Assault and Buttery!

The army of Saukopf-Bachscuttel is on the move. The very last unit to leave are the troops of the Schokolade-Feyer Garde. They are on parade, being inspected by Prince Rupprecht on account of the new uniforms that they have finally been issued.

'Well', says Rupprecht. 'These fellows look splendid in their green uniforms!'

'Indeed, sir!' replies his chamberlain, Leopold von Fecklenburg. 'Now, almost all of your troops are correctly clothed in proper Saxon-style Bachscuttel uniforms, meaning that it won't look like the same troops are being shuffled through multiple Mittelheim armies'.

'Unforgivable!' says the prince, tutting.

'And unmanly', adds the chamberlain in agreement.

Rupprecht surveys his troops thoughtfully. 'Now we are at war again, Fecklenburg, I'm thinking that it's time that we put all of my little pigs into uniforms. And green seems to be an excellent choice'.
'Is that wise, my lord?' asks Fecklenburg.
'You don't think that uniforms would improve their morale and make them fight better?'

'I think I can say with some confidence, sire, that putting them in uniforms won't make your pigs less effective as soldiers. But alas, my lord, I fear that we don't have the money. There is only so much coin to go around, sire. Money spent on non-military items inevitably means less for the war effort'.

'Am I short of money?' cries Rupprecht worriedly.

Fecklenburg shakes his head. If Rupprecht struggled to put food on the table, it was only in the sense that almost no one was strong enough to lift the gigantic plates.

'Indeed not, sire. At least, there is still enough to meet your priorities. Such as they are. However, there really isn't much to spare, what with the need to support our army in the coming war'.
Rupprecht nods sadly. 'I suppose that you are right, chamberlain. It is a classic "guns versus buttocks" problem'.
'It's "butter" sir', says Fecklenburg wearily. 'You mean "butter"'.

Rupprecht pulls a face. '"Butter versus buttocks"? No, that sounds like something very different'. 

The prince watches as the troops turn and file off, marching to join the rest of the army. 'You have passed on my message of support to General Barry-Eylund?'

'I have, sire. Including the threat of execution should he lose'.

'He wouldn't be foolish enough to be defeated, would he chamberlain'?

Fecklenburg considers this carefully. 'Luckily, my lord, I am not a betting man'.

Virgin on the Offensive!

In Bachscuttel, Prince Rupprecht is holding an audience with His Excellency Reinhardt, the Bishop of Munschrugge, Nabstrian diplomat and messenger from Burgrave Falco.

'And so, my lord prince', finishes the bishop, 'the Zentans fled the field, crushed by the genius of General von Rumpfler. Almost their entire army was annihilated. Except all those that survived, of course', he adds.

'Hurrah!' cries Rupprecht.

'Therefore, the Zentans have been neutralised for the time being. They will be too busy licking their wounds' concludes Munschrugge.

'That doesn't sound very hygienic', replies the prince.

'I suppose it's better than licking other people's wounds', proposes Chamberlain Fecklenburg.
Munschrugge gesticulates. 'But my lord, this leads us to the real purpose of my visit: to coordinate our combined strategy for the remainder of this conflict! We must have a policy; an operational campaign plan! Fully developed branches and sequels! What are your thoughts on this, my lord?'

Rupprecht goggles. This strategy-related conversation, based as it is on scientific principles of professional warfare, is entirely alien to him. His rudimentary capacity for logic is overloaded.
'What is your plan?' demands the Nabstrian ambassador.
Rupprecht's mind cogitates, vibrates, and then expectorates the product of his logical thinking.
'Beep' he says, this word representing his entire thought on the topic of a war plan.
'What?' says the bishop.
'Snurgle' says Rupprecht. And then adds a 'boop, boop' for good measure.
There is an embarrassed silence.

Fecklenburg intervenes. 'What my prince means to say is that our army intends to fall upon the Vulgarian forces currently deploying into Gelderland. Having assessed their critical capabilities and critical vulnerabilities, we shall move directly against their centre of gravity, utilising tempo and manoeuvrism to interrupt their decision-making cycle'.
Rupprecht nods heartily in agreement. He has, of course, no idea what Fecklenburg is talking about. His chancellor's arcane vocabulary sounds like some kind of magical ritual. For Rupprecht, fear of the dreadful spells that are no doubt in the offing is balanced to an extent by the hope that a magic ritual might signify the arrival of a naked virgin'.
Munschrugge frowns. 'Are you sure, sir: because it actually sounded like a 'beep', a 'snurgle' and a 'boop, boop'.
Fecklenburg shrugs. 'Only to the untrained ear, good bishop. And I have a great deal of training'. He sighs. 'Believe me - so much training'.
Munschrugge nods. 'Excellent - well that sounds like a very clever plan'.
'It's a great plan', says Rupprecht. 'Now, about the virgins - do you think I should warm my hands up?'

Report!

Ah, the fickle hand of Fate! For General Heironymous von Rumpfler, victor of the latest battle in the Wars of the Gelderland Succession, that hand carries with it the soft and sweet caress of triumph! He returns to the Nabstrian capital to be feted (or fetid: or possibly both). Alas, for his recent opponent the Zentan generalissimo, Captain-Pasha General Taras Bulbous, that hand carries with it the extended middle finger of failure. Abandoning his army, Bulbous hurries back to Hospodar Casimir's palace in Zenta, the better to 'shape the narrative' surrounding recent events.

'So', says Casimir wearily, 'we lost'.
Bulbous nods sadly, disconsolately slapping the nearly bald head of one of his palanquin slaves. 'That is so, my lord, that is so. Despite my best efforts, it proved impossible to reach a decision before dinner'.
Casimir frowns. 'And we lost without losing very many men; despite my very explicit instructions about the economic advantages of a little light slaughter'.
'That is also so, my lord' replies Bulbous. 'I threw them recklessly against the enemy, Dread Lord; but I just couldn't get my troops to die fast enough. But', he continues, 'I am willing to have another go if it would please your lordship'.

Casimir sighs. 'Now, you know that I am not a man to suffer fools gladly'.

There is much nodding around the chamber. Casimir is indeed, on past evidence, really not a man who suffers fools gladly. And it is also the case on past evidence that his definition of the word "fool" is really quite flexible. It can cover anyone from a genuine fool, which, in general, would be anyone stupid enough to disagree with him, through to folk that he thinks are slightly shorter than he wants them to be.

'Now, you also know', continues the hospodar, 'that I am not, by nature, a vindictive man'.
There is more nodding around the chamber, but this time just for the sake of self-preservation; because, actually, 'vindictive' would be exactly the sort of man that Casimir is.

'So, whilst it gives me no pleasure, I am afraid that I will have to apply the full force of the law against you'. In Zenta, no one is above the law. Except Casimir, of course, who is quite literally above it, since he routinely sat on his judges until they rendered the judgements that he thought suitable. 

'And when I've decided what that law says', continues Casimir, 'I shall then decide when, and with which of my pair of pliers I shall apply it. In the mean time, return to your army! Prepare for more battles! And do not return without victories or some quite specific life insurance'.

Bulbous gulps. 'My lord is too merciful. But ... perhaps if I might ask for some reinforcements ...'

'No, no, no, no, no, no, never!' says the hospodar, waggling his finger firmly.
'I sense some uncertainty in your disposition', says Bulbous hopefully. 'So shall I give you some further time to consider, my lord?'
Casimir waves to Radu Pasha. The Grand Vizier, recognising the signal, leaps into action.
'By no means, ambassador! His Dreadfulness has spoken! Listen! Tremble! Piddle yourself and such! This audience is, quite definitively, over! Get thee hence! Withdraw yourself!'
'But ...' says Bulbous.
'No!' says Radu Pasha, gesturing to the harem eunuchs. 'Remove him!'
'But ...'

At this very moment, other activities are underway in the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel that signal the beginnings of another clash of arms ...

Grosse Katzick, the Final!

For the Zentans, it's time for the lavish application of more clerical inspiration. The Zentan irregular infantry fall back, rallying as they go under the supervision of their religious auxiliaries. This cannot, however, save another unit of irregular cavalry. The cavalry, engaged in that popular Zentan past time of standing in a marsh doing bugger all, are shot out of their saddles and then decide it's time, as a Russian autocrat might say, to 'strategically reposition' to the rear by routing vigorously. 

With his infantry now in a safer position, Captain-General Pasha Bulbous decides to reinvigorate his cavalry offensive. The lead unit of palace sipahi are thrown forwards again in a hell-for-leather charge! (Above) But not before Imam Fatih has been given the opportunity to really rile them up!

'Win victory, my fine fellows!' cries the imam, 'or you'll be forced to have a bath'.

Slavering with anger, the Zentans crash into the lead unit of Nabstrian cavalry and ride them down! These casualties also seem to be very popular with their comrades.

After a break by both sides for some rallying, Rumpfler decides to commit his elite cavalry against the sipahi. Alas for Bulbous, his clerics are now spent and lie in an exhausted, sweaty heap. They can no longer be called upon. In the ensuing combat, the Zentans are worsted, though not routed, and (above) the Nabstrians regroup, no doubt contemplating another go.

There is, however, to be no more time for such martial manliness! Looking at the position of the sun in the sky, Bulbous announces that he must leave. His staff officers, or at least those Zentans that, by their slack-jawed aristocratic insouciance, could be credibly identified as such, protest.

'No, no, I have to go - it will be dinner time soon', says Bulbous determinedly. 'I'm sure that the Hospodar will be sympathetic'.

His staff officers shrug in an ambivalent fashion, weighing up the small measure of genuine fondness for their commander (who has never worked them that hard) against the likely emergence of a promotion slot.

'Are you absolutely sure about that, my lord', says one.

And so (above) the Battle of Grosse Katzick is over. Having failed to storm the hill that forms the critical objective in this battle, the Zentans have lost! Since Rumpfler has not broken the attacking forces, his has won a Minor Victory!

In the end, the Zentans have lost two units of irregular cavalry. One of their Janissary regiments becomes elite through the tried and tested training method of hanging around daydreaming. The Nabstrians lose one unit of trained cavalry and one unit of trained infantry. On the balance of casualties, the Zentans succeed in meeting the criteria for Carnage! Two units of Nabstrian trained infantry have now acquired sufficient experience to class themselves as elite. Paul, Duke of Clarkeshire leaves Nabstrian service, tired of the poor quality of the breakfasts and cavalry charges (in that order). Sir James Chaffie arrives to pledge his undying loyalty to the burgrave.

Grosse Katzick, the Sixth!

"Irregular infantry - the perfect hand-to-hand assault and breakthrough force" said nobody ever in the history of the world. Like small children running enthusiastically into the sea, the Zentan troops advance, test the water, and then scurry backwards, squealing in displeasure. The hardest work conducted on the Zentan side of the field of battle is by Death himself, who, if he had lungs, would no doubt be quite out of breath given the cardio-vascular demands involved in shovelling large quantities of irregular infantry souls into the Other Place.

General Pasha Taras Bulbous' unhappiness is magnified by that particular disappointment that obtains when one brings one's own dice only to find out that they let one down at the critical moment. The Zentan troops win not a single one of the combats, and fall back in disorder. Things now look very hopeful for Rumpfler. With the enemy in a state of disarray not seen since the last time Landgrave Choldwig of Rotenburg invited participants to bring their own 'mullets' to a game of croquet, it would seem that even a modest round of volley fire should see the Zentans off. 

The results of the Nabstrian musketry, however, are mixed: 'mixed' in the same way that one could describe a blend of something that was not very exciting and something else that was very disappointing.

(Above) On the 'not very exciting' side, fire from the garrison does rout one of the Zentan irregular cavalry. It turns out, though, that they were thoroughly disliked by their comrades, and so the effect of their loss on Zentan army morale is, like their professionalism, minimal.

(Below) On the 'very disappointing' side, there are no hits whatsoever on the milling, gurning, loons that comprise the main Zentan infantry line. Not a one.

To make matters worse, the Zentan return fire is sufficiently hot to cause a regiment of Nabstrian musketeers to flee the field (below): a regiment who, alas, turn out to very, very popular with their compatriots for reasons unknown but probably best not delved into too deeply.

Rumpfler then focuses his efforts on attempting to rally his troops; an activity that looks suspiciously similar to pointing his pistol in people's faces and threatening to pull the trigger unless they "damn well get back into line and start looking like they are enjoying themselves".