Merry Christmas!

And so we limp towards the end of yet another year! However yours has gone, dear reader, you can rest assured in the knowledge that it has probably gone better than Ritter von Dweeb's, the Bachscuttel ambassador to Zenta.

The Ritter has been sent to Hospodar Casimir's torture chamber. It isn't actually called a torture chamber, because Casimir felt that that label was judgemental and set the wrong tone for his court. Though he might be a grasping loon, Casimir still feels it important that his court should appear to embrace some aspects of the Enlightenment. In the new spirit of rational enquiry, then, the torture chamber has been renamed the Hall of Investigation, just as the execution chamber has become the Hall of Separation.

Being tortured is, in itself, a perfectly good excuse for being in a bad mood, especially at Christmas. Dweeb's temperament, though, has been worsened even further by the presence of Hashmi Agha, Casimir's Equality and Diversity Officer. Hashmi is annoyingly cheery, and a eunuch who clearly loves his work. The Hospodar, who also loves tool-related persuasion, has come down to see how things are getting on: or indeed, being pulled off.

'Greetings slave! How goes your investigation of the Bachscuttel ambassador!'
Hashmi shrugs. 'He doesn't seem very happy, Dread Lord'.

'Well', replies Casimir, 'perhaps he doesn't like Christmas. I'll tell you what, why don't you strap him to the rotating torture wheel: let's turn that frown upside down!'

'A marvellous idea, my lord', says Hashmi. 'But that might take some time, and I don't know how long you want me to stretch this out'.

Casimir nods. 'Oh, a foot or two, I think. Let's put him on the rack!'.

Dweeb emits a yelp as Hashmi winds the mechanism again.

'Ow, ow! Aren't you supposed to ask me questions and only threaten to torture me if I don't tell you the truth?' cries the ambassador.

Casimir shrugs. 'Ask you questions? Well, I don't want to insult your intelligence'.
'I'm willing to take the chance' groans Dweeb.
'No, no', says the  Hospodar. 'Let's just take it as read that I've asked you some questions and you've told me everything that I want to hear'.
'No, Lord Hospodar -  try me: perhaps I won't be as insulted as you think! I'll convert - I'll turn Turk. I'll become Muslim'.

'Oh no, you don't want to do that'.
'I think I might ...' replies Dweeb as Hashmi winds the rack.
'It's very tiring - there's a lot of praying at inconvenient times'.
'Being tortured is quite tiring too ...'
'Yes, but converting won't stop that!'
'I didn't think that you were allowed to torture co-religionists?'
'No, no, Dweeb - I can't enslave Muslims. But I can certainly torture them. About a fifth of my subjects are Muslim: how could I maintain a sense of fairness so important to the legitimacy of my rule if I couldn't torture them as much as I torture everyone else. Besides, technically, I'm an Orthodox Christian'.
'Really?' replies the Ritter. 'I didn't know that'.

'Well', says Casimir evenly after a period of investigative stretching. 'Time marches on. I should probably get you to say something really incriminating in case that it turns out to be useful later'.

Hashmi brandishes a saw. 'That's fine, Dread Lord - I’ll get him to open up'. He approaches Dweeb. 'Now ambassador, this might sting a bit!'
Dweeb yelps. 'You’re holding a saw!'
'Stop being a baby!'
'But it's almost Christmas!'

'You're right, ambassador'.
'Wouldn't mercy be in the spirit of the times?' wheedles Dweeb.
'Hmm, I'll tell you what would be in keeping with the spirit of the times', replies Casimir, selecting a small pair of pliers. 'Pulling some crackers!'

***

And so, we hope here in Mittelheim that your festive season is a jolly one, and mercifully free of saws, pliers, or other instruments of unpleasantness, and that this coming year brings you more of what you want, and a bit less of what you don't.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New year! 

Hamertheim, the Final!

Count Orlok's Regiment succumbs to enemy volley fire. With few options left, and no easy way to leave the country, Rentall decides to hurl his cavalry once again at the Bachscuttel right (below). The attack cannot, of course, succeed: for all the usual reasons, such as being Vulgarian; but also because the cavalry are disordered and the enemy infantry are fresh. As the Vulgarian horse stream back, General Bachscuttel offers Honours of War, and the Vulgarians accept!

(Below) Rentall's left wing, intact and raring for a fight, can only look on and rue the lost opportunities. General Barry-Eylund's predilection for treating warfare as an exercise in gardening, complete with water features, has stymied the Vulgarians.

The battle has been another triumph for any irregular concerned with getting their pension. The Vulgarian extreme left, all four irregular units of it, has moved not one foot. Captain Kleinvarken salutes Colonel Kurtz. 'Another successful battle for us, sir! No casualties at all!'

Kurtz nods. 'We might not have lost any men, captain; but you must know that there are other costs!'

'What might those be', asks Kleinvarken slowly and in a manner that indicates that he would rather not know.

'Self-abnegation!' cries the colonel. 'Annihilation of the soul! Horror! Horror! Hollow death! What then can follow after the destruction of one's essence!'

'I could ... get you some hot chocolate', says Kleinvarken.

Kurtz considers this. 'Yes, that would be nice'.

(Below) Opposite them, on the Bachscuttel left, a similarly inactive Bachscuttel irregular asks plaintively 'Has the battle started yet?'

As the remaining Vulgarian troops withdraw, Bachscuttel occupies the field. Barry-Eylund has suffered no losses. One each of his cavalry and infantry regiments reach elite status. The Vulgarians have lost one trained cavalry unit and one elite infantry regiment. The Bachscuttelers have therefore inflicted Carnage on their adversary, although Vulgarian depots will ensure that their replacements are properly trained. Worried about his own prospects of obtaining a pension, Cameron von Muller quits Vulgarian service. Theodore Creasey arrives to ingratiate himself with Barry-Eylund.

Hamertheim, the Sixth!

Alas, even the efforts of the Vulgarian Garde du Corps come to naught! The Bachscuttel troops are all fresh and in good order and the enemy cavalry can make no impression upon them: except, perhaps, the impression of a body of horsemen who have to retire having failed in their attack. (Below) the Vulgarians fall back, and the Bachscuttel infantry prime their muskets, giggling.

Further down the line, things do not improve for General Rentall. A bout of confusion strikes the elite Count Orlok's Regiment. For reasons probably linked to the frenzied mating of siblings somewhere in his family tree, the colonel of the regiment orders his troops from the safety of Hamertheim Hill. They advance forwards to an entirely isolated position  and squat in front of two Bachscuttel units, including the Milchfrau Lieb-Garde (below).

Volleys of musketry are exchanged. (Below) Having nothing to offer in reply, except harsh language and a dose of fleas, the Vulgarian cavalry are roughly handled in all the wrong places. One regiment breaks and runs! 

On the Vulgarian right wing, the remaining regiments of Rentall's infantry, fresh and entirely unused, can only curse the marsh to their front.

'Dish ish mosht vexshing!' expectorates Rentall.

'Gottle a geer!' replies Baron Tostov solicitously.

 

Hamertheim, the Fifth!

'You're going to open fire with your artillery, sir?' asks Duke Neucheim in confusion. Neucheim's query is understandable. In Mittelheim, artillery fire generally has the reputation of being about as effective as pelting an enemy with crumpets.
'No, firsht, I shall lull dem into a falsh shensh of shecurity by making da enemy tink dat datsh all I've got', replies the general.

(Above) On cue, one of the Vulgarian batteries opens fire with canister on the Bachscuttel Milchfrau Lieb-Garde. It does no damage. Only small numbers of the Bachscuttel grenadiers can reply in kind, and they also miss.

But what Rentall has realised is that Barry-Eylund has misdeployed his flanking units. One of them is deployed a little way behind the others. If Rentall orders his three right-most infantry regiments to wheel left towards the Bachscuttlers, he will be able to mass the fire of three of his infantry units against only two of those of the enemy. The Bachscuttlers will probably start losing the fire-fight; Barry-Eylund will have to focus on rallying his musketeers; the enemy attack against the Vulgarian cavalry will halt; and Rentall will have stolen the initiative from the enemy.
'Advansh to victory!' orders Rentall.
His musketeers wheel left. As the troops advance, there is suddenly a squelching sound. A Vulgarian subaltern looks down and realises that his men are approaching what appears to be a marsh.

'I'm sure that wasn't on our maps', he says glumly.

It is true. The small-minded rules-lawyer, General 'Just Call Redmond' Barry-Eylund, makes it clear that no one is allowed to have any fun by ensuring that the Vulgarian advance runs up against a hitherto unknown area of marshland (above).

The Vulgarian infantry (above) can only look at what might have been. The poorly deployed Bachscuttel flank hangs there, flapping aimlessly like a Mittelheim bishop pretending to be a duck. 

Tired of the cackling rules-goblin that commands the enemy army, Rentall decides that there is now nothing for it but to commit to a full-on cavalry charge. (Above) The flower of the  Vulgarian cavalry (accompanied, it has to be said, by quite a few weeds and some actual geraniums) thunders forwards, swords glinting, and stirrups in!

Hamertheim, the Fourth!

The Bachscuttel infantry push relentlessly forwards (below). It isn't often that one can apply the word 'relentless' to Bachscuttel troops, except perhaps, in the context of their efforts to avoid a bath; and so General Barry-Eylund finds this portion of the battle quite invigorating. Certainly, this is the sort of generalship all Mittelheim officers are well-suited for: a situation in which a commander merely has to watch his troops march straight forwards towards the enemy whilst remembering not to fall off his horse. It is impossible to avoid looking even moderately soldierly, as long as one has remembered to wear one's britches.

(Below) The main Bachscuttel line pushes right up to the Vulgarian cavalry. So close are they that they can smell the enemy. As it turns out, the Vulgarians smell of a mixture of lavender, orange peel, and sandalwood: that someone has then shat on. Gagging, the Bachscuttlers halt. The flanking units begin to wheel to the left in order to protect the main line from any unwanted Vulgarian interference: which would be any contact at all with a Vulgarian.

(Above) Barry-Eylund begins to evidence some excitement.
'Well, within musket range now, Bohner', he says, nodding with satisfaction. 'I can't ever expect much from my  troops; but walking slowly forwards in a straight line is something that my lads really seem to have a talent for. Mostly'.

(Below) Alas for the general, in a frankly quite startling display of military flexibility, the Vulgarian cavalry 'retrograde' and fall back beyond the range of the Bachscuttel muskets. Trust the Vulgarians to display a flair for retreating even more quickly than expected.

Nevertheless, the cavalry are running out of space, and the Bachscuttel infantry, having really seemed to have got the hang of the tactics of walking slowly forwards in a straight line, are likely to continue moving forwards, making life rather difficult for the Vulgarian horse. Looking at the developing situation, Rentall concludes that he must try, if he can, to regain the initiative. The usual Mittelheim methods of gaining the initiative, such as pulling a hat over someone's eyes and then punching them, or burning things and blaming it on the Turks, probably won't help in this situation. What's required is something really cunning: so cunning, it might make a weasel with a doctorate in cunning feel quite uncertain about the quality of his footnoting. 

'We need shum shtrategem to gain da enemy's attention', says Rentall.

'We could throw a ball of wool, and, you know, like kittens chase that sort of thing ...' suggests Duke Neucheim.

'Pah! Dat won't work! Why don't I jusht flash my pocket watch at dem!'

'That would never ... oooh, shiny!' says Neucheim.

'Gottle a geer!' comments Baron Tostov, perceptively.

'Yesh!' says Rentall. 'Datsh it! I've jusht tort of a cunning plan ....'

Hamertheim, the Third!

Having been shamed into attacking, General Barry-Eylund has developed a plan so conservative that it is only distinguishable from a fortified defence by the fact that the trenches have less tinsel on them. The enemy irregulars will no doubt attempt to lap his flanks: a horrid proposition by anyone's standards. Barry-Eylund therefore decides that he will hold on his left flank and focus his attack by advancing on the right.

(Above) On his left flank, the general places both of his units of irregulars. These will defend the small wood and hold off the enemy light units. Behind them, one of the Bachscuttel cavalry is deployed in line to seal off any Vulgarian attempt to move behind the copse. Next to the wood, Barry-Eylund places all three batteries of his artillery and orders them to dig in. Hopefully, they will be too busy digging to do anything that might later embarrass them: like trying to fire.

(Above) The remainder of the cavalry will also support this flank. The infantry in front of them are stacked up behind one another because they will advance a short distance and then wheel left. The reason for this is evident from the woodcut below.

All of the rest of the Bachscuttel army is deployed in linear fashion, because nothing says 'Mittelheim military plan' more than putting everyone into a big, long line and then marching them slowly straight towards the enemy.

(Above) Barry-Eylund's intentions are as obvious as a Bavarian sausage joke. His infantry will advance against the enemy cavalry. After destroying them or driving them off, he clearly hopes that he can then wheel his forces left and take Hamertheim Hill from the flank.

As the last of the Bachscuttel infantry deploy into their allotted positions, there is a brief moment of silence. Then, with a flourish of drumming, the attack begins!

Alles ist bereit! Marsch!

Hamertheim, the Second!

Even in Mittleheim, it is not usual to deploy troops into a rhomboid, hexagon, or parallelogram; and so General Rentall goes with the tried and tested deployment of a line. On the left flank, he deploys all three regiments of his regular cavalry. In front are the Vulgarian garde du corps. Alongside the national advantage of 'cavaliers', this makes the Vulgarian horse quite a tough proposition if the enemy decide to engage them with their own mounted troops.

The infantry and guns form the centre of the Vulgarian position. The leftmost portion occupy one of the hills (below). Rentall places his headquarters here since it gives him the best view of the battlefield. His guns are dug in. This will make it more difficult for them to move; but then, as artillery, mostly everything is difficult for them anyway - firing for effect, getting up in the morning, putting on their britches, or impersonating competent artillerymen.

On the right-hand side of the centre (below), the rest of the infantry and guns form a continuation of the line. Rentall has eschewed the use of reserves. Reserves are fine, if you like that sort of thing: but Rentall has only five regiments of musketeers and has decided it is more important to present a longer defensive position to the enemy.

Last. and by some measure the least, the Vulgarians have on their extreme right deployed their irregular units: two regiments of cavalry and two of infantry (below). The lord alone knows what it is that these troops might achieve: although if it includes washing themselves, then that would be something.

'Perhapsh it might have been better if we had attacked', says Rentall ruefully. 'At leasht den we could have focushed our forshes against one part of da enemy line'.

'Gottle a geer', replies Baron Tostov, sympathetically. Tostov looks a little worse for wear. Worse, even, than he did when he attempted to eat a volley of Vulgarian cannonballs.

'I shall accompany the baron as he reviews our troops. Perhaps he might even give a speech!' says Duke Neucheim. There is a squealing sound as he wheels the baron off along the line. The duke pauses a little way on to pick up one of the baron's arms, which seems to have fallen off.

'Gottle a geer!' roar the Vulgarian troops. 'Death to Bachscuttel! Long live Vulgaria!'

Hamertheim, the First!

Wherein the army of the Voivodate of Zenta under General Hertz van Rentall encounters the forces of the the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, commanded by General Redmond Barry-Eylund.

The region of Hamertheim in western Gelderland has long been considered an area worthy of visiting. This is because its extensive woodlands block one's view of the rest of Mittelheim. The footfall here, however, is now even higher than normal. This is because the area has now become the site of the latest battle in the Wars of the Gelderland Succession! Oddly, though, and doubtless for reasons of their own, the commanders of the Vulgarian and Bachscuttel armies seem to have decided to challenge one another to fight in possibly the least wooded 'forest' area yet encountered by man (below). It is an area that counts as 'forested' in exactly the same way that it might count as 'rolling sea', 'an iceberg', or 'a small black forest gateaux'. The wide plain that constitutes this 'forest' is interrupted by two small copses, two low hills, a road, and two middle-aged badgers.

The Bachscuttlers approach rapidly from the north (top right) and encounter Vulgarian forces marching along the road from the south (top left). Neither side, however, seems keen to take up the burden of the offence. Scouts from both sides are sent out, and in the ensuing blizzard of direction-free wandering, it is the Bachscuttlers who come out on top, an outcome that it extremely pleasing to General Redmond Barry-Eylund, a man widely known by the sobriquet of 'the Turtle King': and not because he likes dragging himself over beaches. Or laying eggs.

'Excellent!' comments Barry-Eylund. Barry-Eylund is well-known for his defensive mindedness. There's really nothing he likes more than winkling himself into a tight defensive position, and then sitting passively, running down the clock, whilst rules-meistering his opponent into submission. The general turns to his aide, Major Bohner. 'Splendid, Bohner! Though you may be surprised to hear this, given my reputation as a daring, offensively minded risk-taker, I intend putting our forces onto the defence!'

Bohner considers this. 'My lord, it's really not as much of a surprise as you might think'.

Across the other side of the field of battle, General Hertz van Rentall is studying the Bachscuttel camp through his telescope. 'Pffft', he says dismissively. 'Dat Barry-Eylund fellow ish going on da defenshive again'.

Rentall's second-in-command, Captain of Infantry Duke Walter von Neucheim, jumps from his horse. 'Watch this, sir', he says turning around and tugging down his britches.

'My lord, I think you might need to see this', says Bohner, handing the general a spy glass. 'But you have to promise not to get angry'.

Barry-Eylund focuses the telescope and then wishes that he hadn't. 'What in God's name! He's waggling his thingie and gyrating his wotsits! Are they mocking me?'

'No doubt, sir, they are trying to goad you into attacking. Luckily, a seasoned veteran like yourself, my lord, would never fall for that agai ....'

'Charge!' bellows the general. 'Form the men up and attack!'

 

And so, despite initially opting to defend, Barry-Eylund is mocked by the Vulgarians into changing his mind and taking up the role of attacker! It is such strength of will and single-minded focus on the maintenance of the aim that has made the general the man that he is today ...

Assault and Buttery!

The army of Saukopf-Bachscuttel is on the move. The very last unit to leave are the troops of the Schokolade-Feyer Garde. They are on parade, being inspected by Prince Rupprecht on account of the new uniforms that they have finally been issued.

'Well', says Rupprecht. 'These fellows look splendid in their green uniforms!'

'Indeed, sir!' replies his chamberlain, Leopold von Fecklenburg. 'Now, almost all of your troops are correctly clothed in proper Saxon-style Bachscuttel uniforms, meaning that it won't look like the same troops are being shuffled through multiple Mittelheim armies'.

'Unforgivable!' says the prince, tutting.

'And unmanly', adds the chamberlain in agreement.

Rupprecht surveys his troops thoughtfully. 'Now we are at war again, Fecklenburg, I'm thinking that it's time that we put all of my little pigs into uniforms. And green seems to be an excellent choice'.
'Is that wise, my lord?' asks Fecklenburg.
'You don't think that uniforms would improve their morale and make them fight better?'

'I think I can say with some confidence, sire, that putting them in uniforms won't make your pigs less effective as soldiers. But alas, my lord, I fear that we don't have the money. There is only so much coin to go around, sire. Money spent on non-military items inevitably means less for the war effort'.

'Am I short of money?' cries Rupprecht worriedly.

Fecklenburg shakes his head. If Rupprecht struggled to put food on the table, it was only in the sense that almost no one was strong enough to lift the gigantic plates.

'Indeed not, sire. At least, there is still enough to meet your priorities. Such as they are. However, there really isn't much to spare, what with the need to support our army in the coming war'.
Rupprecht nods sadly. 'I suppose that you are right, chamberlain. It is a classic "guns versus buttocks" problem'.
'It's "butter" sir', says Fecklenburg wearily. 'You mean "butter"'.

Rupprecht pulls a face. '"Butter versus buttocks"? No, that sounds like something very different'. 

The prince watches as the troops turn and file off, marching to join the rest of the army. 'You have passed on my message of support to General Barry-Eylund?'

'I have, sire. Including the threat of execution should he lose'.

'He wouldn't be foolish enough to be defeated, would he chamberlain'?

Fecklenburg considers this carefully. 'Luckily, my lord, I am not a betting man'.

Virgin on the Offensive!

In Bachscuttel, Prince Rupprecht is holding an audience with His Excellency Reinhardt, the Bishop of Munschrugge, Nabstrian diplomat and messenger from Burgrave Falco.

'And so, my lord prince', finishes the bishop, 'the Zentans fled the field, crushed by the genius of General von Rumpfler. Almost their entire army was annihilated. Except all those that survived, of course', he adds.

'Hurrah!' cries Rupprecht.

'Therefore, the Zentans have been neutralised for the time being. They will be too busy licking their wounds' concludes Munschrugge.

'That doesn't sound very hygienic', replies the prince.

'I suppose it's better than licking other people's wounds', proposes Chamberlain Fecklenburg.
Munschrugge gesticulates. 'But my lord, this leads us to the real purpose of my visit: to coordinate our combined strategy for the remainder of this conflict! We must have a policy; an operational campaign plan! Fully developed branches and sequels! What are your thoughts on this, my lord?'

Rupprecht goggles. This strategy-related conversation, based as it is on scientific principles of professional warfare, is entirely alien to him. His rudimentary capacity for logic is overloaded.
'What is your plan?' demands the Nabstrian ambassador.
Rupprecht's mind cogitates, vibrates, and then expectorates the product of his logical thinking.
'Beep' he says, this word representing his entire thought on the topic of a war plan.
'What?' says the bishop.
'Snurgle' says Rupprecht. And then adds a 'boop, boop' for good measure.
There is an embarrassed silence.

Fecklenburg intervenes. 'What my prince means to say is that our army intends to fall upon the Vulgarian forces currently deploying into Gelderland. Having assessed their critical capabilities and critical vulnerabilities, we shall move directly against their centre of gravity, utilising tempo and manoeuvrism to interrupt their decision-making cycle'.
Rupprecht nods heartily in agreement. He has, of course, no idea what Fecklenburg is talking about. His chancellor's arcane vocabulary sounds like some kind of magical ritual. For Rupprecht, fear of the dreadful spells that are no doubt in the offing is balanced to an extent by the hope that a magic ritual might signify the arrival of a naked virgin'.
Munschrugge frowns. 'Are you sure, sir: because it actually sounded like a 'beep', a 'snurgle' and a 'boop, boop'.
Fecklenburg shrugs. 'Only to the untrained ear, good bishop. And I have a great deal of training'. He sighs. 'Believe me - so much training'.
Munschrugge nods. 'Excellent - well that sounds like a very clever plan'.
'It's a great plan', says Rupprecht. 'Now, about the virgins - do you think I should warm my hands up?'

Report!

Ah, the fickle hand of Fate! For General Heironymous von Rumpfler, victor of the latest battle in the Wars of the Gelderland Succession, that hand carries with it the soft and sweet caress of triumph! He returns to the Nabstrian capital to be feted (or fetid: or possibly both). Alas, for his recent opponent the Zentan generalissimo, Captain-Pasha General Taras Bulbous, that hand carries with it the extended middle finger of failure. Abandoning his army, Bulbous hurries back to Hospodar Casimir's palace in Zenta, the better to 'shape the narrative' surrounding recent events.

'So', says Casimir wearily, 'we lost'.
Bulbous nods sadly, disconsolately slapping the nearly bald head of one of his palanquin slaves. 'That is so, my lord, that is so. Despite my best efforts, it proved impossible to reach a decision before dinner'.
Casimir frowns. 'And we lost without losing very many men; despite my very explicit instructions about the economic advantages of a little light slaughter'.
'That is also so, my lord' replies Bulbous. 'I threw them recklessly against the enemy, Dread Lord; but I just couldn't get my troops to die fast enough. But', he continues, 'I am willing to have another go if it would please your lordship'.

Casimir sighs. 'Now, you know that I am not a man to suffer fools gladly'.

There is much nodding around the chamber. Casimir is indeed, on past evidence, really not a man who suffers fools gladly. And it is also the case on past evidence that his definition of the word "fool" is really quite flexible. It can cover anyone from a genuine fool, which, in general, would be anyone stupid enough to disagree with him, through to folk that he thinks are slightly shorter than he wants them to be.

'Now, you also know', continues the hospodar, 'that I am not, by nature, a vindictive man'.
There is more nodding around the chamber, but this time just for the sake of self-preservation; because, actually, 'vindictive' would be exactly the sort of man that Casimir is.

'So, whilst it gives me no pleasure, I am afraid that I will have to apply the full force of the law against you'. In Zenta, no one is above the law. Except Casimir, of course, who is quite literally above it, since he routinely sat on his judges until they rendered the judgements that he thought suitable. 

'And when I've decided what that law says', continues Casimir, 'I shall then decide when, and with which of my pair of pliers I shall apply it. In the mean time, return to your army! Prepare for more battles! And do not return without victories or some quite specific life insurance'.

Bulbous gulps. 'My lord is too merciful. But ... perhaps if I might ask for some reinforcements ...'

'No, no, no, no, no, no, never!' says the hospodar, waggling his finger firmly.
'I sense some uncertainty in your disposition', says Bulbous hopefully. 'So shall I give you some further time to consider, my lord?'
Casimir waves to Radu Pasha. The Grand Vizier, recognising the signal, leaps into action.
'By no means, ambassador! His Dreadfulness has spoken! Listen! Tremble! Piddle yourself and such! This audience is, quite definitively, over! Get thee hence! Withdraw yourself!'
'But ...' says Bulbous.
'No!' says Radu Pasha, gesturing to the harem eunuchs. 'Remove him!'
'But ...'

At this very moment, other activities are underway in the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel that signal the beginnings of another clash of arms ...

Grosse Katzick, the Final!

For the Zentans, it's time for the lavish application of more clerical inspiration. The Zentan irregular infantry fall back, rallying as they go under the supervision of their religious auxiliaries. This cannot, however, save another unit of irregular cavalry. The cavalry, engaged in that popular Zentan past time of standing in a marsh doing bugger all, are shot out of their saddles and then decide it's time, as a Russian autocrat might say, to 'strategically reposition' to the rear by routing vigorously. 

With his infantry now in a safer position, Captain-General Pasha Bulbous decides to reinvigorate his cavalry offensive. The lead unit of palace sipahi are thrown forwards again in a hell-for-leather charge! (Above) But not before Imam Fatih has been given the opportunity to really rile them up!

'Win victory, my fine fellows!' cries the imam, 'or you'll be forced to have a bath'.

Slavering with anger, the Zentans crash into the lead unit of Nabstrian cavalry and ride them down! These casualties also seem to be very popular with their comrades.

After a break by both sides for some rallying, Rumpfler decides to commit his elite cavalry against the sipahi. Alas for Bulbous, his clerics are now spent and lie in an exhausted, sweaty heap. They can no longer be called upon. In the ensuing combat, the Zentans are worsted, though not routed, and (above) the Nabstrians regroup, no doubt contemplating another go.

There is, however, to be no more time for such martial manliness! Looking at the position of the sun in the sky, Bulbous announces that he must leave. His staff officers, or at least those Zentans that, by their slack-jawed aristocratic insouciance, could be credibly identified as such, protest.

'No, no, I have to go - it will be dinner time soon', says Bulbous determinedly. 'I'm sure that the Hospodar will be sympathetic'.

His staff officers shrug in an ambivalent fashion, weighing up the small measure of genuine fondness for their commander (who has never worked them that hard) against the likely emergence of a promotion slot.

'Are you absolutely sure about that, my lord', says one.

And so (above) the Battle of Grosse Katzick is over. Having failed to storm the hill that forms the critical objective in this battle, the Zentans have lost! Since Rumpfler has not broken the attacking forces, his has won a Minor Victory!

In the end, the Zentans have lost two units of irregular cavalry. One of their Janissary regiments becomes elite through the tried and tested training method of hanging around daydreaming. The Nabstrians lose one unit of trained cavalry and one unit of trained infantry. On the balance of casualties, the Zentans succeed in meeting the criteria for Carnage! Two units of Nabstrian trained infantry have now acquired sufficient experience to class themselves as elite. Paul, Duke of Clarkeshire leaves Nabstrian service, tired of the poor quality of the breakfasts and cavalry charges (in that order). Sir James Chaffie arrives to pledge his undying loyalty to the burgrave.

Grosse Katzick, the Sixth!

"Irregular infantry - the perfect hand-to-hand assault and breakthrough force" said nobody ever in the history of the world. Like small children running enthusiastically into the sea, the Zentan troops advance, test the water, and then scurry backwards, squealing in displeasure. The hardest work conducted on the Zentan side of the field of battle is by Death himself, who, if he had lungs, would no doubt be quite out of breath given the cardio-vascular demands involved in shovelling large quantities of irregular infantry souls into the Other Place.

General Pasha Taras Bulbous' unhappiness is magnified by that particular disappointment that obtains when one brings one's own dice only to find out that they let one down at the critical moment. The Zentan troops win not a single one of the combats, and fall back in disorder. Things now look very hopeful for Rumpfler. With the enemy in a state of disarray not seen since the last time Landgrave Choldwig of Rotenburg invited participants to bring their own 'mullets' to a game of croquet, it would seem that even a modest round of volley fire should see the Zentans off. 

The results of the Nabstrian musketry, however, are mixed: 'mixed' in the same way that one could describe a blend of something that was not very exciting and something else that was very disappointing.

(Above) On the 'not very exciting' side, fire from the garrison does rout one of the Zentan irregular cavalry. It turns out, though, that they were thoroughly disliked by their comrades, and so the effect of their loss on Zentan army morale is, like their professionalism, minimal.

(Below) On the 'very disappointing' side, there are no hits whatsoever on the milling, gurning, loons that comprise the main Zentan infantry line. Not a one.

To make matters worse, the Zentan return fire is sufficiently hot to cause a regiment of Nabstrian musketeers to flee the field (below): a regiment who, alas, turn out to very, very popular with their compatriots for reasons unknown but probably best not delved into too deeply.

Rumpfler then focuses his efforts on attempting to rally his troops; an activity that looks suspiciously similar to pointing his pistol in people's faces and threatening to pull the trigger unless they "damn well get back into line and start looking like they are enjoying themselves".

Grosse Katzick the Fifth!

As the Zentan skirmishing proceeds apace, Nabstrian casualties, like the Burgrave himself after too much to drink, mount slowly. 

(Below) On the Nabstrian right, some dismal rallying does little to improve matters for General von Rumpfler's forces. The Zentan irregular cavalry begins to threaten the flanks of the Nabstrian horsed regiments by crowding forwards into a nearby marsh. Other troops might be disgusted by their journey into its boggy, muddy, foul-smelling depths. But in the Zentan army, the term 'irregular' denotes not just the general indiscipline of many of the troops, but also their bathing habits. As a result, festering cholera-hive though the marsh might be, the irregulars leave cleaner than when they went in.

In front of the centre and left of the Nabstrian line, the Zentan irregular infantry continue gadding about, taking pot shots at any enemy musketeers that appear taller or stouter than average. Being beyond the range of the Nabstrian muskets, the Zentans have little to fear. General von Rumpfler's situation is beginning to get as sticky as being caught stuck to sticky buns, without one's trousers on. 

Rumpfler decides it is time to try and change the dynamic of the battle. In an attempt to seize the initiative - or at least to seize something less floppy than what he has at the present in his hand  - he gives the orders for an advance! He does not wish to close with the enemy, because the enemy irregulars will simply try to evade; rather, he hopes to bring them within range of his own musketry and inflict some losses upon them. To the beat of drums, the Nabstrian line advances!

(Above) A rather lamentable exchange of volleys ensues, distinguishable from a pillow fight only because not all of the Nabstrians are wearing night shirts. The irregulars are unhurt, but several of the Nabstrian regiments are left in various stages of disorder. 

Checking his pocket watch, and worrying about the passage of time, Bulbous decides that it is time to move to a more decisive mode of operation. Seeking to exploit the enemy disorder, and his own special dice, he orders his irregulars to charge! (Below)

He throws his troops forward all across the line. (Below) Even on the Nabstrian right, cheeky Djiveleks, their silly conical yellow hats making them look like gnomes in search of trouble, have a go at the Nabstrian light troops in the wood; and a unit of especially brave mercenary Zentan irregulars decide to ask of Lady Luck the question: 'Why is it that more people don’t order poor quality irregular troops to charge regular enemy infantry positioned in a town'?

Lady Luck can't be bothered to turn up, of course. But Death has, because he has to, and because otherwise he would have to make polite conversation with his apprentice, Cheese. Death eyes up the quality of the mercenary irregulars as they reach the town, and assesses the strength of the defenders' position. Putting aside his scythe, he conjures instead a very large shovel.

Grosse Katzick, the Fourth!

As fanciful equine frivolities unfold on the Nabstrian right wing, it is as well to turn away and look at developments across the rest of the battlefield, because too much excitement can be dangerous. 

One of the great strengths of the Zentan troops, aside from their utter expendability, is their flexibility. Much of this is a moral flexibility, of course, a condition which explains the fact that the Zentans have brought their own special dice with them. But there is also an element of military flexibility that comes from their being able to combine both mounted and unmounted irregulars into the same force, and also to ignore difficult terrain - their utter indiscipline making it impossible for them to be further disordered by trees, marshes, or dying. 

Keen to pose multiple dilemmas for the Nabstrians, and also to keep them too busy to ask about the special Zentan-only dice, Bulbous Pasha orders his whole line forwards. (Above) The troops flow, or rather being Zentan irregulars, seep, through their artillery and commence an advance upon the main Nabstrian line.

The Zentan artillery do what Mittelheim artillery tend to do: they drink coffee, amusing themselves by stuffing the smallest of their number down the barrel of their mortar and threatening to fire it. However, since in Mittelheim the purposeful firing of an artillery piece is an idea both ludicrous and fanciful, not even the most gullible of artillery assistants is likely to be terribly worried in the face of this japesome threat.

(Above) In the centre, the Zentan troops splash noisily through a stream. Being skirmishers, they are imbued with a longer range than the enemy musketeers that they face and so no doubt hope to do what any self-respecting Mittelheimer would hope to do - strike the enemy when they can't hit back.

(Below) On the Nabstrian left, the Zentan line extends itself like a pair of Prince Rupprecht of Bachscuttel's elasticated trousers.  As the only cavalry unit on this wing, the Western provincial sipahis probably fancy their chances of being able to move themselves behind the enemy flank. 

All across the line, the rattle of musketry commences. The Zentan irregulars begin to get down to some really serious skirmishing, an activity that, to the casual observer, might seem more like 'probing their noses with their fingers'. Still, given their numbers, the power of the law of averages, and their special dice, the fire of the Zentan irregulars begins inevitably to have some effect ...

Grosse Katzick, the Third!

Ah, a Zentan cavalry charge! Much the same noise, smell of manure, and risk to life as a Zentan wedding, but without the cake. The Wars of the Gelderland Succession have long and ignoble history of cavalry actions and this one seems likely that it will be about par for the course.

In terms of the smell of manure, much of it actually seems to be emanating from the Nabstrian cavalry, and mostly not from the horses. The worry and nervousness on the part of General Rumpfler's mounted component stems from the fact that, alas, it would seem that they have forgotten their drill manuals, and the problem that, in moving from march column to line, one must do so by turning to the left or right and not by forming straight ahead. 

(Above) This creates rather an untidy situation that leaves the flanks of two of the regiments exposed to enemy attack; and thus, as it were, on a boat journey up manure creek without even a canoe, let alone a viable means of propulsion.

(Below) Luckily, the gurning loons of the Zentan palace cavalry cannot quite reach the Nabstrians in time. Their pace, though slower than General Taras Bulbous might have wanted, is nevertheless more than enough for Imam Fahti, who is left racing some way behind, gasping and heaving like a Mittelheimer forced to handle soap. 

(Below) Having continued to wheel, Colonel Pfannensteil Jr and his cavalry brigade are now at least able to hide their flanks from the Zentans, even if they haven't quite managed to point themselves entirely in the direction of the enemy. But, this being warfare in Mittelheim, one must take what one can get.

Having just failed to catch the Nabstrian cavalry during their pirouettes, (Above) Bulbous orders his cavalry to halt. Instead, he begins to order up the rest of his troops along the whole line of battle. General Rumpfler, recognising that his horsed regiments are now dangerously boxed in, orders Pfannensteil to charge! Thanks to the angles, he can squeeze in two regiments against the lead unit of sipahis. Save for sneaking up on an adversary when they are drugged and tied, this is about as good as it gets in the Wars of the Gelderland Succession.

(Above) Alas! The outnumbered Zentans deploy their cleric to even the odds. Having only just arrived, the Imam's exhortation is perhaps not quite as rousing as he would like, consisting mainly of a few gasps, a loud fart, and then some heaving sounds; but it seems to do the trick! The two Nabstrian regiments are driven back. With the Zentan irregulars now moving up as well, the Nabstrian right is now under considerable pressure ...