Chaptliptz, the Third!

'Damn you!' cries Herr Michael Agorn, Pretender to the Pretender of the throne of Vulgaria. 'Back! Back I say!' he discharges both of his pistols at point blank range. Dropping one, he reaches for his sword, only then to remember that the mighty heirloom of his house, "The Sword That Was Broken and Was Reforged But Then Got Broken Again", he has left at home somewhere under his bed. With a terrible cry he begins to pound his attacker with the butt of the other pistol.

'Begone!' cries Agorn, wielding his pistol. 'Begone! *thump* you shall *thump* never thwart *squeltch* my destiny *squeltch*!'
'He's dead', says Colonel Amadeus von Goethe-Nockenshoppes, commander of the detachment of Bachscuttel troops protecting Agron. 'He's really very dead indeed. That', he continues sadly, 'is a very dead sheep'.
 'He had a nasty look in his eye!' growls Agorn. 'I haven't walked hundreds of leagues through the wild and dangerous lands of the world to be laid low so near to my destiny!'
'You haven't walked hundreds of leagues through the wild and dangerous lands of the world at all', says Nockenshoppes. 'We did three miles. And you were in a coach. And in all honesty, Bachscuttel is not really a place that one would describe as "wild and dangerous"; except, perhaps, when there are shortages of leech brandy. Also', he adds, pointing at Agorn's expired assailant, 'I think he just wanted you to pet him'.
Agorn shakes his head. 'You didn't see the little fellow look at me. He could have had my arm off'.
Nockenshoppes tilts his dead, dubiously. 'If, my lord, he had teeth, and was carniverous. Or he had a saw, a measure of determination,  and opposable thumbs'.
Agorn gestures dismissively. 'Bah! Sheep!' he says, 'They're all a bit "meh"'.

Below the hill, the battle rather has begun to heat up. A platoon of Rotenburg jager have moved through the sheep-filled field. The latter have not made the mistake of exhibiting any undue friendliness towards the human interlopers. (Above) a platoon of Bachscuttel regulars fire a heavy volley of musketry against this threat, producing quite a remarkable amount of smoke. To their right Rotenburg musketeers are advancing boldly forwards, threatening the Bachscuttel defensive line.

'Our line is under pressure', says Nockenshoppes to Agorn over the sound of battle. 'Will you not come down the hill - I remember you noting during our journey here that you have "a fell hand and a deadly eye" in combat. We could certainly do with the help'.
Agorn considers this for a moment, then nods and reloads his pistols. 'No, I don't think so'.
'But', says the colonel taken aback, 'if you do not help then your reputation will be in tatters. Surely you will be known as naught but a coward and a poltroon of the very worst kind. Folk will shun you; or laugh at you; or, when you attempt to sit in taverns, pull your chair out quickly from under you'.
'I believe I'll survive', says Agorn. 'Which is more than can be said for what might happen if I go down this hill'.
'But', continues Nockenshoppes, 'without your good name or your honour, how will you rally the folk of Vulgaria to your cause?'
'Pah!' replies Agorn. 'This is political power we're talking about here. And Vulgaria. Honour, bravery, good names - such things matter less in Vulgaria then one's capacity to do amusing impressions of foreigners, and being able to play the national anthem by breaking wind'.
'These are low standards', says the colonel, unimpressed.
'You say that', admonishes Agorn, 'but have you ever tried playing music from your bottom? It takes quite a lot of practice and many changes of britches'.

'But the men need help!' says the colonel gesturing at the Rotenburg attack below, which seems to be gaining momentum. (Above) The Bachscuttel volley has had no effect on the jager.  'Lead them!' continues the colonel. 'Inspire them! They need to believe in something bigger!'

'What about Princess Caroline of Bachscuttel's backside?' suggests Agorn.
Nockenshoppes scowls. 'No, something massive, beyond even human reckoning!'
'Hmmm', says Agorn, 'I can't help thinking that that's still Princess Caroline', he says, shaking his head. 'I fear, my good colonel, that I have little to offer in that department. Though my lineage was great, my family were poor as church mice that had invested with unwise enthusiasm in South Sea related stocks. Not for me the haughty lessons of kingship that would prepare me to lead! My childhood was a strange affair: an uncommon blend of treachery, violence, bloodshed, dwarves, and gratuitous nudity'.
The colonel nods, impressed. 'That does indeed sound like quite a difficult childhood'.
'The dwarves were very nice', replies Agorn. 'Though I wouldn't recommend the combination of nudity and bloodshed'.
Nockenshoppes nods sagely. 'Though I suppose that it would cut down on the washing'.
'I suppose', replies Agorn.

Agorn stares down at the battle below. 'What are our chances, colonel? Are we on track to win?'
'More or less', says Nockenshoppes.  'Though I should admit, in the name of full transparency, that things probably err more towards the latter than the former'.
'So are we mainly likely to win, or do we just have some chance of success?'
'Well, "some" - more or less?'
'Tending towards "more"?
'Well, "less" I suppose'.
'So you mean "some" as in?'
'"None", truthfully', admits the colonel.

Agorn exhales. He is silent for a moment before announcing wearily, 'Very well, colonel. I shall give a speech to the men'.

Moments later, he is at the bottom of the hill. Above the sounds of fighting, his voice booms out.

'Sons of Bachscuttel! Of the Palatinate! My brothers! Or at least some relative of a nature sufficiently close that I might send you birthday greetings or a hearty missive at Christmas! I see in yours eyes the same fear that would make me mess my britches. A day may come when your courage fails; when we forsake our friends, and report them to the secret police for some unspecified but unpleasant indiscretion that we knew about but held back revealing in case some day it might prove useful; but it is not this day! An hour of angry sheep and somewhat bent swords when the age of Mittelheim comes crashing down; but it is not this day! This day we fight! By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand, Men of Bachscuttel!'

'Hurrah!' shout the troops. (Above) Suitably inspired, Bachscuttel Croats fire an effective volley against the Rotenburg jager, driving them from the nearby field.

'Attack!' cries Agorn. 'Charge!' he shouts and breaks into a run.
Sadly, much of the impact of his speech dissipates as the troops watch Agorn sprint back up the hill. The rest of the impact disappears as they see him search for the largest shrubbery on the crown of the hill, and then crouch behind it, making noises like a small nesting bird.

(Above) Through the really quite extraordinary amounts of smoke that seems to have been generated by this battle, Colonel Nockenshoppes can see the advance of the Rotenburg regulars. Though, in relation to the soldierly principles of fire and movement, Rotenburg troops normally tend to focus on the latter (in general comprising by them of a range of vigorous movements both away from the enemy and in their own britches) these troops seem actually to be generating some meaningful forward momentum. The regulars of both sides begin to square up, bayonets fixed: an assault is in the offing and not the usual kind practised by the Rotenburgers in local taverns: this one threatens more in the way of bayonets and desperate hand-to-hand combat, and less in the way of kicking people in their potatoes and then stealing their drinks. Probably.