Klosentheim, the First!

Wherein the army of the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, under General Redmond Barry-Eylund, encounters the forces of the Sanjak of Zenta, commanded by General Taras Bulbous.

'There they are!' says General Redmond Barry-Eylund, commander of the Bachscuttel army. 'There they are, Bohner. Look at them all!'

The General's aide de campe, Major Bohner, raises his telescope and surveys the enemy.

The general and his escort sit atop a small hill near the village of Klosentheim. The Bachscuttel army, advancing tentatively after their narrow defeat at Falkenhelle, has now encountered a new and unexpected adversary, blocking their way - the Zentans!

'What of the composition of their forces?' asks the general.

'There's quite a lot of them, sir', says the major. 'I can see Borat irregulars, bowmen, janissaries, Albanians, Giezza tribesmen, delli cavalry, sipahis, four Nazgul, It, the Creature from the Black Lagoon, the Beast from 20,000 Fathoms, and some bloke whose second name might be Farage'.

'We can certainly buy that last fellow off', says Barry-Eylun, snorting. 'Have the scouts returned?'

'Yes sir, but ...'

'Excellent! What sort of terrain are we facing?'

'Rough terrain, sir: seems to be two hills, four forests, rough ground, a ploughed field, and the urban area of Klosentheim. However ...'

'Splendid! Splendid!' snorts the general. 'I feel good about this! We just have to triumph in the scouting, and then I go on the defensive! I intend turtling so hard, they'll have to change my name to General Leonardo Donatello Raphael Michelangelo!'

'But, sir ...'

'Because, you know, the Zentans are tricky, tricky, tricky! So many irregulars that they wriggle around one's flanks, and, before you can say "where's my wallet gone?" they're all over you!'

'Alas, sir ...' sighs Bohner ruefully.

Barry-Eylund's jaw drops. 'We lost the scouting contest again?'

The major nods.

'No! No! No! Give me that telescope!' says the general roughly. He looks at the dispositions of the enemy troops. 

'What! What!' mutters Barry-Eylund. He then turns to Bohner. 'So, major, correct me if I'm missing anything, but there are nine terrain features...'

'Yes, sir'.

'And we've managed to secure one hill ...'

'Yes, sir'

'And they've got everything else ...'

'Yes, sir: one hill, four forest features, the town, some rough ground, and a ploughed field'.

'And they've lined the whole lot of them up into one big defensive position, which is now infested with irregulars like fleas on one of my fusiliers'.

'It would seem so, sir' says Bohner sadly. 'We're going to have to attack'.

Barry-Eylund takes some snuff to calm himself down. 'I'm out of ideas, Bohner. Here, hand me some military theory. Let's see what advice it might contain'.

The major reaches into his satchel and hands him a slim volume.

'"Mes Gueules de Bois"' says Barry-Eylund, reading the spine.

'A most useful work by the strategist Horace de Saxe, sir'.

Horace de Saxe, Maurice's brother, fancies himself as a military theorist . He is, it has to be said, one of the best strategists out of those who are brothers to Maurice de Saxe and whose first name is Horace.

The general flicks through it. 'Do we have any pantomime cow outfits?' he asks.

'I don't think so, sir'.

'Well, that renders most of the first five chapters irrelevant', says the general despondently.

'We could retreat, sir' says Bohner hopefully.

'Wait, wait!' the general suddenly says. 'This page gives me an idea!'

'That page, sir? It seems to be blank'.

'Best part of the book', replies Barry-Eylund. 'Now, give me the telescope, and let's see the Zentan deployment. I have an idea ...'  

Bunny's Too Tight to Mention!

'Have you spoken to the Fenwickian ambassador recently?' asks Casimir with interest.
'A little, my lord', replies Radu Pasha. 'They are certainly keen to have more help in the war - he was very, very solicitous'.
The hospodar nods. 'Was he oily, then?'
'Positively self-basting, sire. And very keen to tell me tales of his previous employment. Did you know that he's actually Prussian?'

'Prussian?'
'Yes, Dread Lord. He was caught up in one of Frederick's terrible tempers. He fled the capital to escape an orgy of enthusiastic beheadings known as the Berlin Hairlift'.
'You don't say?' 
'And then, according to his account, he spent a little time in Vulgaria before being expelled'.

'Expelled?'

'Indeed, lord. Apparently, he killed a French vampire with a baguette'.

'Hmmm', replies Casimir. 'It must have been a painstaking process, I would guess'.

Outside, there is the sound of approaching feet.

'Ah, this must be him', says Radu, before clearing his throat.

The doors are flung open, pages enter, and a large blare of trumpets sounds.

'The Fenwickian envoy, Wolfgang, Graf Hotkreutzbahn!' announces Radu Pasha.

'Ambassador, with this visit you are really spoiling us', says the hospodar.

The Graf bows low. 'Your highness! Greetings from George, King and Emperor of All the Fenwicks, and Also Gelderland, if he can Just Have a Coronation'.

Casimir nods. 'Now, Radu Pasha has indicated that your visit here might not just be a social call?'

'My lord! Dread Lord! Very Dread and Most Benificent Lord! What you say is true! In the spirit of fraternal cooperation, what with us being allies and all, my monarch asks if you would be open to the suggestion that you might order your army to intercept the forces of  the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel!' 

The hospodar considers this. 'Well, I could, I suppose. But perhaps my troops could just bask a little longer in their success against the forces of the Margravate of Wurstburp'.

Hotkreutzbahn bows again. 'A wise choice, my lord', he says. The ambassador, however, is a capable fellow, and also an ambitious one. There is a great deal of social climbing that he feels that he needs to achieve. His family was 'upwardly mobile' in the sense that his father had been fired from a mortar. Hotkreutzbahn's plans include a different trajectory: one, for example, that doesn't involve being catapulted from the mouth of some siege artillery. 

'A wise choice, my lord', he repeats. 'But perhaps not the most, ah, heroic option. The Bachscuttel forces are tired, disordered, and also the forces of Bachscuttel: an attack by your troops would surely result in a legendary victory'.

Casimir considers this. 'Hmmm, but I do like the idea of a bit more basking'.

The ambassador gestures urgently. 'But now, surely, is the time to seize the initiative! We need to make Prince Rupprecht sweat!'

Radu Pasha shrugs. 'Just force him to stand up, then - that should do the trick. Or show him some salad. And also, don't call me Shirley'.

A sly look then crosses the face of the Fenwickian ambassador. 'My lord, wouldn't an immediate assault upon General Barry-Eylund also solve the problems caused by your irregular troops?'

'Are there problems?' asks Casimir.

'It is so, great lord!' says the Graf. 'Why, they have been up to all sorts of no good in the diplomatic quarter: stealing, pretending to be English, setting fire to houses ... and people, and the things they've been doing to the poor rabbits ...'

Radu looks at Casimir and shrugs resignedly.

'And then', says the Graf continuing, 'there were the terrible fights when the rabbits struck back'.

Radu can feel the hospodar's eyebrows rising.

'Struck back?' the pasha says.

'Indeed, pasha, indeed. A horde of wily rabbits is now fighting a black hops campaign against the Borats on the streets of Nehrenvar!'

'Is this true, slave?' says Casimir to Radu.

Radu cowers. 'There have been some ... incidents. Ambassador, can't you just buy them off with some ... uh ... carrots?'

Hotkreutzbahn looks shocked, and Radu immediately recognises his mistake: as a Fenwickian, the ambassador could never knowingly handle a carrot, let alone distribute them'.

Casimir sighs. Everyone in the hall immediately goes silent. A sigh from the hospodar often can be essentially the same as an execution drum roll. 'There can't be many other rulers in Mittelheim who have to put up with this sort of thing', he says bemusedly.

'They do have those monkeys in Bachscuttel', says the ambassador.

'True, true', nods Casimir. 'And I suppose they're also ruled by a donkey'.

'Command me, lord' cries Radu, abasing himself.

'Very well, ambassador. I agree! Radu, order our troops to march! Fall upon the Bachscuttlers, defeat them, and make sure that there are terrible casualties amongst our rancid irregulars! My honour demands it!'

'Your will, my hands, lord' cries Radu.

'Huzzah!' shouts Hotkreutzbahn. 'Let battle, or an implausible Mittelheim facsimile of it, commence!'

Holding Back the Ears!

Meanwhile, in Nehrenvar, capital of the Sanjak of Zenta, Hospodar Casimir, 'The Shadow of God, God's Umbrella, and Also Possibly His Hat', waits patiently as his naval commander, Admiral Akbar, delivers his latest report.
'It's a trap!' croaks Akbar. 'It's a trap!'
Casimir nods. 'Thank you, Admiral: an interesting summation of our maritime affairs. Quite similar to your last report, but there we go'.

Casimir eyes Akbar resignedly. It's fair to say that no one who was appointed an admiral in an entirely landlocked country like Zenta was likely to be especially marked by ambition, energy, and enterprise. If he could, Casimir had often thought that he'd like to especially mark him instead with a large mallet. Akbar, alas, was a favourite of his wife, the Hospodina Eudokia Asanina, and so, like his wife, there was great peril in touching him. 

Casimir was absolute ruler over all he surveyed, a fact that his wife had argued meant that his authority did not extend over those parts of it that he couldn't survey, especially those bits that were under her clothes. This was a great disappointment to the hospodar, who was used to getting his way - several ways, usually. But Casimir had a great deal of respect for his wife. That didn't, of course, stop him from rogering anything that had two legs and compatible accoutrements, but it did mean that he valued her advice and tried to avoid making her angry. Since he was, by his own admission, a violent psychopath who delighted in cruelty, pain, and freestyle dental torture, Casimir has concluded that he should probably be respectful around someone who also knew that, but didn't seem to care. 

It wasn't impossible that the admiral was his wife's lover. But then, as with any relationship between two males engaged in risky and potentially fatal activity, that just gave Casimir a slight feeling of comradeship towards Akbar - something that had led him to give him some actual ships, or rather pedalos, on the palace lake. As Admiral of the Fleet, Akbar spent much of his time conducting pretend maritime encounters between what he called 'the Rebellion' and 'the Empire', in which he was mostly occupied by getting ambushed and then sinking. The rest of the time, he gave little trips to palace children.

'Fine, fine!' says Casimir. 'Akbar, withdraw. But next time, check the depth of the lake. If there's one thing that ruins the atmosphere at a birthday party, it's the screams of drowning children'.

Akbar withdraws, bowing so low that it's possible he's moved to the floor below.

'Who's next?' sighs the hospodar. It's been a long morning.

'An envoy from the Empire of All the Fenwicks, sire'.

'The ambassador?' asks Casimir, his mood brightening. The hospodar has always had a creative relationship with foreign ambassadors, seeing it as one of his responsibilities to ensure that they find their role a stretching one. It's one of the reasons he kept a rack.

'Indeed, my lord. I suspect that he wishes us to take the field against the forces of Saukopf-Bachscuttel'.

'Hmmm, well, how is our army at the moment, Radu Pasha?'

'Worryingly up to strength again, Dread Lord'.

'What, already? I thought we suffered huge casualties amongst the irregulars in our glorious victory over the Margravate of Wurstburp?'

Radu gestures placatingly. 'The problem is that they breed like rabbits, sir', he says. 'Not least because they often breed with rabbits'.

'With rabbits?'

'Yes, sire. Apparently, if you grab them by the ears ...'

'No, no, no - this won't do!' cries the hospodar. 'We've got to get rid of more of our irregulars! Imagine the cost of maintaining them! Imagine the smell! Imagine the moral injury!'

'Well, my lord, let's hear what the ambassador has to say ...'