Peace!

It is Christmas, 1758. Over Alexandopolis, seagulls squawk nervously as they swoop to pick up detritus from several days of riotous roistering, trying as they do to avoid the traps that will comprise the first steps in their transformation into the famous Rotenburg delicacy of jellied seagulls. In the harbour, slave ships owned by the company of Ryan Hare, bound for the Leech Coast, wait to take on board another sad cargo of human-kind, ready to transport them to a life of backbreaking toil, disease, and inappropriate groping from sweating overseers. Naturally, the ships are over-subscribed by Gelederland peasantry, with many of those on the waiting list turning up to see if they can get on the ships anyway and get out of Mittelheim. Nearby, warehouses are packed with bales of nasal hair, waiting to be exported to Grimsby. Many ships lie at anchor in the process of disgorging their cargoes of whale blubber, mousetraps, and false moustaches.

Family fun in Alexandopolis

Remaining on the theme of 'disgorging their cargo' many Rotenburg citizens lie supine around the streets, still inebriated from the wild celebrations that accompanied the announcement of the signing of the peace treaty that will surely end the War of the Spanish Suck Session. It was a roister as only Rotenburg could entertain: tinsel and baubles by the sack-load; leeches and whale blubber for all. The Landgrave ordered the distribution of huge quantities of Rotenburg's famous Bockfast wine. Aged for several hours in barrels used to store salted leeches, the wine is usually best not left in cellars too long or it eats its way through the stonework. A great vintage, the wine was described as being 'not unlike the Landgrave himself: having the taste of dog hairs sucked from an old blanket but finishing with plenty of cheeky fruit'.

In his sea front palace, the Landgrave looks out of a window, taking in the view. Below, just near the harbour walls, he is able to survey his new ship of war, the Alexander the Great. Ludovico Angelmiccolo, one time wood-worker and now Rotenburg's chief naval architect has managed, indeed, to deliver a vessel to Choldwig's exacting specifications. An innovative blend of Galleass and fruitwood sidetable, the vessel features a ram, sixteen guns, and an extendable middle should more people need to be accommodated. The Landgrave has a good view of the ship; or at least the two feet of mast that pokes up above the waves. All agree that the ship is best admired at low tide, when more of it is visible. At this time, Angelmiccolo rests in the dungeons of Alexandoplis, ruing the fact that, in asking himself 'How could a ship not be improved by the addition in its sides of some lovely large drawers?' he had treated it as a rhetorical question. Still, the Landgrave is in a surprisingly cheery mood. 'Go through the details again' he demands of his assembled councillors. Wilhelm, the Baron Woffeltop, Choldwig's shrewd Foreign Minister, bows low.
'I cannot take any credit, my Landgrave, for the peace treaty; for all the real negotiation was done by your admirable ambassador to Gelderland, His Excellency Ambassador Karlheinz von Wrincklesack'.

Von Wrincklesack also bows low. This is quite a spectacle since the ambassador is extraordinarily tall. Already unusual for his great height, Wrincklesack had the misfortune to serve for a time as ambassador to Zenta. Though normally an entertaining tour for a diplomat, it turned out that Hospodar Casimir XIV ('Overlord of the North, the Shadow of God, God's Umbrella and Also Possibly His Hat') had been wrestling at the time with anger management issues. During a debate on whether it was possible to tickle a man to death, Wrincklesack had made the error of contradicting Kasimir and arguing that such an idea was 'pure madness'.

This was an unfortunate comment. Casimir had always been sensitive to the charge that he might be a few etchings short of an art exhibition because of the widely held rumours that the Hospodar's ancestors had all eventually lost their marbles. Of course, in Zenta madness is not always easy to spot. Given the lamentable personal qualities of most of the Zentan nobility, being stark raving mad has often been construed there simply as being a valuable exercise in left field thinking. Casimir's father Mircea II, for example, had often expressed a desire to marry a horse; but this was regarded for a while merely as an example of his thinking creatively outside of the box. It was only when he ate the box, and then not only married a horse but produced three legitimate issue and then divorced it in favour of a medium-sized shrubbery that the nobility concluded that enough was enough. Even then, there was sympathy in many quarters for his plight, with many agreeing that the horse was 'a sly manipulative minx intent on social climbing'. Casimir's grandfather wasn't much better. One summer, he attempted to acquire the power of flight by smearing himself in lard and then sticking butterflies to his body. One winter he ordered all of his subjects on pain of death to create throughout the land a huge quantity of ice sculptures, and then passed an edict renaming Zenta the 'Wholly Snowman Empire'. Still, for his temerity Wrincklesack was put on the rack for several days. Luckily, the diplomat not only survived, but gained about a foot in height. Wrincklesack was surprisingly philosophical about the experience, commenting merely: 'that which does not kill us makes us longer'.

Wrincklesack proceeds to recount to Choldwig the details of the peace negotiations. Meeting in the Gelderland village of Zachsen, the talks were concluded with surprising celerity. There was of course a full and frank exchange of views, by which one means of course, that the Wilhelmites were frank and their adversaries were just full of themselves. Punitive reparations were to be expected and so these were agreed readily, if not enthusiastically, by the Nabstrian and Fenwickian representatives, Bishop Munschrugge and Prince Franz. In fact, the main sticking point was the insistence by Baron Albrecht von Steinhagen, pig-fancier and Bachscuttel plenipotentiary, that because they had been so very, very naughty, there could be no peace until both the Emperor George and Burgrave Falco had admitted, in public, that they 'smelt of wee' and that they had then to appear in public in ladies undergarments and 'give one another a good kiss, with tongues and that'. Steinhagen seemed especially adamant about the last part. Luckily, Steinhagen's presence at the conference ended after the first day - having inadvertently witnessed King Wilhelm eating a bacon sandwich, the revolting noises and terrible sights were such a terrible example of man's inhumanity to ham that Steinhagen was forced to take to his bed. With this nonsense out of the way, progress could then be made. The eventual settlement was for both the defeated powers as like sipping from a poisoned chalice, or at least one filled with Rotenburg Bockfast. With the lovely town of Nottelbad, with its delightful rococo duckpond, currently in the possession of Fenwick, but originally owned by Nabstria, the Wilhelmites insisted on  a new territorial settlement. At the conference were Wilhelm's nephew, Duke Reinhold Hesse-Penwick-Fuppet, and Choldwig's niece, Lady Ulrike von Rotenburg-Bahnsee-Lippe. To the horror of the Nabstrian and Imperial plenipotenciaries they were forced to accede to the creation of a new independent Duchy, formed from the territory of Nottelbad, to be ruled through the union of Duke Rheinhold and Lady Ulrike. This new state, the Duchy of Bahnsee-Kassell, clearly will be closely aligned to Gelderland.

The Landgrave slaps his thigh in delight, and then winces. Choldwig is in some pain, due to an earlier accident. Intent on further emulation of Alexander's opulent extravagance, Choldwig had attempted to create a lake of crocodiles near which he could deliver long monologues about his plans to take over the world, before throwing into it spies, adventurers, heroes and such like. Sadly, Rotenburg's limited resources required that the lake be replaced by a pool and the crocodiles by terrapins. The latter could still be nasty creatures as Choldwig discovered when he inadvertently dropped a small piece of meat down his front and prompted a terrapin feeding frenzy in his loin cloth.
'So, my good councillors, where does that leave us?' asks Choldwig.

Baron Lothar von Prohlaps, Minister for Alexandrification finishes his perusal of the huge painting that hangs above the fireplace. It is a portrait of the Landgrave recently painted by the legendary Hans Tindbein. Tinbein is much in demand by the nobility of Mittelheim for his skill in using varieties of shade to cover his subjects' worst physical features. Naturally, this means that Choldwig's portrait consists mainly of black paint. 'Well', says Prohlaps, 'That would depend upon our financial siuation'.
Count Lenz von Haut, Minister for War, Alcohol, Sharp Instruments and Children's Welfare, nods vigorously. 'I will require a substantial increase in my budget if I am to achieve our plans. As it is, our technical advisers in the Zentan village of Narverhon have succeeded in casting for the Sanjak a new breed of super artillery. Once they have been tested, we will move the guns in secret across Gelderland, bringing them back to Rotenburg, probably through an overly elaborate plan comprising of false uniforms, hay carts, forged papers, a montage, some men dressed as women, and some dramatic incidental music'.

'Excellent', says the Landgrave. 'I presume with the arrival of the Nabstrian and Fenwickian war indemnity payments that our coffers will soon be as swollen as my loin cloth?'
Graf Theodor von Poppenzeitz, Minister of Finance, nods thoughtfully, keeping his eyes well away from Choldwig's loin cloth.

Poppenzeitz is a dapper fellow in his early fifties. His costume is dominated, however, by an exceedingly tall wig. Having in his youth fallen for the old 'this cannon barrel is really big: why don't you stick your head down it and look' joke, the Baron suffered some considerable head trauma and spent several months at death's door. Fortuitously, Death was out (or possibly just hiding behind his chaise longue, in order to avoid a tedious dinner invitation from War and Pestilence). Luckily for Poppenzeitz, his father was able to engage the services of a young fellow named Wolfgang von Kempelen. Kempelen had been engaged in cutting edge clockwork experimentation that would produce eventually a mechanical Turk that could play chess. His main line of experimentation, of course, had actually been to create a woman that Kempelen had hoped would, ironically given its clockwork manufacture, help him 'unwind'. Still, Kempelen's work in translating some of the chess contraption's components into a functioning mind for Poppenzeitz has given the latter a fine, if very logical, intellect although he often experiences problems around bishops.

'Let me think', says the Finance Minister.
There's a slight whirring and clicking sound from underneath his wig.
'Yes', says Poppenzeitz, 'our financial prospects are excellent, my Landgrave. We have the funds now for an expansion in our army, a ship that stays above the waterline, the construction of fortifications, and for a number of the new Alexandrification projects'.
Count von Haut looks suspiciously at Poppenzeitz. He is not the only man to have heard rumours that the notion of there being some kind of clockwork mechanism inside his wig is merely a cunning ruse to disguise the fact that actually inside it there is a rabbit working the controls.
Choldwig beams. 'Excellent - I predict that 1759 will be a year of glory for our country! God Save Rotenburg! God save me!'
The assembled Ministers applaud dutifully, all strenuously trying to avoid noticing the small terrapin whose head suddenly appears from Choldwig's waistband.

Gelderland citizens celebrate Wilhelm's return

In Gelderland, in the meantime, it has finally sunk in that Wilhelm once again is King. Business confidence wilts, except in sectors related to pies and plus-sized britches. Major producers of salads and books without pictures in begin to contemplate relocation. The populace of Gross Schnizelring celebrate by rioting vigorously for three days, before playfully calling for the King to be beheaded, and then replaced with 'some other bloke, a republic, or even a goat'. Gelderland troops gently restore order to this jolly fun by bayoneting many of the rioters and then shooting some of their mums.

And so, peace reigns once again in Mittelheim! Not for the first time, Mittelheim has looked into the abyss; and the abyss has looked backed and said 'Bugger off! You're not coming in here!' Thanks to the Peace of Zachsen, there will never, ever be any wars in Mittelheim ever again. Ever.

Toplitz-Hande's shandy!

.... Toplitz-Hande had forgotten, of course, that the phrase 'too successful' could never be used in relation to the troops of Gelderland. (Below) The martial display that follows could be characterised as a pantomime; except that a pantomime would almost certainly have involved a better display of aggression, precision and military co-ordination. The fighting is about as well handled as King Wilhelm's copy of 'Der bumper booke of salads'. After a few rounds of slashing and hacking, punctuated by cries of 'Aaaargh!', 'Ow, that really stings!' and 'Dammit, I'm on your side!', a single Nabstrian soldier remains forlornly alive. Crouching, the poor fellow glances forwards and backwards - Rheinfunkt, in red behind the stream, is much further away from the Nabstrian than the Nabstrian is to the edge of the battlefield! Perhaps if his luck holds out, the retreating soldier might just make it ...

(Above, right) Toplitz-Hande stands in the nearby wood. He looks at Rheinfunkt, waiting for the latter to spring into action. However, the Gelderland garrison troops seem in no great hurry to activate themselves. Instead, Rheinfunkt and Lackwitz seem deep in conversation.

'So you're a philosopher, eh?' says the Colonel to the Captain. 'Actually, I'm quite a fan of philosophy'. The Colonel points to his wig. 'Few things expand the mind quite as much as a musket ball through the temple. Take that Immanuel Kant, for instance'.
'Immanuel who?', says Lackwitz.
'Kant'.
Lackwitz blanches. 'Look, I was only asking'.
'No', says Rheinfunkt. 'Kant. Immanuel'.
'You need a manual?' says Lackwitz, incredulously. 'In my day it was all trial and error. And then prison, of course'.
Rheinfunkt, exploiting the privileges of rank, flicks Lackwitz on the nose. 'No, no! The philosopher Imanuel Kant! I met him at Konigsberg University in the 1740s. He was working on what became Thoughts on the True Estimation of Living Forces. Of course, then it was a work in progress'.
'Very interesting', says Lackwitz, clearly entirely uninterested, and holds his nose gingerly.
'Yes' says the Colonel. 'Although then the book was a rollicking, steamy novel about forbidden love in a pottery works, tentatively entitled Fifty Shades of Clay. But he quickly found out he could have much more fun, and make much more money, through seat of the pants philosophy. Dangerous stuff. The girls couldn't get enough of it'.
Lackwitz begins to show some interest. 'Really? What kind of stuff?'
'Dangerous stuff. Top shelf ethics. German dungeon astronomy. Special imported Dutch hard mathematics. And then there was the stuff about democracy'.
'Democracy?' says Lackwitz, appalled.
'Yes', says Rheinfunkt, shaking his head in disgust. 'Dirty, filthy democracy-related stuff. Women with men; men with women; women with women; men with men - all free, all living in a more plural and equitable society. It was enough to make your stomach turn. And then he got animals involved as well'.
'Animals?' says Lackwitz, revolted.
'Oh, yes', says the Colonel. 'All shared equally among the men and women to enable them to farm in a manner that would produce a secure surplus: a surplus that that could be used to help the less well-off'.
Lackwitz is reduced almost to dry heaving. 'And ... he got away with it?'
'He was clever - selling the stuff through back-street shops. Still, he also had some marvelous ideas', says Rheinfunkt. 'Epistemology'.
'He did what?' replies Lackwitz.
Rheinfunkt sighs. 'Epistemology'.
'He did it where?' says Lackwitz, looking even more confused.

Luckily for Lackwitz, his nose is spared another good flicking as Rheinfunkt notices suddenly the ever more exaggerated gesticulations on the part of Toplitz-Hande, who seems to be pointing towards the enemy and shouting, a variety of colourful metaphors indicating that he feels that Rheinfunkt should now do something to contribute towards the defeat of the enemy. Suddenly noticing the single Nabstrian left alive, Rheinfunkt now rallies his men for the final attack!
'Charge men! Charge! Charge!' He vigorously waves his sword, in the process knocking his wig slightly askew. 'Forward! Though death may await us! Though we might be hideously mutilated! Though we might be scorched and maimed beyond the recognition of our own mother!'
'Charge! Kill!' his men scream.
'Er, am I the only one here who's rather more conflicted about this attack', says Lackwitz, eyeing the remaining Nabstrian who, though crouching, still seems rather too tall for Lackwitz's liking.
Before the poor Nabstrian has a chance to move again, Rheinfunkt is able to leap the stream, his wig falling off in the process; he then races forwards and lays about the poor soldier with the butt of his pistol. With a final cry of 'Hurrah!' the regular is beaten down and taken prisoner by the Colonel!

A victory for Gelderland and the Wilhelmites! Loud cheers erupt from the remaining Royal troops. As the soldiers of Gelderland slap their thighs and prepare to celebrate with halves of shandy, Colonel Zeigler can only look on through his telescope cursing: pipped at the post!

With the minor defeat at Gross Schnitzelring compounded by the trouncing at the battle of Heisenleman, the War of the Spanish Suck Session comes to a painful close for Nabstria and Grand Fenwick. All is gloom and doom. The two defeated powers can only hope that political negotiation can deliver a merciful peace. In Rotenburg and Saukopf-Bachscuttel, on the other hand, the populace go wild with excitement: bells are rung, along with a few Nabstrian necks; songs are sung; children dance in the street; and a variety of inappropriate activity is conducted with vegetables. With war now over, and with Wilhelm once again ensconced on the throne of Gelderland, a new Golden Age can begin: prosperity beckons; trade will flourish; a number of painful skin diseases will probably be cured through inventive use of leeches; and a new recipe for Battenburg cake is likely to be found.

God save King Wilhelm! Peace for all! The Wars of the Gelderland Succession are over! Probably.

Flee faster!

As he sees the Nabstrians fleeing ahead of him, Colonel von Rheinfunkt curses.
'Curses!' he says. 'They're getting away - and my unsatisfied personal objectives will cost us this victory! If only I could have concentrated on more constructive personal development goals, such as dealing with my repressed anger towards my parents, instead of this focused desire to capture an enemy prisoner!'
'Aha!' says Captain Lackwitz, who, with the retreat of the enemy seems now to have popped up again.
The Colonel turns, startled. 'What have you been doing, Captain?'
'Um.' says Lackwitz. 'Centre of gravity analysis'.
Rheinfunkt looks suspiciously at the mud plastered over the front of the Captain's uniform. 'You look like you've been hiding under a hay wagon'.
'Physically, yes. But intellectually, I have been pondering both upon the enemy's critical requirements and their critical capabilities in order better to determine where we might concentrate our efforts'.
'And the answer?', says the Colonel.
'Two objectives. Luckily, both are contained in our opponent's scrotum'.
Rheinfunkt snorts, 'Bah! We'll never get our hands on our opponent's wrinkled retainers - see, they are getting away!'
Lackwitz strikes a pose. 'My marvelous work on military philosophy is clear that now is the time for the genius of the general to be applied - Colonel, use your coup d'oeil.'
'My coo deel?' says Rheinfunkt, bemused. 'Is this some foolish French frippery?'
'No', says Lackwitz. 'Coup d'oeil - your all-seeing eye.'
'Cup doil?' says Rheinfunkt, shaking his said. 'I don't think any of us is saying "aye"'.
'It's priceless military wisdom', says Lackwitz, exasperated.
'It's bloody nonsense!', says the Colonel. 'No one understands what you're saying'.
'That's the point', replies Lackwitz, sullenly. 'If anyone could understand it, it wouldn't be a work of genius'.
Luckily for Rheinfunkt, Toplitz-Hande's Croats intervene.

(Above, left) The Croats reach the Nabstrian regulars before they can escape the battlefield. In the fight, two of the latter are killed, and the remaining three are driven back towards the capital. The Croats, keen not to attack the Nabstrians again, in case they fail to leave one alive to be captured, then withdraw back to the edge of the battlefield. (Above, right) Behind the stream, Rheinfunkt (in red) and the garrison company stand ready to pounce on their enemy, like foxes on chickens.

As it turns out, however, the Gelderlanders, if they are indeed foxes, seem to be quite badly motivated ones, and the chickens animated by a quite extraordinary attachment to life. As the Nabstrian chickens hover behind the stream, ripe for the plucking, Rheinfunkt and his troops are inconveniently inactive.
'Strike now!' says Lackwitz, animatedly.

On a hill some way to the west, Colonel Zeigler tracks the unfolding combat through his telescope. His men, now well away from Gross Schnitzelring, look at one another in alarm as the Colonel shouts in frustration: 'By the Virgin Mary's slightly asymmetrical plumpies, just die you Nabstrian dogs!', he howls, as Rheinfunkt's troops line the stream. 'Don't let him take you prisoner! Kill them! Or kill one another!' (Above) As if reading his mind, the remaining Nabstrians cease their attempts to flee and hurl themselves at the enemy. At this point, it occurs to both of the Gelderland commanders that if the Croats are too successful, there will be no one left to take prisoner and the Nabstrians will avoid defeat. Toplitz-Hande's closes his eyes as a desperate combat take place ....

Flee!

And so, events in Gross Schnitzelring begin to reach their shuddering climax.

With Wilhelm deposited in the capital, but the bridge intact, the chances of a victory depend upon which of the commanders can attain their personal objectives. Colonel Zeigler has cuffed and stuffed half of the Gelderland civilians: this has given him great satisfaction. Sadly, however, Captain Kobblerz has managed to acquire nothing more than a painful increase in his lead content. He certainly has had better days. Worse for the Nabstrians, Colonel Toplitz-Hande's personal objective was to despatch Kobblerz. The only chance for Nabstria to avoid a minor defeat is to deny Colonel Rheinfunkt his own individual goal ...

The garrison company, led by Rheinfunkt, finally reach the town square, breathless, only to find it deserted. Far ahead, the last of Colonel Zeigler's Nabstrian interlopers can just be seen exiting the capital. Rheinfunkt swears grandly: a quick look in Frau Stollen's bakery indicates that the enemy's mission has been all too successful - Wilhelm is there, also 'deserted' in the sense that he is covered with all kinds of final course confections. Now, even if it were possible humanly to lift him, he is as slippery as a larded Sicilian. From beneath the King emanates a terrible groaning sound that could perhaps herald the unhappy arrival of a large quantity of digestive gasses, but which actually sounds like the increasingly feeble struggles of a middle-aged patissier trying to climb out of the royal posterior. Rheinfunkt grips his wig and shakes his head sadly, cursing Nabstria. As a seasoned soldier, he has witnessed his share of war crimes; maimings, torture, English food: but there can be few acts of savagery worse than shoving a prisoner right up Wilhelm's ring-piece,
'Dammit!', cries Rheinfunkt. 'I shall capture a Nabstrian prisoner, and I shall repay ten-fold this act of Nabstrian bottom-related barbarity!'
Ironically, given this motive, the Colonel hear's the sound of more half-arsed combat emanating from beyond the capital's walls - there is still some fighting to be done!
Collecting the garrison company around him, Rheinfunkt heads for the city gates.

The last of the Nabstrian forces still making a fight of it are the remains of Kobblerz's regulars, holed up in a house just outside the walls of the city. The regulars have redoubled their efforts to fortify the house by closing the curtains, hiding behind the furniture, and making loud 'Shhh!' sounds. A quick peek by one of them out of the window, however, demonstrates that their fortunes are likely to decline rapidly in the immediate future: Toplitz-Hande's company of regulars have taken up position outside; his Croats are now running back to cut off the line of retreat; and elements of the Gross Schnitzelring garrison are now issuing forth from the capital. There's only one thing for it - run!

(Above) Using a special Nabstrian version of the tactics of 'fire and movement', by which the 'fire' element is replaced with womanly screaming and even more movement, the white-coated regulars flee the house! In front, the Croats race to cut them off; behind can be seen Toplitz-Hande's red-coated regulars and the blue uniforms of the garrison company. Can the Nabstrians sprint the short distance to safety? Or will some last minute crapness lead them to a slightly humiliating failure?

That way to the gunpowder!

In parallel to the events proceeding inside of the capital's walls, an array of frolicsome antics are under way outside as well. Captain Stefan von Kobblerz's force is tasked with destroying the bridge that links Gross Schnitzelring to the outside world. It is a task that many have dreamed of undertaking.

(Above, the very top) In the distance, the white uniforms of Kobblerz's regular company can be barely discerned. The captain has led this force forwards to screen the rest of his troops. Some of his regulars occupy a small wood, whilst the rest have positioned themselves in a prosperous looking house in the wood's immediate vicinity. In response to orders to fortify the house against attack, the troops have rifled through the drawers and cupboards, stolen all of the spoons, made themselves some elevenses and deliberately left the washing up. (Above, bottom) The sedan chair heads towards the bridge. Immediately behind are the two squadrons of dismounted cavalry.

Nearby, two cloaked forms watch the proceedings with mild interest. One is tall and carries both a scythe and an air of disappointment. The other is small, corpulent, and gives off the menacing ambiance of a hungry cannibal midget at dinner time. It is, of course, Death and Famine, who have halted their journey on the way to the battle at Heisenleman for a bit of a break. Death is exhausted, dead tired even, and is hoping secretly that the coming battle features a large role for both artillery and cavalry so that he can catch up on his sleep. Of course, technically Death doesn't need to sleep, but he has found that it provides a useful way of avoiding having to talk to Famine or his bone headed chums War and Pestilence. An evening with the three of them Death has concluded, is about as entertaining as French-kissing a halibut.

Famine says 'I'm hungry.'

'That's the point', replies Death, wearily.

'What?' says his lardy companion.

'Your supposed to be hungry', says Death. 'I mean, what's the point of having a Famine who's not hungry? What's the point in having War, Pestilence and No Thanks I'm Full. You're supposed to terrify man-kind by visiting fearful events upon them. Otherwise, why have War, Pestilence and Famine? Why not Celery, Lard, and Zumba'.

'What's zumba?'

Death shrugs, which creates a dry clicking sound. 'I'm not really sure - a kind of undead rumba I expect'.

Nearby, muskets begin to go off.

Famine brightens up. 'I've invited War and Pestilence to that gig in Dresden', he says cheerily.

'Really?' says Death, his voice expressing the down-turned mouth that his actual mouth can't perform. Then, with a particularly fruity expletive, he begins to stomp off moodily.

Famine jogs after him. 'Hey, where are you going?'

'To find a bloody halibut', says his comrade, disappearing in a puff of smoke.

The muskets are being fired by the Nabstrians. Kobblerz's musketeers are quickly in action. Sweeping onto the field of battle come the two companies of Toplitz-Hande's relief column. The Croats exchange some desultory volleys with the Nabstrian musketeers before the Colonel orders them to push forwards at any costs. (Above, top) The Croats flank the Nabstrian musketeers, threatening to break out of the woods. Blocking their route however, they find a solitary officer in the uniform of a captain in the Nabstrian army. With his two squadrons of dismounted cavalry some way to the rear, Kobblerz finds himself suddenly in the front-line. The Croats halt  confused: this must be some kind of trick - one man against a company? They look around nervously like meerkats at a firework party, expecting at any moment that a terrible surprise will pop up and scare the nipples off them.

Staring down the company of Croats, Captain Kobblerz looks surprisingly relaxed. Sergeant Steiner sprints quickly to his side.
'Sir, we must run for the safety of the house'.
'No, Sergeant', says Kobblerz patently. 'We're quite safe'.
'But we're going to die, sir: and my wife needs me, sir - who'll polish her when I'm gone?'
'Au contraire, sergeant', says Kobblerz, risking some experimental French. 'We cannot be targeted by enemy fire separately when we are so close to our own troops. So we are quite safe, sergeant: certainly safe enough to do this', he sticks his tongue out at the Croats, 'or even this' he says, gesticulating in an Italian manner that both dishonours the Croats' mothers, sisters, and wives and also implies, generally, that they might actually be the same person.
'But...' says Steiner.
'In fact', says Kobblerz, interrupting, 'I've never liked Croats. This should really rile those bulbous Balkan boar bonkers. To Steiners amazement and concern, the Captain begins to gyrate rythmically, and then he begins to sing ...

The Croats look on, stunned. In front of them, the mad Nabstrian captain cavorts in some kind of lewd mime and dance. He sweeps his hand vigorously down as if paddling the backside of an invisible buxom tavern wench, whilst singing 'I...like..big butts and I cannot lie, those other brothers can't deny ....'
The Croats look at one another. Is this a trap? The fellow is clearly unhinged. They look around nervously.
'He likes big butts?' asks one, tremulously.
'Yes', says another, 'but I for one fail to see their attraction: I mean, what's so special about a large water barrel?'
'Oooh, tasty', says another, running his hands over the cabinet that he's brought with him.

'But ...' says Steiner.
'Don't interrupt!', shouts Kobblerz, before continuing his song, 'When a girl walks in with an itty, bitty waist, and a round thing in your face!'
'But ...' says Steiner.

'I think this is a most unsuitable song for a battle', says one Croat to the others, leveling his musket.
'I agree', says another. 'And this song can't promote a healthy body image for women'.
'Quite so. I should think that this sort of thing shouldn't be allowed'.
'Yes', says another, 'down with this sort of thing'.
Some of the Croats fire a volley at point blank range at the nearest Nabstrians. (Below, top) At that range even a pacifist with a blindfold couldn't miss. Obviously, then, some of the Croats do miss, but enough hit to cut down the Nabstrian regulars that aren't safely ensconced in the house.

'But...' says Steiner.
'Don't interrupt!', shouts Kobblerz, before continuing, 'You...get ...sprung!'
'Sorry, sir - but I'm off!' says Steiner sprinting rearwards.
'Stop!' shouts the Captain. 'They can't hit me - as long as I'm close to my troops they can't target me separately - so as long as I stay close to those troops over there I ... oh', he says espying the white uniformed Nabstrian corpses lying in the wood.
More Croat muskets are leveled - Kobblerz looks around desperately, taking in his sudden isolation. A small rabbit catches his eye. There is a moment of silence. The rabbit looks at the Croats and then back at the captain. Then the little fellow shrugs, and his little paw moves up and down in a sad goodbye to Captain Stefan von Kobblerz. (Above, bottom) With a final sad imaginary slap to the posterior of his phantom tavern wench, Kobblerz shouts out plaintively 'But I've got so much more to give!' before a thunderous volley from the Croats strikes him to the ground.

(Above) Perhaps because of the death of their officer, or perhaps just because they have seen his dance, the Nabstrian dragoons are unmanned. Their morale fails without them even having fired a shot and they quit field. (Above, right) In the house by the bridge, the dismounted Nabstrian Hussars have climbed through the window, bringing them into close range of some Croats who have also made enterprising use of the windows to gain entry to the building. Unfortunately for Nabstria, the ensuing fight is for the Hussars not so much a combat as a badly handled trolley dash. One of their number falls to the ground, possibly shot, or possibly just begging for his life, and the morale of the remainder also breaks. They, too, quit the field.

(Above) Pursued by some angry Croats, the sedan chair runners decide that it might be better to take another fare. Though their passenger seems literally to be fizzing with anger, they run off taking with them any chance of blowing up the bridge but carrying with them the guarantee of a nasty surprise for the next occupant.

'Huzzah!' shouts Toplitz-Hande.

'They've run off', says his sergeant.

Though the Colonel is tempted to do a tasteful victory dance, in truth the fight is still in the balance. With Wilhelm safely delivered, but the bridge still intact, the outcome of this affray depends now upon whether the Nabstrian regulars that still occupy the building near the wood can escape safely. This should, surely, be a matter of a simple vigorous rout from the field of combat, an activity that all Nabstrian regulars are of course well acquainted with by now. 

But you never can tell ...

This way to the buns!

Colonel von Zeigler's intrepid force moves swiftly into the environs of Gross Schnitzelring. His company of jager push on as swiftly as they can, which isn't perhaps as fast as the good Colonel would like. One obvious impediment is that they are accompanied by a heavily reinforced wheelbarrow, the contents of which is either a beached and partially rotted humpback whale or King Wilhelm - the coat, breeches, and crown say the latter, the stench and general blubberiness suggest the former. The other challenge is the state of the capital's streets. Attempts to improve conditions suffered in 1710 when the missive to the architect to do such things as would 'encourage the great increase in affluence in this place' confused the word 'affluence' with the word 'effluence'. This succeeded in making the streets of the capital unpleasantly sticky, and also in introducing a quite staggering array of new and unpleasant smells for the unwary visitor to discover. Suffice it say that, in Gross Schnitzelring, when nature calls even the dogs prefer to stand.

Zeigler quickly spots his target: a three-story bakery (below, right, with the wagon outside). Once inside this palace of pastries, Gelderland's porcine potentate will surely be immovable. With a shout, the jager move forwards, the wheelbarrow squeeking as alarmingly as a mouse with tourettes. The source of Wilhelm's motive power is a Private Klemp: three other men have already had to give up, partly through exhaustion, and partly because of Wilhelm's noxious evacuations. Klemp though has the advantage that his nose was severed in a freak accident involving a pint of absinthe, some Christmas nutcrackers, and a very unwise bet. To support them, a company of Nabstrian regulars is brought up to occupy nearby buildings and provide covering fire.

Meanwhile, Captain von Lackwitz's garrison company muster at the eastern bastion. The captain, however, is nowhere to be seen. In the interim, command is claimed by a tall fellow, wearing a very bulky wig. 'To me, men!' shouts the fellow. 'I, Colonel Ernst Leopold von Rheinfunkt, will take command at this desperate juncture'.
The garrison company mill around in confusion, wondering what a 'juncture' is. Meanwhile, some terrified civilians stream past crying that the enemy are here and that they have brought with them some kind of gigantic wheeled sea-creature.
One of the soldiers pipes up. 'Sir, don't I remember you from the battle at the Wobbling Dog Inn?'
'Yes', says the Colonel, 'I was wounded'.
'Wounded?' replies the musketeer with a measure of awe, 'I distinctly remember that you had most of your head shot off - I think I found an eyebrow in my pocket'.
The Colonel shrugs. 'I got better'.
'But yours ears fell off', says the soldier.
Rheinfunkt nods, though very gingerly: 'They can do great things with wigs these days'.

The Colonel leads the garrison company to confront the Nabstrian assailants. (Above, middle) But, perhaps afraid of the complexities associated with operating door handles, the Gelderlanders eschew taking the short route through the buildings in front of them and opt instead to take the the longest possible route around them. Reminiscent of the standard plumbing arrangement in the capital, a long thin stream of them splash out onto the street and they then begin the long jog around the buildings.

Left behind in the general panic, two groups of Gelderland civilians are also caught up in the fray. One group takes refuge in the church (below, bottom, the church building has been replaced with a floor plan). After all, surely no respectable Nabstrian would ever compromise the sanctity of a church by breaking down the door, whilst making huff, puff and three little pigs noises, before then beating the occupying civilians senseless and then stealing their money, valuables, and a fetching pair of purple pantaloons. Such a thing would surely be unheard of.

(Above, middle) The other group decide that in such moments of crisis what is clearly called for is a sprint up the ramps to the western bastion. This makes some sense - from there one could run along the battlements to safety. Only a buffoon would do otherwise. Only an inflatable buffoon would run up the ramp with the purpose in a crisis of running back down again and then running back up. Such a thing would surely be another such a thing that would surely be unheard of.

(Below, top) Behind the buildings, the garrison company continues their long-distance advance towards the enemy. By rights they should be supported by a company of Gelderland jager but, despite much cursing from Rheinfunkt, the light troops have yet to turn up. (Below, bottom). The Nabstrian regulars enter some of the houses and prepare to provide covering fire.

The Nabstrian jager advance on the bakery. This building was once Herr Frudel's House of Strudel. It is now Frau Stollen's 'Chateaux Gateaux' ('You've Never Had Your Mouth Round Bigger Buns Than Mine'). Wheeling Wilhelm forwards, the jager advance with all the celerity of a weary, one legged sloth on the way to visit some particularly unlikable relatives. As Wilhelm is wheeled finally to the threshold of the door, it is thrown suddenly open revealing a small women of indeterminate age wielding an eclair in a menacing fashion. Before the poor woman even has a chance to say in surprise 'Gah! A giant wheeled hump-backed walrus - please don't tip him on to me!' Private Klemp with a gargantuan effort tips the barrow forwards. There is a crash, the muffled voice of a woman saying 'You've got to be joking', and then the sounds of a thousand shattering frangipans as Wilhelm falls into the shop. The jager shut the door quickly - mission accomplished!

(Above, middle) Looking for more opportunities for fun, the jager espy the civilians in the church. Showing the same respect for Christian religious strictures and cultural constraints as a particularly tetchy Mongol Horde they break down the door and pile in. The civilians are whacked, slapped, frisked, and trussed and, before one can say 'sounds like a great night out in Nabstria', the tussle is soon over.

(Above) Like the short-sighted bishop who finds that that the nun he's been having fun with is actually a penguin, the Nabstrians' main concern now is a quick withdrawal. The jager sprint rapidly back towards the exit, not encumbered now by Wilhelm or his wheelbarrow. As they retire, they pass the other group of Gelderland civilians who are still on the ramp to the western bastion. They are still deep in conversation.

'Well, we've gone up the ramp and we've come back down again - what should we do now?', says one.

'Up the ramp again would seem appropriate'.
'Yes, that would certainly seem to be a determined riposte in the face of a vigorous enemy infantry attack upon the capital'.

'Quite so - last one up the ramp is a sissy'.

Luckily for them, despite being as inconspicuous on the ramp as a Pope at Martin Luther's birthday party, the Nabstrians seem not to notice them and they escape unharmed.

Zeigler counts his troops back through the wall. Peering back into the capital he asks his sergeant 'Wasn't that bakers we stopped at Herr Frudels?'
The sergeant nods. 'They're under new management, I think'.

'Oh', says Zeigler. 'Where's the new management?'

The sergeant shrugs. 'They're under King Wilhelm, I think.'

As Nabstrians withdraw, Frau Stollen's bakery is left silent except for the giggling from Wilhelm as he lies supine upon the floor in the detritus of desserts, and the swishing sound as he makes custard angels on the messy floor. From underneath, a strained voice pipes up plaintively - 'Anyone? Help?'

On War!

Captain Carl von Lackwitz, commander of Gross Schnitzelring's garrison regiment and aspiring military philosopher strides slowly around the capital's eastern bastion, reading carefully from a small book. Next to him, one of his soldiers on watch, a Private Stensch, peers through a telescope. Lackwitz pauses in his reverie.

'Anything out there, private?'
'No sir', says Stensch. 'The capital is absolutely safe, sir. I'll wager, sir, that the war will never, ever reach these walls'.
'Just so, private, just so'. Lackwitz reads a little more from his book, nodding and then muttering under his breath 'Genius. Words of genius'.
The private risks some further conversation.
'Good book, sir?'
Lackwitz nods emphatically. 'It is quite the most significant work of military philosophy that has ever been written. Every word is illuminating. It is an intellectual lantern. A cerebral lighthouse, its words, like golden rays, banishing the inky blackness of ignorance, allowing the ship of ... thingy ... to come safely ... into ..you know'.
'Would I know the author, sir', says the private, impressed.
'Oh yes', says the captain. 'It's me'.
'Crikey, sir. You're a real life author! Read me something clever!'
'I couldn't really, private ... it would be embarrassing: one doesn't want to blow one's own trumpet'.
'Fair enough'.
'But seeing as you've asked - how about this'. Lackwitz draws himself up, strikes a pose, and then begins to read.

'War is a continuation of pottery by other means'.
Stensch chews his lip for a moment, ruminating. 'Well, um, it's just ... well, is it? Like pottery?'
Lackwitz pauses, brow furrowed, and then nods. 'Dammit, you're, right'.
Stensch  nods. 'Well, it's just that I thought the word 'policy' might be a better ...'
Lackwitz continues pacing. 'Yes, I'm reaching. Pottery to too broad, too all-encompassing. It lacks rigour. But if I narrow the comparison down, should I then associate war with, say, purely cooking-related pottery? Or perhaps even just bowls? Or is the comparison that I'm looking for milk jugs. "War is a continuation of jugs by other means"'.
'I've certainly seen a fair few fights over the right kind of jugs ...' nods Stench. 'But no, sir. I think I mean that war seems to me to be less a piece of pottery, and more some kind of structured violence pursued by society for purposed defined by policy. Or whatever'.

'Interesting,' says Lackwitz, nodding. 'But no. It's definitely more like pottery. Or at least, some kind of general clay-related phenomena. We can say therefore in consequence that, "war is more than a true milk jug that slightly adapts its characteristics"'.

Stensch twiddles nervously with his telescope (something else that couldn't safely be done in Grand Fenwick). 'Well, sir - wouldn't a better point of comparison than a milk jug be something like a...a ... chameleon -  that changes a bit if you put it into a different context'.

'Do you have a chameleon?' says the captain.
'Well no, sir: not on me'.
'Have you ever seen a chameleon?'
'Well, no; but then perhaps that's because they change to blend in with the background. I've read about them.'
'Are they dangerous?' says Lackwitz looking around nervously.
'I don't know sir. But I don't think there are any around here'.
'Yes, but you said that you can't see them.' Lackwitz moves so that his back is against the wall. 'I mean, there could be hundreds of them. Right here. Right now. And we'd never know'.

Stensch intervenes quickly, trying to re-direct the conversation back onto a safer subject. 'So, has your book any advice on how we might win the current war, sir?'
The captain forgets invisible lizards and returns animatedly to his masterpiece. 'Yes, yes! Listen to this from page twenty two: "To achieve victory we must mass our forces at the hub of all power and movement. The enemy's centre of gravity or, as it might be more properly known, his testicles"'.
Stensch nods. 'So all war should focus on our enemy's gonads?'
'Without a doubt. Just give them a good kicking. Because, as I go on to note on the next page: "War is thus an act of force to compel our enemy to sod right off"'.
'Or perhaps', suggests the private, "to compel our enemy to do our will?"'
'Well, if our will is that they should sod right off, then yes'.
'"Will" sounds like it might fit better, sir'.
Lackwitz laughs. 'Ah, amusing: I'm sure it would to you, soldier. But then, you don't have the benefit as I do of a university education.'
'No sir, I don't', says Stensch. 'Ahh, the dreaming spires of Naffdorff.  How I should have liked to go to university, captain. The long hours of study. The exhaustive reading. Intensive engagement in lectures and discussion.'
Lackwitz frowns. 'No. no. I said 'university'. Thirty thousand thalers to go wandering around Naffdorf for three years, drinking wine and wearing a sedan-chair cone on my head. Marvelous. Only thus was I able to develop a honed, razor-like intellect capable of forensic, focused ... oooh shiny' he says and bends down to pick up a silver button.
Stensch notices something on the horizon and raises his telescope once again.

Lackwitz continues to pace the bastion. 'The key thing in war, though, is getting the right background music. I have a whole chapter on that: "No one starts a war - or rather, no one in his senses ought to do so - without first being clear in his mind where he will get an orchestra from and how he intends to conduct it".
Stensch look back distractedly. 'Music? But isn't there more to military success than that?'
The captain nods. 'Intellectuals like myself can look into war and see its essence. We know that war is composed of a fascinating trinity'.
At this, Stensch looks genuinely interested. 'Oooh yes sir: I can see it: primordial violence, hatred, and enmity, which might be regarded as a blind natural force; the play of chance and probability, within which the creative spirit is free to roam; and its element of subordination, as an instrument of policy, which makes it subject to pure reason'.
Lackwitz looks at the private as if the latter had just started flapping imaginary wings and making noises like a little pig. 'Where do you get this nonsense from? No, private, war is composed, in my experience of a cheese and ham sandwich'.
'Isn't that just one thing?' asks Stensch.
Lackwitz spells it out as if to a child. 'Cheese. Ham. Sandwich. Three things.'
'Oh. Is it ...', and here the private's face becomes furrowed, like a monkey doing quadratic equations, 'a ... a ... metaphor?'
'I don't know', says Lackwitz suspiciously, 'is it?'
'Well', says the private. 'I suppose "cheese" could encompass the enduring nature of war; "ham" is its changing character; and the slices of bread the concept of military genius that manages the interaction between the two.'
'It's possible, but unlikely', says the captain furiously crossing out some text and scribbling something new.

'Blimey, look what I can see!', says the private suddenly.
'Exactly', says Lackwitz triumphantly, 'I have opened your mind to the wonders of military philosophy!'
'I mean, philosophically, I can see lots of musketeers and Croats over there beyond the stream'.
Lackwitz looks around nervously. 'Are there any chameleons?'
'I think captain, that we've become overly fixated on camouflaged reptiles ...Those troops are ours: and they seem very excited about something. There's dirty work afoot. Call out the guard!'
Suddenly, to the west, comes shouting, some shots, and then the blowing of horns accompanied by the sound of the ancient Gelderland military cry of alarm: 'The enemy - they're everywhere! Flee! Flee! Out of the way old woman! Run! Run!'
Stensch turns. 'War, captain! Now you can put your theory into prac ...' he begins to say. But he is alone on the bastion. A small book lies on the ground, thrown aside carelessly, its pages flapping gently in the breeze...