The Bridge Over the River Zwei!

Whilst the forces of Vulgaria and Bachscuttel clash upon the sea, the coastal areas of Rotenburg have been subjected to their own peculiar form of unpleasantness -  the depredations of a squadron of the expensively caparisoned Burberry pirates. With the attentions of most of Mittelheim being on the movements of major armies (in which their movements, given their limited diets, can often be a terrifying encounter for those along their lines of march, especially for those without shoes), these cut-throat infidel raiders thus far have largely been ignored. The lack of organised resistance to the foreign pirates can be explained by the fact that it was presumed that the foreign interlopers, on account of their rudeness, pointless bellicosity and unwillingness to speak the local language, were probably just English tourists who would soon get bored and head to Spain. Unmolested by Rotenburg regular troops, the corsairs have spent their time doing what they do best: upsetting the local peasantry by rummaging through their things and then carrying them off to their ships in preparation for a life of slavery in the hot and hellish climes of North Africa. Given conditions in Mittelheim, of course, the latter tends to be less of a problem for the peasants than the former: the pirate enclaves of the Burberry Coast having much stricter regulations than Mittelheim on the size of objects used for the infliction of beatings, and also being home to a better class of flea.

But this restful period of pillage and debauchery seems unlikely to last. Though the routinely decrepit state of the Rotenburg economy makes it quite difficult to determine the difference between periods of boom and those of depression, the activities of the pirates have created signs clear even to local administrative officials that all is not well. Tax revenues are down; decapitations are up; and vigorous protests over the lack of safety in pubic places have been launched by local rats. Rumours also have emerged that some peasants have actually been applying to the pirates to be carried off, and that others have been "turning Turk": embracing Islam, for the purposes, no doubt, of having Fridays off and not having to shave. It seems unlikely that Rotenburg can continue to ignore this deteriorating situation.

'Do a trick, my furry friend,
 and I'll give you a banana.'
'I'm not in the mood, Binkey.'

Emir Rhoddri Pasha, captain of the pirates, stands in Rotenburg upon the banks of the River Zwei. Binkey, his pet monkey, chatters happily. As noted in an earlier account the emir is a one-time Welsh nationalist from Borth in mid-Wales who has turned Turk and led his forces here from the baking shores of North Africa in search of fame and fortune. The emir sniffs the water suspiciously. For most of its length, the Zwei flows in ways reminiscent of Landgrave Choldwig making use of his chamber pot: a long though intermittent stream punctuated by strange noises. It also smells quite similar. Near the sea, however, the river flows wider and more quickly, possibly because, like many things, it hurries to quit Mittelheim as quickly as possible. The local villagers are fisherman, if fishermen is the right word for those whose main occupation is collecting from the sides of the Zwei fish so depressed that they throw themselves onto the banks in the hope of ending it all. But there are no fishermen now in the vicinity of this part of the Landgravate.

The emir turns to his second-in-command, Kujuk Huseyin. 'Where are the locals, Huseyin? Where have they gone?'

'Dread lord', replies Huseyin. 'They have fled because of the rumour of battle. It is said that a force of infidel troops are being mustered for the purposes of driving us from the coast'.
The emir sighs. 'Would it be so bad to be driven from this coast? Although I suppose it's certainly better here than Iceland, I'll grant you'.
'At least here they leave their sharks buried', agrees Huseyin.
'And it's better also than Grimsby'.
'Ashesses and dusts, my precious', comments Huseyin.
'But I miss home - the heat; the exotic food; the mysterious and romantic history ...'
'Wales?' asks his second-in-command, impressed.
'No, North Africa; I mean in North Africa. And the women ... the luscious dancing girls!'
'Oh yes, dread lord', nods Huseyin enthusiastically. 'North African dancing girls - they're so more-ish'.
'When are these troops supposed to arrive?'
'Our scouts, dread lord, have reported that they will arrive in a day or so. Perhaps we should begin to prepare ourselves. There is a small village to the south of here that commands the bridge across this river. It might make a clever place at which to confront our enemies.'
The emir wrinkles his nose in distaste. 'Do we need to be clever? Why do we need to be clever? The enemy are nothing more than bum-faced infidel weasels'.
'But weasels can be wily creatures I've been told, my lord - tricksy, and with a nasty bite'.
'Not when their faces are bums they aren't. No room for mouths. Or noses'.
'How then do they smell, dread lord?'
'Probably badly - they have a bum instead of a face, remember'. The emir sighs. 'Very well. Gather in the men. Prepare them for a march southwards. I suppose a proper fight might do them good. We've fought nothing thus far but the elderly and some chickens'.
'They weren't always easy fights, though, my lord. Some of those chickens were tough.'
The emir nods. 'Yes they were - and the language! You don't expect that from poultry.'

Orders are shouted, and there are the sounds of running feet and hooves as the pirates begin to assemble.
'Hooves?' asks Emir Rhoddri. 'How is it that we have cavalry?'
'We have captured some horses, my lord', replies Huseyin, 'and mounted some of our men upon them. You should command them personally, emir - they can be your bodyguard'.
'But none of the men can ride'.
Huseyin shrugs. 'How difficult can it be?'
The emir raises an eyebrow. 'No, no - I think on balance that you should command them. I look forward to seeing your contribution to the coming fight ...'