,” said Robsson with a grin. “You’ve noticed him already, eh? That, my dear chap, is One More Cup of Coffee. One of the finest catchers I’ve seen for a good while. He’ll go far, you mark my words.”
Coach Monkman nodded.
“Yes, I rather think he will. And hopefully, he’ll do most of his best work with us. Even after death, a pair of legs like that will prove very useful.”
“You’ll be lucky,” Robsson replied, but Monkman’s confident smile was beginning to bother him slightly. As was the fact that as the sun finally sank away, the moon was growing brighter and brighter. The big, silver, completely full, moon.
“Ah,” Robsson said uncomfortably. But it was too late to back out now…


* * * * *


“I’m fine, Coach,” mumbled Peace Frog from somewhere inside the blanket of bandages covering his head and shoulders. “Really, I’ll be as good as new in no time.”
Coach Robsson looked questioningly at Doc Onholiday. The apothecary shook his head omenously.
“It was a deep bite and there was a lot of wolf drool got in there. I’ve done as much as I can, but who knows what’ll happen this time next month.” He looked up at the full moon and shrugged.
“Still, it could have been worse, I suppose,” he continued with a smile. “Technically he did actually die for a few seconds and if I hadn’t thought to bring some of my Silver Sauce Salve… well, he could well have been playing most of the game in a different coloured shirt.”
“Yes, such a pity,” came a quiet, rasping voice from behind Robsson. He turned and there was Coach Monkman, shambling towards him. “It would have helped keep the fans happy if nothing else.”
“Bah!” replied Robsson. “Never trust a zombie. That’s what I always say. No staying power. No loyalty.”
“Not all of our fans are from beyond the grave,” said Monkman with a sigh. “And as a matter of fact, some of those who are have been loyal supporters for well over five hundred years.”
“Fair point,” agreed Robsson.
“We could have won it, you know.”
“You could indeed. If you’d have sat it out with the ball while your boys pounded mine into the dirt at 2-2, there was nothing I could have done to stop you. But I have to say, the game was a lot better this way.”
Coach Monkman shrugged.
“Perhaps. Not everyone shares your view though. Some would say it would have been better to take the win, dull or not.”
“And what do you say?”
Monkman said nothing for a few seconds and then a broad smile spread across his ashen features.
“I say next time I shall make sure I don’t have to decide between the two.”
Coach Robsson smiled and the two rivals shook hands.
“Till next time then. But you’re still not getting your creepy skeletal hands on my star catcher though!”
”