| SORCEROUS SIGNALS |
| Written by Jonah Jones / Artwork by Holly Eddy |
| Make a donation to this writer |
| The Chalice of Malice |
My bedroom is more homely than palatial, so it seemed more than a little overcrowded when I woke to find fifteen or
so other people in there with me. Particularly since they were all people with an obesity problem.
They apologized for waking me, while my brain worked out who they were by their hats, broomsticks, black cats and
various mildly disgusting accessories. It was the Wicca Wanderers and they needed my help as fitness coach.
Over a cauldron’s brew in the crypt they explained their problem. The Inter-Evil Cup soccer competition was due to
start the following week and they were in trouble. Being composed entirely of witches and warlocks, the team was as
hopelessly unfit as any of the dark forces were ever likely to get. They never had to walk anywhere, stalk any victims
or even bend down to pick anything up. They do it all by magic or get their familiars to do it for them.
So I’m looking at a crypt-full of grossly overweight would-be soccer players, worrying themselves sick that the first
game is against Hades’ Emissaries Athletic—a team that’s fit as Hell, what with the purging and the pitch-fork
manipulation, not to mention the steaming work-outs in the fiery pits.
I should point out there’s only one fundamental rule in the competition for the Cup—known as the Chalice of Malice;
no magic. You can imagine what would happen if it was allowed. Pandemonium in the strictest sense of the word. It’s
hard enough for a referee to explain to a zombie it’s off-side, let alone try to cope with magical goings-on as well.
One glance would have told you that without the use of magic, this lot wouldn’t stand a proverbial snowball’s chance
in that particular opposition’s home territory. They wouldn’t even have had a prayer, given they approved of suchlike,
against Imhotep Hotspur, who can’t see a thing through their mummification bandages and haven’t got the guts to
make any sort of challenge for the ball.
There again—what could I do? It’s generally speaking not a wise move to say anything remotely rude to one of their
profession. Taking things badly is one of their stocks in trade. I didn’t fancy waking up with boils or a pig’s head so I
tried gently to dissuade them.
‘Why don’t you go in for the short story competition instead?’ I suggested.
Mimi, the Bane of Wooton Under Edge, snorted, allowing her ripples of fat to, well, ripple.
‘It’s fixed. The hobgoblins always win it—even though everyone knows they can’t string a sentence together when
you meet them at work. All dribble, gibber and slaver. But tradition has it if they don’t win, then the Earth will be
covered by darkness and naught will be heard but the wailing of the bereft. And who’s going to mess about with that
sort of thing—eh? Certainly not us.’
She looked around at her team-mates who cackled their support. They were all for winning the Cup. They’d set their
black hearts on it, so there was no option for me.
‘Tomorrow we start training,’ I told them sternly. ‘And if you don’t hate me at the end of the week, then I won’t have
done my job.’
Mimi stood slowly just as the stool collapsed under her and gave me a three-toothed smile. ‘That’s all right,’ she said
sweetly, ‘we hate everyone, anyway.’
Once they’d left, I went back to bed, cleared the toads out of it and had a disturbed night’s sleep, worrying about the
opposition, then worrying even more about the ones who were supposed to be on my side. There had to be some
devious means of turning their talents to my advantage but at the time I couldn’t fathom it.
A doom-laden dawn gave way to an even doomier morning long before the first of the team arrived, a feeling that
wasn’t qualified in the slightest as I watched them try to run on their various spots. Not a joyous sight. Their spare
flesh was enjoying an inertia which seemed to give it a life independent of its owners. It was like watching a series of
partially inflated balloons being dropped onto a slack trampoline.
I called a halt to the pointless exercise before we lost any to heart attacks and delivered my thoughts on the subject.
‘We’re going to have to cheat.’
Their reddened features turned to look at me, veins pumping in every face. The sound of breathing was like a traction
engine with a jammed safety valve as gradually their fat caught on to the fact the rest of their bodies had stopped
moving and came to a collective rest. It was going to have to be one hell of a cheat.
‘Any suggestions?’ I asked. Foolish really. Not one of them would be able to reply for quarter of an hour.
In that fifteen minutes I scryed my crystal, gave my rune-stones a good scattering and consulted my talking skull
collection, eventually coming up with what seemed a good idea. Once they had recovered sufficiently to take tactics
on board, I told the wheezing wiccans my plan. They looked at each other, nasty smiles increasing all the while and
then nodded in agreement. The idea was sound. Unethical maybe but then I’m an unethical sort and so were they.
This way the Wicca Wanderers might stand a chance, at least for the first match and that’s the one that counted, as
they saw it.
The opening matches began on the Sabat, during which Succubi Wednesday—a much fancied team—took
Transylvania County apart. The poor old Transylvanians couldn’t cope with the floodlights so they were just blown
away. Everyone was looking forward to the match between the winners and Evil Rampant. Probably wouldn’t be
much football but very entertaining in certain other ways.
Then it was the turn of Wicca Wanderers against Hades’ Emissaries Athletic. We’d decided to keep the track suit tops
on until the moment of kick-off, when the Wanderers exposed their new kit. Black, with a pale green wiccan cross on
the front. Ancient symbol of witchcraft it might have been but any cross is likely to have the desired effect on an
emissary from Hell.
And it did.
They screeched, started to smolder and disintegrated into piles of ash. Match won by default.
The Wanderers treated me like a hero for all of five minutes before I changed into my own kit and took my position on
the field as striker for Dynamo Living Dead—their next opponents. I think I mentioned I was ethically challenged didn’t
I?
We destroyed them because crosses don’t have any effect on us at all. We quite like them in fact, most of us having
been buried under one.
Furthermore, now that Hades’ Emissaries, the only team that had worried us, was so much dust in the wind, Dynamo
Living Dead went on easily to take the Chalice of Malice.
That final victory continues to be so sweet I hardly notice the boils and I’m sure the pig’s head will revert before long.
so other people in there with me. Particularly since they were all people with an obesity problem.
They apologized for waking me, while my brain worked out who they were by their hats, broomsticks, black cats and
various mildly disgusting accessories. It was the Wicca Wanderers and they needed my help as fitness coach.
Over a cauldron’s brew in the crypt they explained their problem. The Inter-Evil Cup soccer competition was due to
start the following week and they were in trouble. Being composed entirely of witches and warlocks, the team was as
hopelessly unfit as any of the dark forces were ever likely to get. They never had to walk anywhere, stalk any victims
or even bend down to pick anything up. They do it all by magic or get their familiars to do it for them.
So I’m looking at a crypt-full of grossly overweight would-be soccer players, worrying themselves sick that the first
game is against Hades’ Emissaries Athletic—a team that’s fit as Hell, what with the purging and the pitch-fork
manipulation, not to mention the steaming work-outs in the fiery pits.
I should point out there’s only one fundamental rule in the competition for the Cup—known as the Chalice of Malice;
no magic. You can imagine what would happen if it was allowed. Pandemonium in the strictest sense of the word. It’s
hard enough for a referee to explain to a zombie it’s off-side, let alone try to cope with magical goings-on as well.
One glance would have told you that without the use of magic, this lot wouldn’t stand a proverbial snowball’s chance
in that particular opposition’s home territory. They wouldn’t even have had a prayer, given they approved of suchlike,
against Imhotep Hotspur, who can’t see a thing through their mummification bandages and haven’t got the guts to
make any sort of challenge for the ball.
There again—what could I do? It’s generally speaking not a wise move to say anything remotely rude to one of their
profession. Taking things badly is one of their stocks in trade. I didn’t fancy waking up with boils or a pig’s head so I
tried gently to dissuade them.
‘Why don’t you go in for the short story competition instead?’ I suggested.
Mimi, the Bane of Wooton Under Edge, snorted, allowing her ripples of fat to, well, ripple.
‘It’s fixed. The hobgoblins always win it—even though everyone knows they can’t string a sentence together when
you meet them at work. All dribble, gibber and slaver. But tradition has it if they don’t win, then the Earth will be
covered by darkness and naught will be heard but the wailing of the bereft. And who’s going to mess about with that
sort of thing—eh? Certainly not us.’
She looked around at her team-mates who cackled their support. They were all for winning the Cup. They’d set their
black hearts on it, so there was no option for me.
‘Tomorrow we start training,’ I told them sternly. ‘And if you don’t hate me at the end of the week, then I won’t have
done my job.’
Mimi stood slowly just as the stool collapsed under her and gave me a three-toothed smile. ‘That’s all right,’ she said
sweetly, ‘we hate everyone, anyway.’
Once they’d left, I went back to bed, cleared the toads out of it and had a disturbed night’s sleep, worrying about the
opposition, then worrying even more about the ones who were supposed to be on my side. There had to be some
devious means of turning their talents to my advantage but at the time I couldn’t fathom it.
A doom-laden dawn gave way to an even doomier morning long before the first of the team arrived, a feeling that
wasn’t qualified in the slightest as I watched them try to run on their various spots. Not a joyous sight. Their spare
flesh was enjoying an inertia which seemed to give it a life independent of its owners. It was like watching a series of
partially inflated balloons being dropped onto a slack trampoline.
I called a halt to the pointless exercise before we lost any to heart attacks and delivered my thoughts on the subject.
‘We’re going to have to cheat.’
Their reddened features turned to look at me, veins pumping in every face. The sound of breathing was like a traction
engine with a jammed safety valve as gradually their fat caught on to the fact the rest of their bodies had stopped
moving and came to a collective rest. It was going to have to be one hell of a cheat.
‘Any suggestions?’ I asked. Foolish really. Not one of them would be able to reply for quarter of an hour.
In that fifteen minutes I scryed my crystal, gave my rune-stones a good scattering and consulted my talking skull
collection, eventually coming up with what seemed a good idea. Once they had recovered sufficiently to take tactics
on board, I told the wheezing wiccans my plan. They looked at each other, nasty smiles increasing all the while and
then nodded in agreement. The idea was sound. Unethical maybe but then I’m an unethical sort and so were they.
This way the Wicca Wanderers might stand a chance, at least for the first match and that’s the one that counted, as
they saw it.
The opening matches began on the Sabat, during which Succubi Wednesday—a much fancied team—took
Transylvania County apart. The poor old Transylvanians couldn’t cope with the floodlights so they were just blown
away. Everyone was looking forward to the match between the winners and Evil Rampant. Probably wouldn’t be
much football but very entertaining in certain other ways.
Then it was the turn of Wicca Wanderers against Hades’ Emissaries Athletic. We’d decided to keep the track suit tops
on until the moment of kick-off, when the Wanderers exposed their new kit. Black, with a pale green wiccan cross on
the front. Ancient symbol of witchcraft it might have been but any cross is likely to have the desired effect on an
emissary from Hell.
And it did.
They screeched, started to smolder and disintegrated into piles of ash. Match won by default.
The Wanderers treated me like a hero for all of five minutes before I changed into my own kit and took my position on
the field as striker for Dynamo Living Dead—their next opponents. I think I mentioned I was ethically challenged didn’t
I?
We destroyed them because crosses don’t have any effect on us at all. We quite like them in fact, most of us having
been buried under one.
Furthermore, now that Hades’ Emissaries, the only team that had worried us, was so much dust in the wind, Dynamo
Living Dead went on easily to take the Chalice of Malice.
That final victory continues to be so sweet I hardly notice the boils and I’m sure the pig’s head will revert before long.
| Make a donation to this artist |
