Dungeons!

Nabstria - the dungeons of the Burgrave's fortress, Falkensteinburg. Dank. Deep. Drowned in darkness. This place has an evil reputation. Legends tell that this was an ancient fastness of the nibelungen, or dark dwarves: these dwarves mined the shadow places of the earth for precious things. But they delved too deep, and they delved too greedily; and they broke the plumbing. And a great evil flooded up from the depths; and it smelt really bad, and it flooded all of the floors, and the dwarves left because their wives nagged them until they moved somewhere nicer.

The ancient Kings of Nabstria:
 a powerful argument for democracy

Later, these dark passages were used by the ancient Kings of the tribes of the Nabstiri as a secret place to hide unspeakable things that were 'Best Not Seen By Man', or at least, best not seen by their wives. But then their wives, searching for towels, found these passages and the dirty things within, and they wailed, gnashed their teeth, and called the Kings of the Nabstiri 'Dirty old men who would go blind and whose bits would drop off' and the Kings were forced to dispose of these things, and the passages were blocked up, and they were lost to history.

It was in the reign of the present Burgrave's great grandfather that the underground passages were found again. Used initially as a place to store salted leeches, they were later converted into a resting place for those foolish enough to believe that, when the Burgrave said that he wanted 'honest, open opinions' on his latest policies, what he wanted were honest, open opinions. It is in this place that Burgrave Falco now incarcerates the enemies of the state: revolutionaries; Italians; anyone that mentions the Burgravina's facial hair. It is here that King Wilhelm of Gelderland is now held: and here he shall stay until he agrees to announce an end to the War of the Spanish Suck Session on terms acceptable to the Burgrave.

Colonel Zeigler arrives in the dungeons and approaches King Wilhelm's cell. Terrible sounds issue from within: strangled cries and sobs: 'No, in God's name I beg you - no more!'. Zeigler turns to the wincing sentry.
'Are we successful yet?'
The soldier shakes his head, sadly. There is more wailing and gagging.
'They are working the King hard, it seems', says the Colonel.
'That's the servants cleaning out the King's chamber pot, Sir: the King is still at breakfast'.
Zeigler is apoplectic: 'God's wounds - this is a prison not a hostelry'.
'We've been quite harsh on him, Sir: nothing but muesli and fruit juice.'
Zeigler storms off. Truthfully, things have not gone according to plan. Despite ingenious forms of torture doled out by the Burgrave's Sicilian Chief of Police, Wilhelm refuses to crack. In fact, there is a suspicion that he might even be enjoying himself. The only words that the King seems able to utter are 'More biscuits, please'. Perhaps the only source of real inconvenience for the King are the regular visits to his cell by Miss Nora Hindquarters, who, having checked that Wilhelm is properly restrained to his bed, then repeatedly kicks him in his conkers, on the basis that, as an activity, 'it never gets old.'

The dungeons of Falkensteinburg: poor views and no
 tea-making facilities - no stars. 

In the Burgrave's council chamber, a fractious debate is in full flow: there is little agreement on how things should now precede. Arguments that the King should be ransomed back to Gelderland for his weight in gold are rejected as 'ludicrous' on the basis that such a sum of gold does not exist in the whole of Europe. It is not entirely clear, in any case, that anyone in Gelderland actually wants him back. Following Nabstria's announcement of the capture of the King, both Bachscuttel and Rotenburg issue strenuous denials, arguing that all Nabstria has done is to create a ridiculous facsimile of the King by putting a walrus in clothes. Nabstria's response of showing Wilhelm in public seems in the minds of most actually to confirm, rather than undermine, this assertion. In Gelderland, the failure of the King to appear in public for a week initially piques the curiosity of some, but the Royal Chamberlain then announces that the King is fit and well, and has merely become wedged in a doorway - and that as soon as he has slimmed down enough to free himself, he will return straight away to the business of government. Indeed, the news that Wilhelm might be unable to exercise the reins of power for a spell has seen a dramatic rise in business confidence within the Kingdom and the sudden hope that the War of the Spanish Suck Session might be brought to a more speedy conclusion.

Above the hubbub of conflicting opinions, Bishop Munschrugge calls for silence. 'If we cannot use King Wilhelm in the way that we had planned, my Burgrave, then can we not make use of the information provided by Miss Hindquarters?
'What information is this?' pipes up Graf Decksluder, for once not banging on about the advantages of contingent maritime power in the joint littoral environment.
Second Councillor Hubert von Wornitzdaun, stands. 'I have seen Miss Hindquarters' report: the Gelderland capital may be surrounded by strong walls of the latest military fashion; but there is a weakness. There exists a little used postern gate in the walls on the eastern side. From there, it is possible to reach the mechanism that controls the main gate. A body of elite troops, well disciplined and well motivated, might be able to exploit this.'
'Yes, yes', says Graf Decksluder, 'but what about our troops?'
Wornitzdaun nods. 'If the force were commanded by an officer of vigour and enterprise, then that might suffice. Perhaps Colonel Zeigler, the man who captured King Wilhelm, would be just the man for the job'.
'Have you asked him?', asks Munschrugge.
Wornitzdaun nods: 'I broached the subject with him this morning when I encountered him in the courtyard.'
'Did he agree?'
'I couldn't quite hear what he said, but the hand gestures suggested that he wasn't keen.'
'Could he be incentivised?' asks Graf Decksluder: 'perhaps we could threaten him with Miss Hindquarters - show him the state of Wilhelm's conkers.'

As the debates rage in the council chamber, a dishevelled officer of Hussars hurries in waving a letter.
'My Lord, my lord! News from General von Rumpfler - our forces have engaged those of Bachscuttel!'
Bishop Munschruge takes the proffered missive and opens it, eager to learn who has triumphed: perhaps the judgement of battle has resolved Nabstria's strategic quandary .....

Kidnapped!

It is morning, in the guest room of the Wobbling Dog Inn, not far from the Gelderland-Nabstria border. The room is the most spacious in the inn; but at the moment it seems curiously confined. This is unsurprising, of course, since the room contains the comatose form of Wilhelm of Gelderland: King; Knight Commander of the Order of St Theresa; and colossal lard-arse.* This latter item rests uncomfortably in a four poster bed, and looms ominously over the supine form of a handsome young woman - Nora Hindquarters; winsome actress; Wilhelm's new mistress; and unknown to Wilhelm, a Nabstrian spy. Nora has had a difficult night of it. Promised by King Wilhelm a 'rollercoaster ride of pleasure and excitement', the actress has experienced something more akin to a short sedan chair ride of dampness and discomfort. If one could create an appropriate metaphor for the the previous nights activities, it would that of a small skiff in a heavy swell, knocking repeatedly against the side of a monstrously large galleon. If the galleon were very sweaty that is, and snored. Really badly. Nor, on reflection, was there much of a swell. Nora has been tasked with eliciting from Wilhelm information that might be useful for the Nabstrian war effort. Using her feminine wiles and a large bottle of fortified brandy (the latter more for her own consumption), Nora has spent the night pumping Wilhelm hard for information: an unsavoury activity, the consequences of which include some interesting snippets on the defences of Grosschnitzelring as well as other, more glutinous, products. Nora shudders, remembering an accidental gaze up Wilhelm's night gown and an unwanted look at the royal posterior: surprised to see the letters 'Backside' stencilled on it in gothic lettering, it wasn't immediately clear if what she was looking at was a pair of buttocks or a storage facility for morbidly obese Yorkshiremen. Still, having slipped a little something into Wilhelm's drink, Nora has ensured that the King won't be waking up any time soon. Smiling, she counts the time away, awaiting the implementation of the next part of Nabstria's cunning plot.

Downstairs, the King's entourage, an assortment of flunkies and monkeys, amuse themselves in the inn, drinking heavily and throwing dominoes at one another. Order is maintained, barely, by the efforts of the local bar maid, Heidi Holl, an intimidating no-nonsense sort of girl with a clear appreciation that the way to a man's heart is through his rib-cage. Outside, the coach drivers occupy themselves making emergency repairs to the suspension of the King's carriage. (Above) The King's guards consist of three units: a platoon of grenadiers drill outside of the inn under the energetic supervision of the guard commander, Colonel Ernst Leopold Rheinfunkt, a Brave but Unpredictable fellow; a platoon of light infantry occupy themselves on a hill beyond the barn, taking a few pot shots at local fauna. A second platoon of light infantry has not yet arrived. They have been charged with carrying the King's commode, a bulky item of reinforced Kurlandian iron: the men take some succour from the fact that, however heavy their burden, it is unlikely to be more substantial than that which is imposing itself on Nora Hindquarters. A few local farmers tend their fields and livestock. They are unperturbed by their new visitors - being pig farmers, the snuffling, grunting, and trumping associated with Wilhelm's presence is nothing out of the ordinary.

(Above) Ooooh, but what's this! The second part of the Nabstrian plan swings into action: an elite force of troops has infiltrated the border and now approaches the inn: their task - kidnap Wilhelm, and return him post-haste to the dungeons of Falkensteinburg! The force consists of three platoons. There is a platoon of the newly raised Nabstrian Foreign Regiment, regulars in lovely white uniforms; but they are accompanied by two platoons of a new type of Nabstrian soldier: rangers! With a Bachscuttel navy imminent and the interdiction of his sea lines of communication a real possibility, Burgarve Falco has ordered the rapid formation of an expeditionary force to defend his far flung holdings in New Mittelheim. Before being shipped off to New Mittelheim, the force has been entrusted with this important mission. The rangers are an irregular force, formed from the worst kind of scum: criminals, villians, ex-politicians. Commanded by the polish soldier of fortune Captain Jaroslav Glosgau, the rangers have been hastily trained as scouts, a process that has seen bemused Nabstrians accosted by green-clad soldiers, saying 'dib, dib, dib', and asking if they can help them with odd jobs around the house or garden.

The force as a whole is commanded by Colonel Zeigler, an Unpredictable Backstabber. Zeigler plans a two pronged attack. (Above top) The regulars form a two deep firing line and move to engage the Gelderland grenadiers and light troops; (above, right) the two units of rangers begin a rapid sweep to the right to take the inn from an unexpected direction.

The early fight goes well for Nabstria. Being rather too unpredictable for his own good, Rheinfunkt moves a little distance from his own troops and is spotted by the Nabstrian regulars: a volley crashes out and, before you know it, instead of covering himself in glory, Rheinfunkt gets covered in his own brains. Still, the Colonel's untimely expiration seems to have no effect on the morale of his troops. Being phlegmatic, they view the glass as being half-full, unlike their Colonel's skull: they haven't so much lost an officer, as much as gained a promotion slot. Suitably inspired, volleys from the Gelderland light troops and grenadiers combine to inflict heavy casualties on the Nabstrian Foreign Regiment. With cries of 'Retreat!', 'Flee!' and 'Help, this attack is rubbish' the surviving Nabstrian regulars fall back beyond the hill (Above, top).

(Above, left) Nevertheless, the Nabstrians press their attack. Glosgau's rangers move up behind the inn, but, clearly having failed to obtain their badges for excellence in camouflage, they are spotted! The Gelderland infantry exchange fire with them for a while. Inside the inn, Wilhelm's flunkies hear the commotion and decide that someone should be sent out to find out what's going on. Old Fritz is pushed outside to see what the commotion is (above, middle). Blind to the festivities, indeed, blind to everything since he is, in actuality, blind, Old Fritz steps out of the door of the inn. What he should then have said, of course, is something along the lines of 'Jupiter's nuts! There's a contingent of heavily armed Nabstrian rangers heading for the inn! Alarm! Danger! To Arms! Get with it! Tool up!' Instead, Old Fritz pauses for a moment, comments 'Blimey, it's still dark out' and returns to the warm comfort of the inn. Still, with the Nabstrian regulars driven off, things don't look too critical. With no sign yet of the King, his minions arm themselves with swords, pistols and dominoes, and prepare to the hold the inn until the King is ready to make his escape.

(Right, to the left) Zeigler makes his move. The first ranger platoon rushes towards the doors; the second takes position behind the walls of the field, engaging the Gelderland light troops with musketry. In a brisk melee for control over the door handle, Old Fritz gets what he deserves and is pummelled to the ground, forcing one of the rangers to give up his badge for helping the elderly. The rangers burst through the door into the inn! Upstairs, Nora prepares for her rescue. She dresses herself quickly, before rolling Wilhelm off the bed. Outside the inn, the Gelderland Grenadiers gird themselves for a counter-attack into the inn: with a 'Hooah!' they fix bayonets and prepare to get medieval on the Nabstrian interlopers.

The result is a Gelderland disaster of epic, Homeric proportions. The rangers assault into the ground floor of the inn sweeping aside one of the clumps of Gelderland civilians. One ranger reaches a window, and, seeing the grenadiers massing outside, looses a shot into them - one grenadier spins to the ground, gurgling in a fountain of blood. Shot at close quarters, the grenadiers scream like Rotenburg conscripts and quit the field. About the only thing medieval about their performance is the way that they bravely Sir Robin their way down the road, having first stolen the King's coach (below, top).



As it transpires, the only real man amongst the Gelderland defenders turns out to be the inn's serving wench, Heidi. As more rangers burst into the inn, she uses a pistol to dispatch one ranger; a tankard to dispatch another; and a third is consigned to Hell with an impressive combination of imagination, a quantity of dominoes and some remarkable manual dexterity. Sadly for Heidi, the rangers are made of sterner stuff than the Gelderland grenadiers and their morale holds - as her compatriots are shot, hacked, or captured, Heidi is finally driven out of the inn (above, middle) and then taken prisoner. In the interim, the first Gelderland light platoon counter attacks, giving the rangers a good biffing; only to be thrashed, in turn by the second ranger platoon, which rushes into the inn.



Still, all might not be quite lost. The second Gelderland light infantry platoon has arrived! (below) Dropping the commode, with a hippety hop they storm through the window of the inn.



But it all comes apart faster than the stitching on Wilhelm's britches! After a brief fight, Zeigler himself stabs one of the light troops in the back, and the Gelderlander's morale collapses. With cries of 'Run!', 'Help!', and 'Chase me, chase me!' they rout robustly from the field of battle. Still, the fight has not been an easy one. In the end, their are only three Nabstrian regulars and two rangers left: just enough, with the aid of a crow bar and a wheel barrow, to extract Wilhelm from the inn, and propel him towards the frontier! As Nora views the snoring King wedged into the wheelbarrow, looking for all the world like a hippo perched on a flower pot, she reflects on a few suitable words to sum up the sight: something with pathos; or bathos, perhaps; something that encapsulates the ephemeral nature of earthly power, the perils of hubris, and  the strange machinations of fickle fate. Sadly, time is pressing, so she confines herself to kicking him in his conkers, and with that, the little troupe heads off rapidly to the frontier. King Wilhelm is taken!








* This strange phenomenon was studied by the famous mathematician, Dr Lukas Wurmer from the University of Wittenburg. He refered to it as the SIDRAT effect, since every room with Wilhelm in it felt markedly smaller on the inside than it appeared to be from the outside.

There's dirty work afoot!

     And so, dear reader, we find ourselves mid-morning on a lovely summer's day, somewhere in the Kingdom of Gelderland. It is a bucolic scene: lush greenery; the gentle swaying of trees; the twitter of birds; all interrupted only by the irate chattering of a squirrel whose other half has been caught hiding his nuts where he shouldn't. But hang on, what's this? Our reverie is interrupted by the jingling of harness and the creaking of wheels.

(Right) It's a coach! But not any old coach. It's clear from the asthmatic wheezing of the horses that the carriage is heavily burdened, either by an emergency army-sized delivery of lard, or by that globulous wobble-bottom King Wilhelm of Gelderland. Sadly for the locals, the livery on the coach indicates that it is the latter. The King has been hastening eastwards, his passing churning the roads, and quite a few stomachs as well. Few things there are at the moment that can induce Wilhelm to leave the safety of Grosschnitzelring: pies, obviously; rumpy-pumpy; rumpy-pumpy with pies. True to form, Wilhelm is on a promise. Tired of the attentions of his current mistress, the tedious Irish actress Anne O'Dyne, the King has been contacted by the luscious, lewdsome Nora Hindquarters, until lately the paramour of Hieronymous von Rumpfler, commander of the Nabstrian army. Having labelled von Rumpfler dismissively as 'the mole' because of his rather random attempts at blind nocturnal tunnelling, Nora has invited the King to a secret assignation in an inn close to the frontier. After laying mammoth siege to his commode, the King has rushed as fast as he can westwards, bringing with him a small guard of Gelderland troops and a large quantity of 'Mister Stay-Puffed' under-britch plumpers.

(Left) But hang on: what's this! Amidst the greenery, the gentle countryside sounds are interrupted by the soft rattle of military equipment, alongside some suppressed giggles, and a whispered 'Let's do him now!' I spy some Nabstrian scouts!

Stung by defeats at Zorninhaf and Grosse Varnische, and with a military crisis emerging as obviously as King Wilhelm's belly button in a pair of under-britches, Burgrave Falco of Nabstria has hatched a plot to win the war by less direct means: for Miss Hindquarters is a double-agent; the meeting is a trap; and the whole enterprise is a nefarious plot that has as its objective the kidnapping of King Wilhelm! Stoked by enthusiastic hope and the reading of too many romantic novels, the early plans envisage replacing the King with a pliant body-double who can then be instructed to announce an end to the war. This plan is quickly dropped when it becomes obvious that it will take too long to find a talking walrus. Now, the objective is simply to abduct the King, and force him, on pain of death, to order an end to hostilities. What could possibly go wrong?

     

A Grand Review!

An Account by Sir Malileu Fitzbuttress, being His Brittanic Majesty's military representative to the Nabstrian Court.

'There was much excitement and anticipation in Falkensteinstadt when it was announced that the Burggrave had graciously decided to hold a Grand Review.  It was well known that his leading four regiments had just been outfitted in fresh new uniforms of a particularly fine cut.  The Burggrave has been pleased to award the contract for the new  uniforms to the famous  firm of Minden (proprietor Mr Jim Purky and lately Mr Frank Hammond) while the expert finishing touches to the uniforms were provided by Mr H. Jenkins Esq.  The Burggrave has been immensely - and rightly - pleased with the new turnout of his soldiers.  On one occasion, while taking a turn with the Burggrave in the picturesque gardens of Falkeinsteinburg, I made so bold as to suggest that a Grand Review would serve a double purpose by enabling him to put his soldiers through their paces and thus test the rapidity of their drill movements, while also enabling the Burggrave to display his troops in their fine new uniforms to the admiring public of Nabstria.  He at once seized upon the idea and insisted that the Review take place at the earliest opportunity.

The ancient stones of Falkeinstein Castle provided the perfect backdrop for the Grand Review.  Here we see the Burggrave in front of his men with General von Rumpfler and Paul, Duke of Clarkeshire looking on.

The day of the Grand Review dawned clear and fine.  The weather of Mittelheim is notoriously unpredictable and it would have been unfortunate if the soldiers fine new uniforms had been exposed to a downpour - an all too common occurrence in Falkensteinburg.  However, the weather remained clement and the arrangements passed off without a hitch.

The new Nabstrian standards, recently blessed by Bishop Munschrugge, looked very well on parade.

The four regiments marched onto the commodious parade ground, which lies hard by the romantic and gothick stones of Castle Falkenstein, in perfect order with their standards uncased.  Every soldier on parade was smartly turned out and performed every movement flawlessly.  The regiments made a fine military spectacle in front of their admiring Burggrave.  General von Rumpfler and Paul, Duke of Clarkeshire accompanied the Burggrave as he reviewed each regiment in turn.  All was to his satisfaction.  People from every rank, station and condition of Nabstria were present and the effect on the multitudes present was inspiring.  Their enthusiasm was demonstrated by their tumultuous cheers for the Burggrave and his brave men.  It would also appear that the crowds provided ready business for many street traders who moved their operations from Falkensteinstadt for the day.  I have heard that, by the end of the day, there was not a single crispy fried leech to be found and that the stock of ornamental souvenir cod-pieces specially produced for the day had sold out.

The Nabstrian General Staff, resplendent in their red trousers (an unfortunate French affectation), took a full part in organising the parade

While there have been some rumours of a certain weariness towards the constant wars of Mittelheim amongst the Nabstrian population of late, the Grand Review has done much to re-invigorate the martial spirit of the Burggraviate.  I have also heard that the army has recently tapped new sources of impressed foreigners through a clever ruse involving a haystack, a bottle of beer and a drill sergeant dressed as a maiden.  While this has brought in many fresh recruits, it is very unpopular with the drill sergeants who have to shave off their fine moustachios.  Nonetheless, the numbers of new recruits are such that the ranks of the army should be filled for some time and while the methods of the Nabstrian drill masters may be brutal, the Grand Review proved that they are fully effective.'

Nurkibahoo!

Lurking suspiciously near the headwaters of the Timpopo river, Nurkibahoo is a land of dark and fearsome reputation. If the tribes of the Leech Coast dare to mention the word ‘Nurkibahoo’ it is only in terrified whispers accompanied by vigorous, and not always successful, attempts to avoid soiling themselves. Once, so legend has it, Nurkibahoo was an earthly paradise, home to the Great Mountain Gods and an assortment of lesser deities that did their cleaning and looked after the garden. But these gods long ago disappeared and what crept into the void to replace them were, so stories tell, malignant spirits of terrible evil: fell creatures that would make even the Nazgul shift nervously. The archaeological evidence does not fully support this story: ancient inscriptions tell of the presence in early Nurkibahoo of a proto-Egyptian civilisation known as the Clunj. The Clunj seem to have adopted Egyptian tomb building techniques but their civilisation appears to have ended after rampant speculation led to the collapse of the world’s first pyramid selling scheme. Now, Nurkibahoo is the land that the land that time forgot has forgotten. Tales abound of a wilderness filled with strange ruins and impenetrable jungles; of dismal swamps and noisome smells. English explorers reputedly reached a small part of it in 1678 and established a small settlement named New Grimsby. But even if this were true, nothing more since has been heard from them. Either they died of disease, probably through the filthy conditions; or were reduced to cannibalism, probably through boredom.

Mussihonki!

This mountainous province provides the watery source of the Dongo river. Populated by the surprisingly numerous Wattamassa tribe, Mussihonki is a site of restless, fiery, geological activity much of which seems to take pace in the loincloth of the local potentate Chief Harharbonk, the so-called ‘Lord Goat with a Thousand Young.’ Embarrassed Christian missionaries have sought to curb the Chief’s extravagant, and rather public, humping by introducing him to the usual array of European prophylactics such as jigsaws, sock puppetry, and monogamy. Sadly, however, a fertile combination of long drinking sessions and short attention span have rendered Chief Harharbonk largely immune to these efforts, though he has managed to develop some unexpected uses for the sock.

Dangla!

These lands encompass the heartlands of the Handzande tribes of the southern Leech Coast. The principal settlement of the Chiefdom of Handzande is known as Umflopi, and comprises an extensive settlement of Handzande huts, paddocks, and storerooms surrounded by a stockade. Rather like the Handzande Chief, M’Wahaha, Umflopi varies in size depending upon the season. In summer, in particular, Handzande tribesmen flock to Umflopi in preparation for annual expeditions against their neighbours. At this time, important tribal celebrations take place. First to occur is the ‘Roger the Small Boy’ festival: named after an incident in which one of Handzande tribes rescued a small European boy, named Roger, whose explorer parents had been eaten by hippos, this is a charming cornucopia of dance and frolicsome behaviour. It is followed soon after by the ‘Roger the Cow’ festival in which Handzande warriors get it on with their livestock.