Part 1

Naught says "you're not going to score" like a spike through the arm. It was Karsgaard Neuvil’s approach to footy. You could swap out the specific body part, but the principle held; it’s impossible to score a touchdown when impaled on a spike. In this particular case, it was the arm.

One hit Umberto, another embedded itself into the snug’s door-frame. Neuvil jumped up and grabbed a stool. Thordwall dove under the table and another dagger thumped into the wood panelling right behind where her head had been a second earlier. Two men and two women surged from the throng that had…

Whatever one’s thoughts on hell, Karsgaard Neuvil’s detractors certainly called it “devilish,” implying that some foul power had aided him. His Hammarskjöld Nordhammers had been drawing 1-1 heading into the final moments of their last game of the season against the Karthini Royalists.

Jacyntha knew him, Pierce Rosethorn, knew he’d make for the sideline. Get him now! She had seen the Quarrel’s thrower fade right and had known Rosethorn would be the target. She had backed off her sisters in the ruck and had done so just in the nick of time.