The Saga of the Undying Phlaigme: part 7

For armour Forrest only had the single dual-purpose greave for his right leg, and a rather small but highly polished brass six-pointed shield, or mogen, carried on his left forearm. The sum of it was nothing in comparison with that of the New Federales champion, who was fully suited with the best burnished steel armour, helm to toe. So clad, it was impossible to know for sure whom one faced in reality in a mortal combat.

The war-horse, whilst not strictly a weapon, was more often than not the key to success in such combats. Speed and power were not everything. WYRDMABUBY was capable of an amazingly slow and measured canter, which gave a real rocking-chair ride. He not only neck-reined beautifully, but, when the reins were loosened right off equally would maintain perfect pace and direction until asked to change. Forrest had never known him to shy, at anything.

WYRDMABUBY's secret weapon was his ability, on command, to fake a stumble and either go down on his knees, or 'fall' right over on his right side, according to a knee-aid given in an unusual place. That, and an ability to carry very asymetric loads while maintaining his legendary ultra-slow canter and dead-straight line of advance.

Lances characteristically were given names, much as had been the katana, the swords of the Japanese Samurai. Forrest's was named 'Sidere'. Its time in Latin. And it was.

The Master of Ceremonies had just finished announcing the identity of Forrest's mount, and proceeded to call that of the mount of the New Federales champion, ".... riding 'Chevron'.

The crowd let out a collective gasp, and fell silent. SA standard bearers looked furtively at each other in uncertainty. "Why were they risking Chevron?" was the thought in everybodies' mind. He was a world champion war-horse, a freak in the way Phar Lap had been on the track. The fee for taking him out of stud must have been stupendous. Why was this combat so important?

TBC

The Saga of the Undying Phlaigme: part 8

As they faced each other at opposite ends of the arena, waiting for the scarf to be dropped by the Master of Ceremonies as the signal to charge, the combatants each took up their lances in readiness. Forrest only withdrew 'Sidere' to the mouth of the carry-tube and surreptitiously locked it while making it look like he was just resting its weight on the tack. The New Federales champion swept his lightweight carbon-fibre reinforced lance about as if it were a feather, then levelled it.

The scarf dropped.

Chevron, the freak oversized quarterhorse, was almost in the instant at the full gallop. WYRDMABUBY began his dead-slow canter, and no sooner had he started moving forward than Forrest kicked his foot out of the right stirrup and reached down for the hand-grip on the bottom of the carry-tube.

Forrest, holding onto the hand-grip beside the saddle horn with his left hand, the reins completely loose, then swung his right leg back, up, and over WYRDMABUBY's rump as if dismounting, all the while holding the carry-tube hand-grip, and then proceeded to ride Cossack-style one foot in the left stirrup. 'Sidere', now perfectly counterbalanced pivotting on the swivel at the top of the saddle, could be laid and aimed like a gun. The method of mounting meant the point of the lance was about a metre further out than that of an opponent holding the lance in the usual way.

Chevron was fast approaching. Forrest gave the cue for WYRDMABUBY to stumble. Down he went to his knees, 'Sidere' now lower and pointing slightly upward, was aimed directly at Chevron's chest.

The New Federales champion was momentarily disconcerted, but failed to check his charge, expecting Forrest's lance to be dropped in the near-unseating he could see was happening. The champion's aim was now slightly high, and combative instinct took over, and all focus went into bringing the lance back onto its target.

But 'Sidere', still aimed, had not been dropped.

TBC

The Saga of the Undying Phlaigme: part 9

By the time the champion's lance had struck Forrest's ridiculous little mogen, breaking his grip and sending him sprawling backwards to the ground, Sidere's point was a metre deep inside Chevron's chest and travelling upward.

The combined momentum of the two war-horses ensured, in that split second before the girth and surcingle of WYRDMABUBY's saddle simultaneously parted, that the ironbark lance, exiting through the champion's saddle and catching inside the steel backplate then catching the chainmail neckpiece as it continued, snapped the champions neck in the process as if it had been a hangman's noose.

Chevron made one deafening, nauseatingly discordant squeal before falling on his left side, legs twitching convulsively. The New Federales champion had not been thrown: his body was still astride the now horizontal dying Chevron, left leg trapped against the ground, upper body leaning right back as if riding at a rodeo, held in place by the now-protruding ironbark lance, the neck clearly broken. The combination helmet and visor had been knocked off during the impalement.

WYRDMABUBY stood up, his bridle with its now separated reins (the lightweight joining springclip having flown off with the first tension of impact) the only tack still on him, unmarked. Forrest, too, was able to stand up, but wasn't quite so unmarked, grazed as he was in the not-unexpected unhorsing. He walked across to where the champion lay transfixed in fatal union with the legendary Chevron, and looked down.

It had been Sir WYSIWYG, after all.

The crowd were silent, stunned. The near-setting sun had gone behind a cloud, and the silver emblems of the crossed lightning bolts on the SA standards, before so newly risen brightly shining, now were leaden dull. A lone shaft of sunlight lit up the aftermath of combat. The polished brass of the mogen, in the sunlight, shining like a six-pointed star. It made an interesting juxtaposition to what had been an unexpected final solution.

Walking away, Forrest wondered if horses got PTSD.

TBC

The Saga of the Undying Phlaigme: part 10

The protocol of officially sanctioned mortal combat required that the victor in any contest be given the opportunity to sum up briefly what he saw as being the outcome or significance of the victory won. Should a victor be able to so summarize an outcome in just one word, it was a virtual passport to literary immortality, and the status of living national treasure.

Forrest led WYRDMABUBY to the portable dais upon which the Master of Ceremonies waited, flanked by the Commandant of the Humphrey Appleby Brigade, and the senior member of the SA present, the commanding officer of the Innamincka Regiment. A representative of the event sponsors, Big Oil, was also present. They all looked about as comfortable as Adolf Hitler after the 100 metres sprint at the 1936 Olympics.

The Master of Ceremonies asked the regulation question: "How many words have you to say?"

"One", answered Forrest.

As imperiously as possible, the Master of Ceremonies demanded: "Say it, then".

"WYGIWYS" Forrest said, in Acronymian. What You Get Is What You See, in English.

The crowd murmured in puzzlement despite the requirement for absolute silence during the protocol. The Master of Ceremonies was quietly furious. Trying to make the best of a bad situation for the New Federales, he curtly demanded of Forrest "In English! No acronyms here!", thinking Forrest would have to forego the quest for literary immortality in order to explain.

Forrest reached out and took the microphone, and spoke just one English word.

"Shafted".

The quest was over. Literary immortality had been attained. As a Living National Treasure, Forrest was now entitled to drink from the Holy Grail of Climate Change, no longer a horsed vessel, but now in the custody of the Cysterhood of the Coup de Grace, or, to give them their formal title, the Cysters of the Conventional Order for the Promulgation of True Literacy and Articulate Expression. They knew who they were. Their heads he had with oil anointed, and their urn now overflowed.

Forrest drank deep.

Climate changed.

All allegorically speaking, of course.

That was a particularly gruesome ending.

I am not sure what my animal-rights friends would make of that.

If this were to be turned into a movie had you given any though about how it could be shot realistically without causing harm to any horses?

It was nice to get back from the future, Forrest thought to himself, as the big black Hummer towing the triple horse float pulled up at the residential vehicular entrance to the Borg Tower, at No. 7-9 Hubris Place, in the Sydney CBD where he lived. Some of the applications of the principle of tempbidirectionality to modern travel could be downright demanding upon the human body. The recent hurried trip to the Field of Honour near Canberra had been quite hard on Forrest.

Forrest got out of the vehicle and walked toward the roller-shuttered entrance. "Bungendore and Dumblyung, Pialligo, Belconnen: open now this Dumbledore, for now I am homecomin" Forrest intoned to the little grate in the wall beside the roller door. The incantation, processed by the voice-recognition software of the building security system, resulted in the door rising to admit the Hummer and float.

Forrest had had the name 'Mariah' painted on the Hummer. He felt it only appropriate to name it after the wind that funded his 'penthouse' (spelled with a small 'p') lifestyle. Speaking of wind, Forrest had been able to capitalize (Oh how Forrest wanted to use an upper case 'c', but didn't dare) on his victory in the mortal combat. As a result of an excellent tip he had received from plerdsus, here: http://forum.onlineopinion.com.au/thread.asp?article=8559#135459 , Forrest had dropped in on the Clerk of the Parliament on the way back from the Field of Honour. To his amazement, he had been able to lease, for a quite nominal fee, the airspace above Parliament House for the purpose of operating a wind turbine for the next 50 years.

"It is prohibited airspace anyway" the Clerk had said, and noted that there would be distinct security enhancement for the building as a consequence of the ever-rotating blades when the turbine is in horizontal mode during sittings. Parachuting terrorists would get cut up badly. Between them they thrashed out a quick EIS (Ease of Impact Statement), shook hands, and Forrest paid the lease fee.

Too easy!