The Great Troll War

‘No blame is attributed,’ I told him, ‘but it’s a good job we still have the marksmen. I know bullets just tend to bounce off the Troll’s leathery hide, but they might be useful for delaying or distracting them.’

The keen-eyed marksman stood up.

‘I represent the three hundred marksmen and women,’ he said, ‘and we too think there might have been an error in communication. We’re actually people who paint white lines on turf for sporting events, although we’ll also put yellow lines on roads to discourage irresponsible parking.’

‘I’m not sure a double yellow line is going to keep any Trolls out,’ I said. ‘Why do you have “keen-eyed” in your title?’

‘Most people use a string to help them keep the white lines straight,’ he said. ‘But we do it by eye alone.’

‘Very useful.’

‘It certainly saves a lot of time. I’m sorry we’re not what you thought we’d be, but on the plus side we have given the local football and rugby grounds a bit of a freshen-up, and the parking regulations on the streets of Penzance have never been more unambiguous.’

‘This is beginning to reek not of error but of sabotage,’ grumbled Once Magnificent Boo. ‘Somebody not so much jammed the magic, as subverted it.’

This was indeed possible – especially with telepathically transmitted ideas. Full Price, who had up until that moment looked downhearted given that he and Mawgon were mostly to blame for the misspelling, suddenly perked up.

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘but at least we have a thousand terrible warriors. They’ll be taking a bigger share of the fight, and if they are as terrible as their name suggests, they’ll be more than useful. They’ll be indispensable.’

‘Oh dear oh dear oh dear,’ came the voice of the third representative, who was wringing his hands in a desperate manner, ‘this is all looking very frightening – we’re all dead for sure. And what’s more, I think I left the gas cooker on when I came out this morning, I have a rash on my foot that might turn out to be fatal and the gearbox in my car is making a funny noise.’

I looked at Monty Vanguard, who looked back with a resigned half-grimace. I turned back to the so-called warrior.

‘You warriors are worriers, aren’t you?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said the terrible worrier, ‘I don’t think there is a single one of us who is expecting anything other than complete defeat under the Trolls – and is not fretting horribly about it. Will we be expected to pay for our rooms? I’ve not much money and I may have to go and live in an abandoned car somewhere. Am I being boring? I’ve had twenty years of therapy to make me less tedious. It was thirty pounds an hour. Do you think that was too much? I do. Unless you don’t agree – and then I’ll be conflicted.’

And he put his head in his hands and issued a long and melancholic sigh.

‘It’s fine,’ I said, ‘you’re not boring and hotel management and staff are working for free while we figure out a way to beat the Trolls.’

‘Oh,’ said the terrible worrier, ‘that’s good – except for the Trolls. Do I look good enough to eat? You can be honest with me.’

‘It’s really looking like mischief now,’ said Once Magnificent Boo.

‘I’m thinking you’re right,’ I said. ‘Do we have anyone here who is militarily trained?’

Monty consulted his clipboard.

‘The Cornish army is absent as they only did it for fun at the weekends,’ he said, ‘but we do have about forty people who have some military training. Haberdashers mostly – and after having a rummage we found eighteen swords, four firearms, three spears, six dozen pointy sticks, nine daggers and a trebuchet.’

‘A trebuchet?’ I said, as this was at least a viable weapon – a medieval siege engine designed to hurl rocks at castles. Although superseded by artillery and landships they were very ‘in’ at the moment owing to a recent fad for ‘retro warfare’.

‘Not a very large one,’ said Monty, looking at his clipboard again. ‘In fact, only a model.’

‘We could bring it very close to the Trolls and hope that they don’t fully understand the laws of perspective and mistake it for a full-sized one,’ suggested the Guild of Fencer’s representative.

‘That’s kind of a long shot,’ I said.

‘Or rather,’ put in Colin with a snigger, ‘it won’t be much of a long shot.’

There was silence.

‘Long shot?’ he said. ‘Trebuchet?’

No one laughed, and Colin looked crestfallen.

‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘I think I only want to hear what we do have from now on. Assets we can exploit to bring our battle to the Trolls.’

Before anyone could say anything, the Remarkable Kevin Zip suddenly stood up.

‘Something’s going to happen,’ he said in a quiet voice.

‘What?’ I said.

‘I said: “Something’s going to happen”.’

‘Yes, I know what you said,’ I replied, used to Kevin’s ways by now. ‘I was just wondering what important thing will happen?’