IHMN To the Desert Once More

The following blurb I wrote for what I envisage to be a two or three part IHMN adventure series set in the desert of Libya. My motives were twofold: one to use my much beloved Egyptian ruin terrain and two to seek a positive way forward from the wargaming funk that has currently engulfed me. I am quite pleased with the plot and most of the writing but - as I am oft quoted as saying - it is not my best work. Rarely does one have time for one's absolute best.

“Zounds!” bellowed Col. Radcliffe. “That’s twice this week.”

“But, sir,” stammered Major Winterbottom apologetically, “it’s happened again.”

“That’s exactly my point you gutter snipe! Interrupting my 10 am snifter once is unforgiveable enough … but twice!? Fetch my rattan.”

“Surely sir you understand the import of the scenario? It’s the second time this week that an urchin has been found on the docks rectally impaled by a 4^th Dynasty ushabti. It must mean something?”

“The club has gone to hell is what it means to me. Once if you hadn’t played in the firsts, conquered a kingdom, discovered a continent or been rogered by a duke you weren’t allow to darken the portal of this hallowed ground. Now every snide and lowly pleb can seemingly glide in.”

“But Colonel, my family owns most of Devon.” Winterbottom tried feebly to defend himself.

The Colonel’s eyes glinted as a raptor may once have eyed its prey. “Barbarian.”

But another sat in the Privvy chamber who had not missed the import of the intelligence, even though he appeared to be the least observant. The man, who lounged in a fireside chair, had heard everything although he appeared asleep. In fact, his sleep, gentle snore, hair, moustache, garments and, if he had arisen, even his peculiar amble were but affectations – for this man was none other than the Consulting Detective.

It was but pure serendipity that had led him to overhear the fate of the urchin - that and his yearning for spotted dick (for he admired the portion offered here better than any in London) – but this happy chance unlocked a hidden cornucopia to the Detective.

For days he had been tracking misplaced crates of British rifles and ammunition. The path led to the Canary Wharf docks and here intersected with cargo vessels bound to Libya. But until the violated urchin, the links were obtuse. Only one man in the world had the yen for such an assault – the vile confederate of Leopold – the miscreant King of Belgian – Professor Kuntz.

And Kuntz’s involvement now made the jigsaw fall into place. To smear the Empire of Victoria, Kuntz intended to paint Britain as the aggressors in Northern Africa – just as Leopold had been so accused in the Congo. The archaeologist, Hardwig, would be daubed as an agent, using precious artefacts to fund the plot. British rifles would be smuggled to Libyan bandits who would be unable resist the target of a lone European archaeological expedition in their territory. In response the British colonial forces would leap to their defence and Kuntz would have all he needed to show the world Britain had invaded the sovereign nation of Libya.

The Detective had no time to spare. He sprang from the chair, hurrying for the door, his mind awhirl with travel calculations and steps necessary to avoid an international goosing. He and his men must reach the desert and stop British forces from shooting darkies – a near impossible task. But Hardwig must also be protected from the looming, and now ferociously armed, bandits. A quick but falsified telegram to his American nephew O’Connell – both boxing champion and renowned mercenary – should supply a bold bulwark. Haste compelled the Consulting Detective to take risks in regard to other forces possibly embroiled – Kuntz himself and the nefarious and increasingly belligerent Cult of Akhetaton. Their involvement might tear all his best plans asunder.

“To Baker Street, sir?” enquired Gordon Fulsom, his faithful cabby.

The Detective swung into his hansom carriage and rapped loudly on the roof. “A quick stop at the Yard and then straight to the Arsenal,” he cried excitedly. “I’m in need of subterranean egress.”  

(A Battle report with images to follow ... game held tomorrow evening.)