STOP PRESS. In light of new information received we must correct our previous statement and can report that it was, in fact, Albion who recommenced hostilities. Put under unbearable political and economic pressure by Gormenghast and its dastardly allies Borogrovia and Strackenz, brave Lord Effingham has struck the first blow for freedom against an overbearing triumvirate of imperial aggression. Baron Bomburst of Vulgaria, while endeavouring until the very final hour to broker a lasting peace, has reluctantly been drawn into the conflict.
Vulgaria v Gormenghast
Gormenghast and Vulgaria faced off in a forest with Vulgaria outscouting
Gormenghast. Vulgaria having opted to defend, deployed in several lines with a
grand battery of 4 artillery prominently placed in the front line.
Unfortunately, for them, the first card turned was 'weather' and it began to
rain effectively negating the Vulgarian artillery advantage.The battle opened with the traditional Gormenghast flanking manoeuvre but the Vulgarians managed to steal the initiative with a spirited flank attack of their own.
With their centre stabilised, Gormenghast were then able to concentrate on their flanking move. Thanks to the dark skills of the unconscionable blackguard Thomas Burgess, the Gormenghastian infantry would have no trouble with the woods that blocked their way.
With the advantage of numbers and a previously hoarded 'Deadly Fire' card the Vulgarian flank began to crumble. At this point Baron Bombast requested the honours of war, which the Constable duly granted.
Vulgaria v Borogrovia
The Borogovians defend their two towns in a fairly standard way but prudently keep reinforcements to the rear in column. They may need them to plug the gaps that the Vulgarians seem anxious to make.
The battle begins and suddenly it's bloody raining again!
Baron Bomburst, dynamic and daring chancer that he is, sends the bulk of his infantry in column to attack the Borogrovian left flank.
Colonel von Strohm of the 13th Landwehr leads from the front.
"What's that over there? Yes, there in the undergrowth?!"
A band of rum looking coves I'm sure you'll agree.
After some fierce musketry the 1st Vulgarian obliterate the first garrison allowing 2nd Vulgarian to press on into the Borogrovian lines.
The Vulgarians continuing to squeeze but far too slowly and inefficiently. The day ends and everyone heads back to their billets. Soggy and frankly none the wiser.
The
Battle of Notspokenof
The
Constable of Gormenghast sat astride his charger and stared into the heat haze
ahead. Not since the debacle of Redhills, many wars ago, had he led the army of
Gormenghast into the Tropics. Yet here he was and as before sweat ran from
underneath his tricorne hat, leaching powder from his enormous wig and dripping
from the end of his hooked nose. Unlike before, he now led an elite force,
veterans of several wars and countless battles. Or at least it was before that
damned fool Barquentine and his infernal book interfered. The Master of Ritual
had delved into his dusty tomes and declared Gormenghast was on the cusp of a
New Age. Every Gentleman knew that this was the Age of Reason but not
Barquentine; oh no, according to the mad fool, it was now the Age of Aquarius.
Not only that but a New Age required a New Army; a view supported by Chancellor
Steerpike who at once instigated widespread and sweeping reforms.
The
Constable watched his army march by and observed the effect of those reforms.
The most obvious change was the increased size of the army; the Foote regiments
had doubled in size. That was twice as many mouths to feed and more pressing,
in this damned heat, more troops to water. And how had Gormenghast increased
its forces? The Amalgamation that's how. The traditional five Foote regiments
had been combined into three, with the men of the 4th and 5th
Gormenghast joining the ranks of the 1st to 3rd
Gormenghast Foote. Similarly, the two Fencible regiments had been combined into
one; the 1st Fencibles. The disbanded regiments were then recruited
anew from the wider realms of Greater Gormenghast. Dusky Blackamoors from the
Fever Isles formed the bulk of the new 4th and 5th Gormenghast;
now known as the Windward and Leeward Regiments respectively. From the opposite
side of the realm came doughty warriors from the Military Borders, uniformed in
the style of the Musselmen, to fill the ranks of a newly reconstituted 2nd
Fencible Regiment.
The
sound of a vulture, hovering overhead, roused the Constable from his reverie.
Vultures! Not a good omen, though no doubt Barquentine would disagree. Even
before the troops were deployed, agents of Vulgaria had been abroad sowing
dissent; rumour had it that the unscrupulous Baron Bombast had resorted to
bribery to win this battle. Sir Thomas Burgess had been made a very tempting
offer, to join Bombast's Vulgarians, but the stout fellow had manifestly
refused. The Constable thought highly of Sir Thomas, who was unrivalled in the
art of manoeuvring in difficult terrain. Not that it mattered here on this
desolate salt flat; the only terrain features being a small rise to his rear
and a stream on his right flank. The town of Notspokenof could be espied in the
distance, in the centre of the Vulgarian lines. Perfect terrain to demonstrate
the superior marching ability of the Gormenghast infantry, thought the
Constable. Unfortunately, Barquentine thought otherwise. Defend! That's what
the cursed Book of Ritual prescribed. Only once before, in his long career, had
the Constable stood on the defence and that had ended in disaster. Ominously
that had also been in the Tropics.
With
a heavy heart, the Constable arrayed the troops. The infantry formed in two
lines with refused flanks with columns of Fencibles and Cavalry in reserve to
the rear. No sooner had the battle line been formed than the thunderous sound
of approaching cavalry could be heard on the right flank. The Constable's
deepest fears were confirmed; Vulgaria's massed elite cavalry force was
charging down onto his right flank. The Leeward Regiment took the brunt of the
charge and broke under the impact. Luckily, the Constable ordered his own
cavalry to the flank and stabilised the crumbling line. But now, in a feat of
coordinated manoeuvres, the Vulgarian infantry assaulted the Gormenghastian
infantry line. As they deployed from columns the Gormenghastian infantry
unleashed a hail of lead into the vulnerable enemy line but, unfortunately,
thick smoke engulfed the battlefield, severely reducing visibility and the
effect was minimal. But now came the Vulgarian riposte and the Groan Light
Infantry withered under the Vulgarian Lethal Volleys. The Constable bravely did
his utmost to rally his beleaguered troops but a Vulgarian bayonet charge burst
through the centre of his line breaking the Light Infantry.
Despite
Barquentine’s protestations and insistence that they fight on, the Constable
knew he was beat. With as much dignity as he could muster, which is not easy in
a bedraggled sweat soaked wig, the Constable ordered his men to lay down their
arms and requested that Bombast grant him the Honors of War.
Battle
of Little Happens
The
Constable was worried as he sat astride his mount in obvious discomfort.
Anxiety gnawed at the pit of his stomach as he wriggled about in his saddle
before releasing a loud fart. ‘Prunesquallor!’, he yelled to summon the Army
Physician. One of the good Doctor’s tonics would put him right, he was sure.
Unfortunately, no elixir or balsam could cure the Constable of his present melancholia.
No, the root of the problem was that he had been let down and was forced to
fight yet another defensive battle. This time it had naught to do with Master
Barquentine; although, Lord knows, he could happily strangle the foolish
one-legged dwarf and burn his precious book. No, this time, he had been let
down by the Ministry of Intelligence or ‘the Carnival’ as it was known
colloquially. Perchance it was his own fault, he mused, and perhaps he should
never have agreed to employ their foremost spy, Master Georges Grynne. The spy
was a peculiar fellow; fat and owlish he had the annoying habit of continually
cleaning the end of his eyeglass on his cravat. As was typical of his sort, he
spoke with a peculiar turn of phrase replete with idiomata particular to his
profession. Despite Grynne’s talk of dead letterboxes, honey traps and ju-ju
men, the Constable was given to understand that the Covonians were NOT on a war
footing, did NOT have an army on the frontier and certainly were NOT planning
to invade Gormenghast. Yet there they were; an army of the ‘Gobbers and Hocklers’
encamped before them on the Plains before the tiny hamlet of ‘Little Happens’.
With
a heavy heart the Constable arrayed his forces. The hamlet, and a small wood to
its rear, gave the Constable somewhere to anchor his left flank, releasing his
small cavalry force to cover his open right flank; by God he would not be
caught out again. Uncalled images of ‘Notspokenof’ flittered annoyingly through
his head as he deployed about half his infantry in two lines, to the right of
the hamlet, with the remainder in columns to the rear. With his dispositions
finalised the Constable could do naught but await his foe.
The
wait was mercifully short as the Covonians advanced into sight with
uncharacteristic speed. The Constable scrutinised the Covonian march with
bemused bewilderment; ‘they’re doing it all wrong’, he muttered to no-one in
particular. Indeed, the Covonians were advancing with individual battalions in
parallel columns and were obviously struggling to keep station and allow enough
room to deploy into line.
The
Constable dismissed any lingering doubts concerning the threat from the
Covonian infantry and turned his attention to their cavalry. To his
consternation, it was obvious that they had employed mercenary cavalry for this
engagement and had massed their whole mounted force on their left flank. Once
again unbidden images of ‘Notspokenof’ flittered through his head. ‘Steady man,
steady’, he muttered to himself, as he wiped sweat from his brow and expelled
another enormous fart. Still the Covonians advanced, yet the Constable did
naught, biding his time.
Eventually,
the Covonians reached volley range of his infantry line and advanced with a
strong body of horse on their flank. ‘By God, that will do’, cried the
Constable and launched his cavalry and infantry reserve forward in a fine
display of Coordinated Manoeuvre. Within moments, the Gormenghastian horse were
facing off their opposite numbers whilst columns of infantry deployed into line
threatening the Covonian flank.
Several
rounds of Lethal Volleys later and a regiment of Covonian horse and several
infantry battalions had been destroyed. At this the ‘Grand Hockler’ himself
galloped forward offering his surrender. The Constable was only too pleased to
accept, doffed his fine cocked hat and with the expulsion a final flatulent
effusion the battle was over.
Extract from 'A Life Amongst
the Savages' by Harry Morton Stunley
.....As
I pushed my way through the thick undergrowth, towards the clearing ahead, the
pungent odour wafting on the breeze suggested that I was on the right track. I
held my breath in anticipation; could I really be on the trail of the legendary
Wild Man of the Woods? There came a loud crack, as of the snapping of a twig; I
instinctively turned my eyes in that direction and I saw a shadowy figure move
into the clearing. What it was, whether bear or man or monkey, I could in no
wise tell. It seemed dark and shaggy; more I knew not. Any doubt was dispelled
when the creature stretched out its arms, threw back its head and began to
chant rhythmically; then I knew it was in fact a man.
‘Grandfather, Great Mysterious
One, you have been always, and before you nothing has been. There is nothing to
pray to but you.’
The
raggedy fellow’s strange chanting instilled doubts in my mind; here I was seeking
a renowned missionary and former Vicar of Dibbley yet instead I seem to have
found some sort of native shaman. Could I be wrong? Taking a deep breath, I
stepped into the clearing and began to make my introductions; ‘Dr. Deadstone, I
presume?’
"Who
asks?" he answered, "I'm poor Davey Deadstone, I am; and I haven't
spoke with a Christian these three years."
I
could now see that he was a white man like myself. His skin, wherever it was
exposed, was burnt by the sun; even his lips were black and he was clothed in
buckskin and covered with feathers and beads.
The "Savages" of Albion mass for battle.
“Three
years! My Lord! When was the last time that you saw a white man?”, I enquired.
“Many
moons ago, Man with Hooked Nose come, frighten buffalo away”, he replied.
“I
don’t understand who is this fellow with the hooked nose?”, I asked.
“Why,
the King of the Owlmen”, was his enigmatic answer; then he eyed me suspiciously
and growled, “You with Kurtz? If you was sent by Kurtz I'm as good as pork, and
I know it.”
Then
it dawned on me, I was in the presence of a survivor of the Battle of Coyote
Ugly. [Editor’s note: Colonel Kurtz,
later Lord Effingham, was a general of Albion, popularly believed to have ‘gone
native’. Kurtz adopted the methods of the Savages and became a ‘Big Chief’ in
his own right]
Gormenghast infantry become "White men of the walking snake" and pass into folk legend.
He
paused and gave me a quizzical look before continuing, “Ah but my heart is sore
for Christian diet. You mightn't happen to have a piece of cheese about you,
now? No? Well, many's the long night I've dreamed of cheese-toasted, mostly……”
With
that I seized my chance, “I tell you what my dear fellow; you tell me all about
the Battle of Coyote Ugly and I will find you some cheese.”
And so the fellow
recounted his tale. He told me of how the army of Gormenghast had marched onto
the western plains of Albion to meet the army of Lord Effingham outside the
twin towns of Coyote and Ugly. Effingham had garrisoned the towns with trained
bands of Mountain Men and led an army of Noble Savages onto the plains, seeking
to occupy the few woods and fields before the town of Coyote. The Constable of
Gormenghast led his whole army in a column in a wide flanking move to approach
Coyote from an unexpected direction. 
The biter bit!
The
Savages were completely outmanoeuvred and were left hollering and whooping on
the plains. Those that did manage to make contact with the Gormenghast infantry
fell before Lethal Volleys of well-aimed musketry. Indeed, even the Mountain Men garrisoning the
town were near to breaking point when night fell. In essence the battle was a
stand-off but has become renowned for the Carnage inflicted upon the Savages by
the Gormenghast infantry……..
He
paused his narrative, breathless and drooling as he eyed my leather satchel and
my hand as it delved inside.
“Here
you are my man,” said I, “a little something for your trouble.” I placed the
glistening silver triangle into his hesitant grimy fingers. He regarded me with
eyes of flint.
“Dairylea?
Three years in the bloody wilderness and you give me Dairylea??!!” His mouth
frothed and he stabbed a boney digit toward my face. “You sir, are a right c…..
[At this point the original document
terminates abruptly seeming to have been torn with some violence. Stunley never
offered an explanation to his dying day but his biographer, Quilp wrote in vol.
VII of his “Life of Stunley” how the mere mention of cheese made the great man
wince visibly.]
Hercules Grytpype Thynne, the titled yet impoverished Constable of Gormenghast tries unsuccessfully to sell his hat to some passing infantry.
The Cavalry Skirmish at Sticiwiquette
Extract form the letters of Capt von Trapp of the Duchess’
Hussars
Dear Maria,
Am currently recuperating after a bizarre day in the field
near the village of Sticiwiquette. First thing in the morning we were all lined
up to have another pop at those cowardly Corvoninas.
We cavalry were up on the
right flank and on top of a small rise in order to best watch what the snotties
were doing.
The infantry were carrying out some brisk manoeuvres behind while
the Baron barked obscenities at them, all pretty standard stuff.
Meanwhile the enemy had arrayed himself in multiple columns
in the centre with their cavalry directly opposite us.
We were expecting a pretty long series of marches and
formation changes before things got hot. I had taken my feet out of the
stirrups and was stretching my legs and young Rolf Gruber, our Cornet, had brought
a pocket breakfast and gave me a bit of his sausage, but suddenly all hell
broke loose.The beastly Corvonian cavalry broke into a gallop and before
you could say Do-Re-Mi they were onto us.
It was a pretty stiff fight I don’t mind saying with plenty
of toing and froing. The uhlans broke and ran and I saw Hans Zeller and Max
Detweiler fall. You remember Max don’t you? Big fellow, wife has a lazy eye.
Anyway after a few exhortations from our beloved colonel Herr Creasey we put
the blackguards to flight.
Then the strangest thing happened. As we were in pursuit we
fell upon a lonely figure way ahead of the enemy lines. As his mouth opened and
closed like a landed carp I realised that it was none other the Grand Linctus
himself. With a yelp he turned his steed and galloped as if Lucifer himself was
on his tail. We were all blown after the fight so let him go.. and go.. and
go. In fact he quit the field completely much to, I imagine, the chagrin of the
rest of his army which turned around and headed for home.
So that was that. We took the wounded back to the convent at
Sticiwiquette where they were well cared for. I’m pleased to say that Max
Detweiler survived his wounds which is fortunate as he owes me money. He’s a
fine lancer but can’t play cards to save his life.
Hope you are all well, kiss the children for me. Try to
leave the curtains alone and no bloody singing!
Your loving husband,
Georg
The Battle of Daynewmorn
The forces of Vulgaria and Borogrovia clashed one more time
on the plains of Daynewmorn. On these windswept vistas there is no shelter from
the biting Nor’easterlies nor is there is naught nothing from the Nor’westerlies
neither.
The Borogrovia commander lined his army up with typical
precision and awaited the Vulgarian onslaught.
The Borogrovian right flank looks a little on the sparse side.
Big Vern pulls his hat down against the worsening breeze.
True to form the Baron let fly with his formidable left and the Landwehr swung onto the Borogrovian right which was being hastily reinforced.
Peter von Frechtling leads the way.
At last! The Borogrovian gunners are given their long awaited opportunity to show what they can do.
They do - and miss.
While the gunners bemoan their insufficient ordnance the colonel blames their lack of balls.
With the loss of 3 regiments without reply and the Vulgarians poised to deliver the knock out blow, Big Vern does the decent thing and requests the Honours of War.
Peace once more. Wedding bells end the war.
In an act of reconciliation and political expediency the opposing alliances have sealed a peace treaty following the marriage of Baron Bomburst's nephew Dietrich (a hare-lipped dullard previously used by his family as a hat stand) and the Dowager Countess of Groan's grand niece, Lucretia (proud possessor of an unfeasibly high forehead and a double squint). Following the four day wedding service, during which there were thankfully no fatalities, treaties were signed and new trade agreements negotiated. Should the loving couple be blessed with any healthy, if inevitably hideous offspring, it is to be hoped that these too will serve to strengthen the peace between all of the nations so long embittered in war.
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