Necrobowl #3

Before Orc

Our plan was simple… stay as far away from the skull as possible!

Orc and I worked out this strategy after our first few games. We noticed that everyone fights over the skull, which is where all the bloodshed and mayhem occurs. So, in order to survive each game of Necrobowl, I suggested we just avoid the skull completely. Orc looked disappointed, but complied. I don’t know why it’s so protective of me, but I certainly appreciate it.

At this stage in the season, teams are made up of random players from the various races or species. Orcs play with elves and vampires. Werewolves fight alongside humans or the greys. Dwarfs fight everyone… even themselves. Orc told me that, later in the training, we'll split off into teams of our own species. I’m not looking forward to that. There are few humans here: we’ll be decimated.

Necrobowl is a simple game at its core. It’s played on a large round arena, rimmed by bonfires, with a horizontal ring floating in the centre. Whichever team manages to get the skull through the ring first, wins. Simple!

There are no rules. You can hurt, maim, kill, or even eat the opposition if you are so inclined. You can turn on your own team mates, which happens more often than you’d think. Simmering tensions, blood feuds, racial hatreds, and plain old-fashioned hunger are amplified with the adrenalin of the game. Especially at this stage, when teams are mixed. The worst offenders are the dwarfs. Those little fuckers are feral! And fierce.

And there are referees. I was confused at first… why do you need referees if there are no rules? I soon worked it out; however. You can’t leave the arena while game play is happening. If you set one foot outside the field - if you dare step between the encircling pyres - the referees slaughter you on the spot. There are no excuses, no appeals, just death by whatever means works for your species.

Time has no meaning here. I mean, time still passes and has a linear flow, but there’s no way of measuring the passage. There are no day/night cycles, no clocks. But it feels like I’ve been here for weeks. In that time, I’ve seen hundreds of people die… if not thousands. And what do they do with all those corpses? They dry them out on massive racks on the edges of the lit fields, and use them for fuel in the pyres.

I use the word ‘people’ in a universalist sense, not a humanist sense. These people are, like me, living beings who have been ripped from their normal lives and plonked here, in hell, purely for blood sport and the chance to win a meaningless trophy. Most people here gather in their own groups when they aren’t in the arena, establishing camps of their own kinds. Except for dwarfs, who really don’t get along with anyone. But Orc and I defied the norm and formed our own little clique.

I’d be dead, many times over, if not for Orc. It protects me. It’s the brawn, and I’m the brains in our partnership. In the time since we arrived, we’ve discovered sources of food - some of questionable provenance - and water, along with a safe-ish space to sleep. Orc watches over me while I sleep, or cuddles up to share body warmth. It’s a light sleeper so, if anyone wanders too close to our sleeping hollow among the drying racks, Orc rouses and chases them off.

But back to the game in progress. Orc and I huddle together at the edge of the arena, keeping a close eye on game play in the centre, near the ring. Some players carry weapons, but most don’t need any. Most players have fangs, or tusks, or claws. Others have magic, like the elves. Of all the species, humans are the weakest. By far.

So imagine my horror when the skull escaped the scrum, flew through the air, and landed at my feet. It happened so fast! One moment, a vampire was sailing through the air towards the ring, smiling triumphantly while brandishing the skull. The next moment, the vampire was being ripped out of the air and beheaded by a werewolf. The skull flew out of the vampire’s grip and sailed clear across the arena to where Orc and I were holding each other for comfort.

The pack turned on us, as one. It was a frenzied mass of claws, fangs, and eyes filled with blood lust. And it closed in on us. Orc, with surprisingly quick reflexes, picked up the skull and threw it back towards the centre of the arena, over the heads of the thundering horde, then grabbed my arm and pulled me down into a crouch.

Every single eye in the arena watched as the skull flew through the ring. Goal! Game over. There was a moment of silence, of surprise. Orc took full advantage of the hush and pushed me, gently, out of the arena, then turned to face the horde. Half of the scrum roared in frustration and stormed off, the other half celebrated and rushed Orc. They held my saviour over their heads and cheered. All the while, Orc kept a watchful eye on me and my safety at the sidelines.

Later, huddled in our little sleeping hollow, I thanked Orc for saving me.

“Like Sam,” it shrugged.

“Sam?” I asked it.

Orc poked me in the chest with a gnarled finger, covered in coarse hair. "Sam," it said.

"I'm Orson, not Sam."

Orc thumped its chest with its hands, saying “Orc”, then motioned back over its shoulders, saying “Before Orc.” Then it pointed at me and said “Orson,” and motioned back over its shoulders again. "Sam."

I took a moment to process this, then asked “Are you saying you've saved me like that before?"

“Yes,” it replied.

"When you were Before Orc and I was Sam?”

Orc nodded.

“So we've played Necrobowl before?”

“Yes,” Orc nodded again.

“What I think you’re saying," I said slowly, "is that we’ve both been here before in past lives. Is that right?”

Orc nodded enthusiastically. “We die. We come back. We die again. Over and over.”

“And you remember these past lives?”

Orc nodded.

“How often do we find each other here?” I asked it.

“Every time,” it grunted.

I found that strangely comforting, despite the horror of learning I was being reborn over and over, simply to die another gory death in the endless game.

Orc has my back. Always has, always will. I have no doubt of that now.