Death on the Pitch by Josh Reynolds

Author:Josh Reynolds
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2018-10-25T09:33:39+00:00

SCRAPE TO VICTORY

GAV THORPE

‘Kikkit!’

The sound of Oversneer Skreet bellowing his name made him flinch, expecting an accompanying blow or lash. Early life in the slave pits had given him certain instincts that no amount of time in the higher tunnels could overcome. It had also taught him swift reflexes, honed a sharp mind and developed an incorrigible sense of self-preservation, character traits that had served him well as he had clawed his way – often literally – to his current place within the hierarchy of Crookback Mountain.

As one of the clanrats working in the verminhive, his life was tedious, painful and fraught with the politicking of his ambitious companions. All of which was preferable to constant whippings and beatings, the peril of being fed to the rat ogres when supplies fell low, or suffering random and potentially lethal mutation while mining the warpstone deposits.

Yes, all in all, his lot had improved much.

Shoulders hunched, ears flat to his head, Kikkit looked around from the bench where he had been working – filing cog teeth along with thirty other workers for shipments to the factory-workshops of Clan Skryre in Skavenblight.

‘Yes-yes, oversneer?’

The burly skaven responsible for second shift bared yellowing teeth in a broad grin. It looked awfully similar to the oversneer’s grimace of anger, so Kikkit kept his posture and expression neutral. The clanrats to either side of him surreptitiously moved a little further away, leaving him in a void of his own uncertainty.

‘It’s official, Kikkit,’ said Skreet, waving a rag of parchment covered in the ink scratchings of the skaven. ‘The commission of the Southern Cabal of Associated Blood Bowl have released the latest figures. You, Kikkit, my mangy little rat, have forty-two confirmed injuries to a downed opponent.’

A ragged cheer went up at this announcement and Kikkit allowed himself a pant of happiness.

‘I knew-knew that goblin would count,’ he crowed, jabbing a finger toward Snarlitt. ‘Forty-two! One more and I’ll have the league record!’

‘That’s right, you scrawny backstabber. Nobody in the history of SCABB has kicked more people when they’re down.’

‘And the Crookback Cretins is through to the final,’ squeaked Chuchuk, waving his rusty spanner. ‘Win that and it’s a place in the Blood Bowl tournament itself!’

This roused another desultory cheer, and a few sour glances. The Grey Seers had, to a certain degree, lavished praise and attention on Kikkit and the others that had made the grade to be linesmen in the Cretins. Kikkit had more warpstone and gold than he had ever known, which wasn’t saying much seeing as he had known so little in the past. But it had bred resentment too, in those that had to cover his shift while he was playing, particularly on the long journeys across the mountains or the Dark Lands.

Kikkit didn’t care though. The elbows in his ribs at the trenchers, the tacks left by his bedding, the urine in his daily ration of teatwater. Even the risk of death and injury at the hands of some orc or ogre player

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