“Oh, jolly good, sir…” a weak voice whispered.
Cornelius Scroop waved his printed broadsheet-programme in front of Chahkamnit’s lugubrious orcish features. It did not noticeably revive him.
The troll referee brushed the field’s dust from his knees without having to bend down. He adjusted his loincloth and bellowed, in a voice loud enough to penetrate to the highest back row of the stadium:
“Final half! These are the rules. The object of the game is to get the orc’s head in the bucket. That bucket for you orc marines, and this bucket for the halfling team. Those are all the rules. There will be a new ball in just a moment!”
Somewhere in back of the stands there was a scream, a swish of metal, and a sticky thud.
“And now—”
The grunts in the lower stands cheered as a linesman returned with the new ball. It dripped a green trail behind it, and the tusks shone in the sun.
“—play on!”
The troll referee hurled the severed orc head towards the middle of the arena, lumbered into a sprint towards the far stands, and dived over a plank barrier. A few seconds later an optical device of metal and lenses appeared over the edge of the bunker.
“I must say, General,” Cornelius Scroop remarked disapprovingly, “the referee doesn’t seem to exercise much control over the game.”
“Control?” Ashnak said blankly.
Simone Vanderghast chuckled, pointing at the halfling leader, who raised his mallet, swung it forward, and whacked the orc head towards the marine end of the arena. “Your team isn’t even on the field yet, General.”
HHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRMMMM!!!
Sergeant Major Guzrak, at the head of a squad of fifteen grunts, gunned the motor of his Harley Davidson and zoomed out onto the field. His orc squad fanned out, steering their motorbikes casually with one hand and brandishing polo sticks with the other. The sun glinted on swords and maces slung across their backs.
“But,” Cornelius Scroop protested, “but—but—”
Guzrak skidded his Harley in a half-circle and saluted.
“I say, sir,” Second Lieutenant Chahkamnit remarked dazedly. “The sergeant major’s got a mascot on his handlebars. “How nice.”
Ashnak’s brows drew down in a massive frown. He glared at the pink fluffy toy orc adorning Guzrak’s Harley Davidson. The marine sergeant sweated and shuffled.
“‘S lucky, sah. Honest, sah.”
“I think,” Ashnak purred, “we’d better win. Don’t you?”
Sweat trickled down Guzrak’s green face. “Yessah!”
The cloudless sky seared. Halfling linesmen sprayed water to damp down the dust. The crowd roared, chanting.
“One has the ball!” a pudgy halfling in a red coat called, leaning off her pony to whack the orc head. “One has the—urk!”
Sergeant Major Guzrak hooked his mallet under the halfling’s, expertly flicked her off her pony, and rode off down the field in pursuit of the bouncing orc head.
The halfling sat up dizzily. “One had the ball…”
Simone Vanderghast cricked her neck, glaring up at Ashnak. “General, have you ever considered playing this game fairly?”
“Yes.”
Halflings rose to their feet, cheering, as four of the red-coated riders charged back to the sidelines, dropped their mallets, picked up stout spears, and galloped across to form an escort for the halfling with the ball. A biker orc zoomed to a halt just too late.
“Body detail!” Sergeant Major Guzrak bawled. “Body bag! Prepare to recover marine corpse. Corpse…wait for it, wait for it…corpse: recovered! Prepare to make substitution.”
The halfling riders galloped down the field, one slinging her spear between the spokes of a bike’s wheel. The Harley flipped. The orc rider sat wide-legged on the ground, shaking her head.
The pudgy halfling dismounted from her pony, mounted the bike, and opened the throttle wide, mallet swinging. “One has the ball! One has the b—”
The grunt whose Harley had been downed lowered her shoulder. She butted the halfling’s bike head-on. The halfling hurtled over the handlebars and thudded into the turf. The orc marine expertly swung the bike round, remounted it, and gunned it into action. Mace in one hand, mallet in the other, she charged the halfling team.
The halfling leader couched his mallet under his arm, pointed end forward. He dug his spurs into his pony’s barrel-sides, and galloped towards her from the opposite direction. “I say, tally-ho!”
Splat!
“Better than huntin’ peasants, what?” the scarlet-doubleted halfling called back gaily over his shoulder, trotting off.
Ashnak heard a low growl go around the stadium. Several of the rows began to boo.
“Well, really!” Cornelius Scroop said. “How can they boo their own side? Ungrateful plebs.”
“I’ve got the ball!” the pudgy halfling shrieked, still dismounted, emerging on foot from the scrum. The ball dripped green down her scarlet jacket. She waved it triumphantly. Ashnak glimpsed her startled expression as twenty halflings on ponies and fourteen orcs on Harley Davidsons converged on the spot where she stood.
The resulting dust cloud hit three-quarters of the field. Chancellor Scroop fanned his hand before his face, pale with exhaust fumes.
“We got the ball, sah!” Guzrak cried, emerging out of the ruck on his battered bike.
“We have the ball,” the halfling leader contradicted, galloping out of the enveloping cloud of dust. “We have the…er…”
The halfling held up an unmistakably curly-haired head.
“Oh, dear…”
“That’s more like it!” Ashnak enthused. “Come on, you ores! My money’s safe,” he added to the ashen-faced Simone Vanderghast, and turned back to the field, slitting his eyes against the white sunlight, cheering along with the stands full of halfling workers.
The halfling leader galloped furiously back towards the entrance tunnel and reined in his pony.
“You there!” he shouted. “Bring me my reserve mount!”
A huge shape loomed out of the heat and dust.
“Oh, what!” Ashnak slammed his fist down on the side of his chair, cracking the wood. “Foul! The referee must be blind! At least,” the orc general added, “he will be. Chahkamnit, make a note of that.”
The lanky black orc, now sitting well to one side of Ashnak’s field of view, murmured, “Very lenient of you, sir. Very sportin’.”
Ashnak leaned his elbow on the seat in front and, as Simone Vanderghast chuckled in his ear, watched the scarlet-coated halfling leader ride a huge, shaggy war-mammoth into the arena. It trumpeted and pounded towards the marine end of the field.
“Never fear, you orcs!” Sergeant Major Guzrak dismounted from his Harley, standing at a smart parade rest. “I has an infallible method of dealin’ with such a fiendish war device, what I learned on the eastern frontier. A chargin’ mammoth will never trample a fallen orc! Lay down, and stab upwards as it passes over you!”
The brawny orc sergeant flung himself to the turf, rolling onto his back and unsheathing his bayonet.
Splatt!
“So that’s why we had so much trouble on the eastern frontier,” a mounted orc corporal remarked. She stopped her Harley, leaned down, and released something tiny that appeared to be armoured in minute links of mail.
“What’s that?” Ashnak bellowed down.
“War-mouse, sir,” the orc corporal shouted over the terrified trumpeting of the fleeing mammoth.