The Fenwickian volleys fly, with devastating effect! One Bachscuttel regiment is left teetering on the brink of collapse, though, obviously, no Fenwickian could ever actually use the word 'teetering', what with its salacious suggestion of actions involving both teets and rings. Worse, every single enemy shot strikes home against the Milchfrau Lieb Garde, whose musketeers fall to the ground. Many are dead; others just take the opportunity to have a lie down, and the screams of the wounded are interspersed with some loud snoring. But the effect is the same: the entire regiment is effectively destroyed in a single volley, leaving a huge gap in the line! (below).
Barry-Eylund stands agog (also a word that can't be used in Fenwick, though the reasons aren't strictly clear, given that the words 'gog' and 'ag' aren't usually associated with explicit adult activity - except in Wales, of course), slack-jawed and shocked! One of his guard regiments mown down in a single volley! There's only one thing he can do. Alas for him, he is wrestled to the ground by bystanders before he can hit the fire alarm. This leaves him with only one other option: 'Give me those dice!' he cries, and grabs the special green dice which are definitely not dodgy. Armed with these new weapons of chance, the Bachscuttel return volley inflicts heavy casualties! Marshal Cavandish responds with an attempt at a rousing bout of rallying to try to restore order to his infantry line.
Alas for him, the Fenwickians seem resistant at this juncture to his attempts to improve their morale. The problem lies probably with his overly exuberant use of words like 'honour', 'duty', 'jelly', 'wobble', and 'strobate': though to be fair, he was misheard on the last one. This leaves his troops vulnerable to the newly reinvigorated Bachscuttel musketry! 'Give me back my dice!' cries Cavandish. 'No fear!' replies Barry-Eylund, shaking his newly captured cubes of caprice (Above). Another Bachscuttel volley crashes home, and a Fenwickian unit routs!
(Above) This is a problem. Thanks to the ploughed field, Cavandish now finds his infantry split into three separate forces, complicating his operations immensely. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when he could ride it away, or invite it out for some light dinner and dancing, Barry-Eylund acts! Throwing again his burgled baubles of boon, Barry-Eylund's Bachscuttlers batter their bewildered adversaries.
On Cavandish's left wing, some of his sweaty soldiery are suffused with a sudden martial spirit. 'Oooh, I feel quite warm' some of his troops say, glowering at their adversaries with aggressive ardour.
(Above) Infused with the heat of battle, this unit, already quite disordered, charges forward into the Bachscuttel line. Barry-Eylund sniggers, fondling his dodgy dice of doom. For good measure, the Fenwickians wheel more so that they end up charging through bad terrain, because that's the sort of man that Barry-Eylund is. It doesn't look good for the attackers: an elite unit of defenders, and some aggressive-looking flora. Still, this is Mittelheim - a land where anything is possible!
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