The pontiff presents a cunning plan that King Tonzi really goes for

King Tonzi the Wunturm sits regally upon The Oyster Throne as Pope Wilkes the Patient presents a proposition.

POPE WILKES: Sire, the plans for the annual Kingdom Die-Athalon Festival have been finalised and await thy royal seal of approval.

KING TONZI: What in the Name of Odin’s Beard is a Die-Athalon!

PW: Ah forgive me sire thou wouldst have been abroad at the Crusades when the last event was held. Pray let me illuminate thee. The Die-Athalon is the most ancient and venerated of our festivals. It is a gruelling three day contest that attracts the greatest and noblest warriors in the kingdom, as well as hordes of coined up pilgrims.

Firstly contestants will engage in a footrace up the treacherous slopes of the misty Mountain of Cooroora, a simple task seemingly, but one made much more interesting by the addition of four companies of your majesties finest archers whose task it is to rain fiery barbed arrows down upon the field from the peak of the monolith.

KT: Zounds! Sounds beastly yet compelling. Pray tell pontiff, what occurs on the second day.

PW: Ah sire, that would be the swim leg. Surviving participants enter the lower reaches of the river which as we well know is the hunting ground of the remorseless eating machine known as Boris the Bull Shark. They will then strike out through the headlands,passing through the lava like inferno of the boiling pot and the savage giant piranhas of the Bay of Constanants, until they stand at the very foot of the gates of hell. Then another climb this time up the razor rocked Cliffs of Witta until they stand at the door of doom itself.

KT: Hell’s teeth – a task fit for a beserker!

PW: It dost not get any easier sire for on the third day survivors will be pitted in a gladitorial contest with Cyril the awfully big Drop Bear of the Boreen Straits clad only in armour of eucalyptus soaked gum leaves and wielding only a wet tea towel and a bucket of soapy water as weaponry.

KT: By the Gristly Knees of Baldur pontiff! It would take a superhuman warrior to complete such tasks. Tell me who was the winner of the last event so we may press him into service with the kings guard.

PW: Actually sir, none survived. In fact none made it past the first leg. The only survivor per se was Sir Robert of Abbottsford who was rendered unconscious when his chariot rolled after aquaplaning on some muddy waters near the crossroads on the way to the festival.

KT: None lived? How many entered?

PW: 2,100 sire

KT: Pope, art thou trying to tell me 2,100 entered and all were slain?

PW: 2,300 actually sire. There was a peasants funeral procession passing through the foothills of the misty mountain. Friendly fire and all that! Regrettable perhaps but the pilgrims went mad for it!

KT: Hath thy mind been addled by too much altar wine, priest. This is little more than state sanctioned murder. I will have no part in such a massacre. What in the name of heaven would induce any sane person to participate in such a slaughter?

PW: The champions compete for the greatest prize in Christendom …. The Emerald Sword of Zen!

KT: The what?

PW: Ah sire to explain fully I must go back aways. As thou knowest, the four kings of The Ancient Lales ruled the land through a period of unparalleled peace and prosperity until rumours reached their ears of an awakening darkness emanating from The South. Knowing they had no defences against such dark arts the four kings commissioned The Elves of the Yurol Forest and the dwarf tribes of the Twelve Huts of Harry to fashion for them a weapon with which to face this fell threat.

Using Valdorian Steel from the Mines of Massoni, the dwarf smiths went to work fashioning a blade of unsurpassed balance and strength. While the elf mages carved runes of earth power the length of its mighty blade infusing it with the emerald glow of the forest. And the ancient kings did use it wisely creating the sphere that sustains us and the great ice wall of the south as a means of protection against dark wildling magic.

But they were betrayed. For Noelstradamus, the King of the Third Lake, became entranced by the blade’s verdant fire and sought to make it his own. He entered into an unholy alliance with he who we know today as The Greybeard. Together they seized the holy sword and took it beyond the gates of hell and laid siege to it. They then attempted to refashion the sacred sphere into something that was well, um, more to their liking.

The remaining three kings had little choice but to wage war thus beginning the Great Conflict of Deamalgamos culminating in the defeat of Noelstradamus at the Battle of John’s Landing. Vowing to never again let the power of the sword be used for vested interests, the kings ensconced it under armed guard at the golden lighthouse of the Plural Points where it remains to this day waiting for a champion brave enough and above all virtuous to weild it. Hence the Die-Athalon.

KT: Be damned with the parlour games man! Unleash everybody! We must have this blade for our own!

PW:  Ah sire, here’s the thing, um, well you see, the sword doesnt actually exist as such we, um, sort of, um, made it up

KT: So not only do thee murder thousands but you do it under false pretence. This is barbarism and for what? I wash my hands of it. Cancel it immediately.

PW: Ah sire, think of it not as murder but a population cap of sorts. The truth of the matter is the pilgrims come for a three day event, get a one day event and spend the other two days in our taverns and inns. It is one reason why we are so prosperous. To cancel now would be fiscally irresponsible and would put in danger the funding of our new improved electric catapult trial.

KT: Still it does not sit well with me pope.

PW: Understandably sire given your benevolent nature, but if i may continue the event this year presents to us a unique opportunity. Hast thou heard of the damsel rights activist group known as the Little Sisters of the Boomerang?

KT: By the Hairy Armpits of St Germaine! Damsels rights be damned! Last I heard the wenches were mere seamstresses.

PW: Yes my lord it seems as if yesterday’s seamstress is todays activist. I blame that dreadful “thou too” movement. But I digress. The little sisters have been lobbying hard of late for more female inclusion in kingdom sporting events, a lost cause I’m sure you will agree. Now being that the good Lady Ingrid is the patron saint of lost causes I wondered could she perhaps be persuaded to enter the event.

KT: Steady on. While her naivety and forthrightness hamper her thinking, she is no fool, she would never agree to such a thing.

PW: She already has lord. For the past week I have had a team of our best spin weavers at work on her and they have convinced her the event is actually a health and well-being festival called the Tri Not To Die Athalon. They have further convinced her that the three disciplines involved were avocado smashing, mung bean shucking and kitten wrangling. The lady practically fell over herself trying to sign up.

KT: So on top of everything else – the lies, the murder, you now propose to lure an elected member of the kingsguard to their doom. It is worse than any treason i have heard spoken It is, it is, it is….

PW: Forgive me sire i was merel…..

KT: Brilliant Wilkes! Simply brilliant! Your best plan yet – a real win-win. We get rid of a minor irritation and the Lady Ingrid gets immortality. Oh the eulogy I shall deliver for her will ring through the ages. Perhaps even a sainthood?

PW: Indeed sire not to mention the taxes on the commemorative merchandise.

KT: Still I feel it would be unseemly for me to attend. I have since childhood had difficulty in the suppression of mirth, I shall away to the summer palace at Makepeace. Report to me there when the deed is done.

PW: At thy will sire.