Cowering Inferno!

Finally, the battle reaches its denouement. This isn't somethng that would be recognised in Mittelheim, the low understanding of foreign languages meaning that most would think that a denouement was probably some kind of French cake or pastry; possibly one with patisserie cream and some glace fruit. The phrase 'reaches its climax' would no doubt be more easily comprehended; but of course it would be impossible to say this in circumstances, like this one, where many of the participants were from Grand Fenwick and in which the uttering of such a phrase would inevitably lead to some combination of arrest, imprsionment, and a beating with a rudely shaped butternut squash. Besides which, the notion of this encounter having reached some kind of peak would also imply some sense of accompanying excitement or interest. But this is a Mittelheim battle: so it would be better to say that, overall, this encounter has dragged on for a sufficiently long time that its termination is surely due.

(Above) The Vulgarian native allies realise that they are in danger of being caught between a hammer and an anvil: or at least, a hot, flamey warehouse and dour, red-coated Gelderland infantrymen. Rushing from the warehouse, they attempt to fight their way through the Nabstrian rangers. Alas for them, the fight goes badly and they are soon sent to the Great Hunting Ground in the sky - or somewhere that sports a similar line of ancestral gods and small, easily obtainable wildlife.

(Below, bottom left). As one of the Gelderland civilians menacingly waves his rake, the one remaining group of Vulgarian allied Indians has crept to the back of the house. Faced with a range of possible follow-on activities, such as cleaning the windows, repairing some of the woodwork, or beginning to lay out a small but attractive ornamental garden, the Indians decide to stick with what they know best, and instead set it on fire.

(Below) In a vain attempt to save themselves, the remaining civilians try and escape the house. Alas, their slow movement, and the complex intellectual challenges posed by the doorhandle, mean that only one additional worker, a middle-aged matron named Wanda, manages to exit the house. In the nearby wood, the noble Fenwickian trappers, firm believers in the principle of "women and children first" begin to take pot shots at her.

(Above) The fire takes hold on the house, and it begins to collapse! The remainder of the civilians are unable to escape and conclude the battle, as it were, as potatoes in the great baking oven of fate.

(Below) Lustily cheering themselves, the brave Fenwickian irregulars gun down the fleeing Wanda. They congratulate themselves on having dealt with a dangerous looking enemy fighter, whose mop might have posed a serious threat to the integrity of the Nabstrian forces. This discussion is notable for its reference to the concept of integrity, something that rarely challenges the vocabulary of Fenwickian soldiers.

Continuing the heroics, (below) the remaining allied Indian force leaps from behind onto the rake wielding civilian . This seems to the natives to be the safest bet. A rake doean't really seem to them to be the most effective piece of military equipment to wield in a fight - but you've got to respect the kind of loon who thinks that it is. Using the old 'tap on the shoulder, tomahawk in the face' routine, the Wappesdoo braves despatch the worker, dodging in the meantime stray rounds from the Fenwickian trappers who are really beginning to get into the swing of things.

With the death of this worker, the thirtieth out of the thirty two that were employed at the trading post, the forces of the Vulgarian Convention decide to call it a day. Out of time, and also running out of men, the troops begin to retire from the flaming remains of the buildings here.

(Above) With the advantage of a really good telescope, it is just possible to continue to watch Freud und Slepp's advance, which has taken himself and his provincial troops relentlessly further away from the fighting. The colonel watches with interest as the smoke from the blazing remains of the trading post rises lazily into the afternoon sky.
'Well', he says to no one in particular, 'that really looked quite a dangerous enterprise. Thank goodness I have the professional military training and experience to let someone else do all the work ... I mean,' he says hastily, correcting himself, 'I mean, to maintain an effective reserve'.

As the forces of the Vulgarian Convention fall back to lick their wounds, and whatever else takes their fancy, thoughts turn to the task of assessing who has won and who has lost; or, as is more likely here, who has lost the least. (Above) Herr Plugholl, standing at the foot of the stairs, certainly, is philosophical about the results. On the one hand, his trading post is now almost entirely burnt to the ground, and all but one of his employees has been killed. But on the other hand, he is still alive. So, 'Yay'. Overall, it turns out that the Nabtsrians under Major Schwim und der Vasser are the winners: the Vulgarian Convention failed to kill all of the civilians, and his personal goal was also to avoid having them all killed. Colonel Freud und Slepp comes second - though he has failed in his main task to kill all of the civilians, he has achieved his secondary goal of surviving the battle. For Captain Blofeldt and Colonel Fuhrporer, their early exit from the battle leaves them as losers, with an extra helping of being bottom of the whole world.

As the houses continue to burn merrily, the forces of the Vulgarian Convention halt their withdrawal for a rest and to assess their pillage and their prisoners. The latter includes none other than Colonel Richter Furpohrer:  knocked unconscious early in the battle, his supine body was dragged to the rear by some enterprising Wappesdoo indians who recognised the prospect of a profitable prisoner swap. The colonel sits morosely with another prisoner - a Nabstrian ranger. They are guarded by a fierce looking Wappesdoo brave. The native then says something.

'What?' replies Fuhrporer suspicously. 'Speak German, you uncivilised savage!'
The native repeats himself.
The colonel waves dismissively. 'No. Speako. Nativo.' he says loudly and slowly.
The ranger sighs. 'He says, sir, that he is very pleased to see us'.
'I don't care what he thinks', replies Fuhrporer.
The native says something else. The colonel blows his cheeks loudly. 'What did he say now? This just can't get any worse'.
'He says', translates the ranger, 'that you have a pretty mouth'.