In the dressing chambers of the Pelican Palace, King Tonzi the Wunturm, recently returned from the Makepeace Isles, is preening in front of a full length mirror only to be disturbed by his holiness Pope Wilkes the Patient, his handsome windblown features a mask of concern.
KT: Ah pontiff, just in time, what dost thou think – basic funerary black with the flared sleeves or the regal purple number embossed with silver teardrop inlays?
PW: Sire it is my sad duty ….
KT: Didst thou hear! We have procured the services of the famed minstrel, Sir Elton of Bennyjette, who has agreed to write a commemorative ballad for the dear departed lady. It is quite a coup, for no one immortalises dead blondes in song like Sir Elton!
PW: Sir Elton will not be needed sire for the Lady Ingrid is still with us.
KT: Ah, brother I feel it too. Her spirit is indeed still with us and will live forever in the hearts and minds of the kingdom, especially after the whimsical but heartbreaking eulogy I will deliver in honour of her memory. Oh, my heart beats out of my chest when I thinkest of the reflected glories I shall garner!
PW: Sire! Please! Hear me! The Lady Ingrid lives! She hath prevailed and is the once and future champion of the Die-Athalon.
KT: Impossible! Am I expected to believe that the Lady could triumph whence the mightiest warriors in history have failed. Dost thou think I came down in the last tempest?
PW: ‘Twas the doing of the little Sisters of The Boomerang, sire. It transpires they have been harbouring in their midst three banished sorceresses and these witches aided the Lady in her quest.
KT: Who are these hellspawn, name them so I may order them disembowelled.
PW: The first amongst them be the Aqua Mage Alana. We ordered her banished and her pond of cement filled with quicklime for the crime of teaching the forbidden water art of flotation to peasant children.
The second is the Lady Kerri of The Ravens, exiled for attempting to appropriate a plot of hallowed ground for her own financial gain. Admittedly the land in question was only the size of a dwarf’s coffin, but compliance is compliance.
The last of this unholy trinity is the truly awful Wanda the White who was sent to Gulag 23 for the heinous crime of excessive and unbridled cheerfulness.
KT: Pffftt! They are hardly sorcerers. A mob of one-spell wonders who would be flat out conjuring a puff of smoke in a forest fire if thou asketh me. Their magic is pathetic. How could they have influence in a contest of this design?
PW: In many ways my liege, for as Lady Ingrid stood on the starting grid for the Misty Mountain Run, Wanda the White conferred upon her a spell of transparency.
KT: I have heard of this transparency blasphemy. Only once last week I was speaking to the High Sheriff of Dibley about this same matter. We both agreed it grotesque heresy and totally ineffectual in a political context. For what use is a measure that would allow the peasants to see right through us? It has no place in the Oyster Kingdom!
PW: Unfortunately sire it proved very effective, for the spell rendered the Lady invisible to thy archers. When the starting cannon sounded, she simply stood to one side allowing the rest of the competitors to pass her by.
After the archers had completed their butchery and the field had been decimated, the lady simply scampered up the monolith materialising at the zenith with a loud pop, causing a dozen of thy finest bowmen to drop dead of heart attack and a further two score to throw themselves from the summit in terror!
KT: Ha! Beginners luck! Surely the perils of the swim leg … the Kraken … the Piranha … the Razor Rocks …
PW: Nay, Lord Boris the Bull Shark troubled her not, for the Aqua Mage Alana exerted her power of command over all marine life to bend the monsters will to her own. As Lady Ingrid stood upon the commencement jetty, the behemoth surfaced beside her, nudging her gently onto his back with its rubbery snout.
The accursed woman took hold of Boris’s massive sail like dorsal fin and hung on for the ride. The lava like inferno of the Boiling Pot did not so much as singe his leathery hide and the piranha of the bay were turned into sushi by its savage snapping jaws. In no time and against all odds the Lady Ingrid stood at the foot of the Cliffs of Witta.
KT: And died screaming I presume for as we all know the cliffs are unscalable.
PW: And would have remained so sire, had Kerri of The Ravens not sent four score of the huge black winged Carrion birds that serve her into flight. They swooped down and lifted Lady Ingrid aloft as if she were a rag doll, depositing her at the doors of doom faster than an uber chariot.
KT: Fluke! And what black magic device did she seek to deploy against Cyril the Great? What foul crone aided her on her fool’s errand?
PW: None assisted her in the arena sire. It was all the lady. I have fought many campaigns in the kingdom’s name, seen corpse strewn battlefields, villages razed to the ground, waded through rivers of widows’ tears, witnessed bloodshed beyond belief, but still I was unprepared for the horrors of what occurred that day in the fighting pits of Yurol.
Hark to me now sire, for I will tell this tale but once. Then I must purge it from my mind, for to carry a memory like this in ones mind is to court madness.
KT: Oh save thy dramatics for Sunday mass, pontiff. Get on with thy story.
PW: Very well your highness. Word had spread through the kingdom of the Lady’s feats and a huge crowd packed the stands of the Great Colosseum of Yurol. And they all rose as one roaring their approval for their giant champion and indeed the Great Cyril looked the part.
Twelve foot of barely restrained fury, his red eyes glowing with unfulfilled bloodlust, saliva dripping from his massive fangs, a huge shield hewn from an oak tree hung on his left paw, the war hammer of the Kin of Kinn grasped in his right, he was simply magnificent.
Then a hush fell over the crowd as the Lady Ingrid entered from the Penitents’ Gate. In her ridiculous leafy armour, a tea towel over her shoulder and struggling to carry a bright pink pail of water, she looked like a gumnut baby who had become lost on her way to the beach.
The Mighty Cyril, used to combat with the greatest warriors in the land, surveyed his opponent curiously. Then he began to laugh huge bellows of mirth that shook the stands like an earthquake. His jocularity was to prove to be his undoing, for his insult stirred something within the Lady; something primal, something unbeknownst to the world of men. Totally unfazed she calmly dipped her tea towel into the pail and assumed the Preying Mantis fighting pose of the Shaolin.
Then sire, as god is my witness, she charged the beast. When she was within striking distance she launched herself skywards into a triple spinning axle somersault and then, uncoiling like a spring, unleashed a double flurry flick. The first strike severed entirely Cyril’s right paw and the second tore his left eye entirely from its socket. Landing lightly on her unbooted feet, the Lady dropped then into a startled dugong crouch and struck upwards with the dampened cloth, severing the Cyril’s bearhood completely.
This complete dashing of his considerable package towards the arena’s far wall provoked the simultaneous evacuation of the stomachs of the two thousand or so peasants in the cheap seats. Ignoring the incessant heaving and the river of regurgitated gruel that cascaded now onto the red sand of the arena, the Lady turned her back on the Cyril and walked to her bucket, calmly dipped the tea towel once more and assumed a cautious tortoise defensive position preparing for …. the counter attack!
And so fell Cyril the Great, firstly to his knees then prostrate on his face as he raised his remaining hand in a plea for mercy. For the deadly Drop Bear of Boreen, harvester of souls, maker of windows, reaper of sorrows had learnt that hell itself hath no fury like an angry woman with a wet tea towel!
KT: Why have the gods deserted me. I have honoured them well, human sacrifices once a fortnight, burnt offerings every other week, this must surely be the darkest day in our history.
PW: Not even close sire, for as the Cyril surrendered to the Lady, in a blinding flash of wild magic, the Emerald Sword of Zen materialised at her feet bathing the colosseum in an eerie green pallor.
KT: Whaaaatt! Idiot! Thou told me the sword was a lie, a myth, a concoction of thy own febrile imagination.
PW: Aye sire, it turns out that the spin weavers who worked with me on the tale were in fact agents of The Little Sisters of the Boomerang. To my eternal shame, I was stitched up by a coven of seamstresses.
KT: Imbecile! Dolt! Halfwit! Thou art pope no longer! Order thyself horse whipped and crucified! Your stupidity has doomed us all!
PW: I beg not forgiveness for that which cannot be forgiven sire, I will gladly accept my punishment. I will not miss being pontiff, for while I found the confessions of the peasants mildly titillating in a pathetic sort of way, I have always preferred the skewering of souls over the saving of them. But make no mistake before I commit myself to the purgatory of the cross, I will finish my tale.
KT: If that is to be thy last wish, so be it. Speak!
PW: The Great Sword of Zen lay at the Lady Ingrid’s feet, the runes of its blade thrumming with earth power and wild magic. A hush fell over the multitudes as she bent to pick up the weapon, a hush which turned to sobs as she strode towards the fallen warrior to put an end to his suffering.
But she did not smite the beast, instead she gently laid the flat of the blade upon his troubled brow and in a conflagration of verdant fire and ancient power restored him – gonads and all. Then the resurgent mighty Cyril lifted the Lady Ingrid to his huge shoulders and carried her to the four corners of thy fighting pit where peasant, pilgrim and nobles alike rose as a single entity and roared their approval, great euphoric waves of adoration that shook the heavens as they paid tribute to their new champion.
KT: Peasants! What a capricious bunch of turds they are. So tell me simpleton where is the ‘champion’ now.
PW: At last reports she was seen five leagues from the outer city gates riding a donkey accompanied by fifty thousand devotees waving palm fronds and singing Hosanna!
KT: Ah! The Nazarene Feint! Didn’t work for the last fellow, won’t work now. I have heard enough pope! Cancel thy crucifixion but keep the crossmakers on standby! Unleash the Hound, the Pitbull, the Daschund, the Catt…..
PW: Gone sire, deserted their posts like the curs they were named after.
KT: We will fight sorcery with sorcery then send word to the Greybeard.
PW: Impossible sire. Lady Kerri’s Ravens hold siege to his fortress at the Gates of Hell, and as it is the mating season of the foul birds, dispersal is forbidden under section 18c of the piously pedantic Pelican Plan.
KT: Then throw open our armouries to all those who are still loyal to the crown. The Lady’s supporters are unarmed. We will surround them and crush them in a carrot and stick pincer movement.
PW: Sire . I cannot stress enough, surrounding them is out of the question! There … are … only … two of … us!! The only reserves still loyal to thee are Sir Robin and his Rainbow Knights and their insistence on riding into the battle naked would prove ineffective in this sort of conflict.
KT: Then arm thyself pontiff! I shall not cower from any damsel. We shall ride out to meet them even though it will mean our certain doom. It matters not for the Halls of Valhalla shall ring with our hoofbeats and the bards and poets shall evermore tell the tale of the last charge of the Oyster King and his warrior pope.
PW: Oh for fucks sake!
KT: Yes! Yes! For the sake of luck! For the sake of fortune! For honour for blood ruin and the reeeedddd dawn!
PW: Oh shut up you blithering jackass! For these many years I have listened to thy idiotic commands! Flay this! Unleash that! Kill this! More flies! And god knows I have obeyed, but now thou wilt listen to me you capering jellybean.
There will be no last charge into hell to appease your idiotic vainglorious fantasies of immortality. What there will be is an orderly retreat, followed by a consolidation of our position. Dost thou savvy milksop?
KT: Well! There’s no need to get all snippy about things. Tyrants have feelings too you know. I was merely trying to sound … well … kingly! I take it thou hast a plan then.
PW: Luckily for thee thou caterwauling creampuff, I do. For whilst thou hast been lolling around on the Makepeace Isle comparing beard grooming tips with that fop Prince Richard, I have as usual been taking steps to ensure our future. After the ease of Lady Ingrid’s victory on day one, I took the precaution of removing the lion’s share of our gold reserves to the safety of the Vaults of Valdora. I then struck a bargain with the outlander pirate and smuggler known as Roderick the Rictus.
The Rictus seeks to establish a slaughter house in the wildling outpost of Markettown. I have agreed to fund this venture. In return the Rictus will guarantee us safe passage beyond the wall, new identities and employment on the killing line of the abattoir. We will live as savages amongst the wildlings, adopt their barbaric ways, gain their trust and little by little we shall learn the secrets of Jamos the Bogstandards sol-ar farm.
Then when the time is right we shall seize his crown and using our gold raise a wildling mercenary army. We shall then use the harnessed power of the suns rays to bring down the wall and take back what is rightfully ours. Oh the pain we shall wreak on them all!
KT: So this is how it ends. Not even a wunturm only a halfturm. Shall I end my days grovelling in pig shit like a wildling beggar?
PW: Nay sire for the wildlings understand nought of the mettle of men like us. Men like us cannot be caged or controlled like gerbils. Men like us were born to ride the peaks and troughs of merciful fate like dragon lords, spitting in the eyes of the gods and monsters that assail us. Men like us were born for glory and it will not be denied us, for men like us are truly different by nature!
KT: I never wanted any of this – the power the glory – the kingdom. I have the soul of an artist trapped inside a warrior’s body. In truth all I ever wanted to do was paint.
PW: Take heart sire, I’m sure the walls of the slaughterhouse will need a coat every so often what with all the blood splatter and intestinal overspray!
KT: You know Wilkes sometimes it’s really shithouse being the king. Hast I ever told you this?
PW: Oh many times sire many times indeed. But come now we must away for the storm doth gather and the hour of Ingrid approaches.
A short footnote from Bernadette
Thus ends ‘A Game of Tonze’, the first of the holy chronicles of the Oyster King. Part the second, ‘The Winds of Witta’, is due in the summer of 2019 or whenever the nice people at the Ecuadorian embassy, having conferred lengthily, decide to give back my laptop.
