Going Pear Shaped. A tale of wizards, lizards and galvanised tubing salesmen.

Chapter 18: 'Time to die, old man.'

The rain was falling hard, now.  It poured from the night sky, splashed off the planks of the old drawbridge and hissed into the burning torches that stood along its sides.  Sheltering under the arch of the South Drawbridge Gate, Sergeant Algenon Pogskin tried again to reason with his Captain.

'Beggin' your pardon, sah, but are you sure you wouldn't rather let me...'

'I know your game, Sergeant.  You're just jealous.  You know I won that draw fair and square.'  Captain Wetherspoon was buckling himself into his best uniform.  He had the Port Packham Garrison ceremonial sword hanging from his belt and was even now strapping the Garrison's only official brass helmet into place on his head.  He had arranged his medals across his breastplate for the most striking effect rather than in order of merit.

'But sah, they'll be sending their toughest...'

'I'm going out there, Sergeant and I'm going to win it for us.'  Captain Wetherspoon sat down on a mounting block by the Gate and heaved his boots on with a grunt.  It was clear to even a casual observer that the very act of dressing for the imminent fight had left the elderly Captain exhausted.

The other soldiers of the Garrison were huddled under a ledge in the City wall.  Private Smith nudged Polebender and said 'Isn't that the Garrison's ceremonial sword he's got there?'

'It is, Smitty,' said Polebender, 'and, yes, we all know it's only made of tin.'  The rest of the Garrison nodded, grimly.  Nothing could talk the Captain out of this.  His pride and determination made a formidable, if short-sighted, combination.  Captain Wetherspoon squeezed the droplets of water out of his droopy moustache, gripped the hilt of the sword and strode manfully forward.

Splashing through the puddles that had collected on the wooden boards, he marched resolutely towards the centre of the drawbridge to await the champion of the mighty Xardanian army.

On the far side of the drawbridge, the hordes of Xardanian lizards had opened up a space near the front for Moebius and his Dark Mages.  They considered themselves amongst the elite entitled to a ringside view of the forthcoming attraction.   Some of the commanders and tribal leaders had also elbowed their way to the front of the crowd.  The Xardanian Supreme Commander, General Vort Klawfist, stood in his most pristine uniform, which was by now looking somewhat bedraggled in the rain. 

Captain Wetherspoon stopped in the centre of the drawbridge, drew his sword and tried to strike a pose he once saw in a copy of "What Soldier".  He remembered how impressive it made the soldier in the illustration appear.  Knees slightly bent, sword raised at an angle, arms outstretched - ready to take on anyone.  A pity about this rain, he thought.  It was beginning to trickle inside his armour and run down his back.

The Xardanians had started beating their axes and swords against their wooden shields and the air was filled with heavy drumming and belligerent chanting.  Private Watkins and Private Sparrow, who had joined Private Treewhistle in the shelter of the drawbridge's arch, were inspired to start banging their swords against their shields in response, but had to stop when Sparrow's sword got caught up in his tunic.  By the time the others had helped him release it, his sleeve had been almost sliced completely off.

From the middle of the drawbridge, Captain Wetherspoon turned and gave them a cheery wave.  'Don't worry, lads,' he called encouragingly.  'I'll wait until I see the red of his eyes before I attack.'

Suddenly, the crowd of lizards fell silent. 

A hunched lizard carrying a sheaf of papers shuffled forward onto the drawbridge.  He was trying to protect the papers from the rain by holding them under his tunic.  Zimmer Scratch, private secretary to Vort Klawfist, looked furtively around him, cleared his throat and read aloud from the top sheet.