The Great Troll War

Offa’s Dyke wasn’t the only one. Nine other barriers had also been constructed or painted, each restricting the open area in which the Troll could expand. From north to south and from east to west, following canals, and rivers, and estuaries, and roads. Sometimes walls, sometimes a blue line, sometimes a dyke built from earth, and at other times a beautifully pleached hedge – all decorated with buttons or painted cerulean blue. We learned later that over a hundred thousand people had worked on their construction, and from all walks of life: princes shoulder to shoulder with peasants, geeks alongside lingerie models, game-show hosts beside epidemiologists. All were committed to the destruction of the common foe, the cause of freedom, and to have vengeance for those who had been killed and eaten.

The sun’s face was only just clear of the distant horizon when the root-bridges touched the opposite side of the Button Trench, and the Trolls, savouring their moment of triumph, tied bibs around their necks and gave out silly grumpy chortles. They were taking their time, and they wanted us to know it.

‘It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?’ said the Princess.

And it was. A perfect late summer’s day, the distant clouds tinged with orange. It would be warm today, with a light breeze, and puffy white clouds would play across the sky. It was a shame I wouldn’t get to see it. I would take out a few, even many, but their numbers would eventually be too much for me, and I would be overcome. There was no running, no hiding – this was where it ended. The Mighty Shandar could just walk in and take the Quarkbeast – there would be no one left to defend it.

‘This is all my fault,’ said General Worrier, sobbing quietly. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘No,’ said the Princess, ‘the plan and execution were sound, we just didn’t have enough time. I promote you to field marshal.’

‘I really think you should retreat, ma’am,’ said Tiger.

‘No,’ said the Princess, looking up at me, ‘shoulder to shoulder, side by side. See you on the other …’

She had stopped talking as the Trolls had changed behaviour. Instead of waiting to invade, they were instinctively seeking out an identical partner and reabsorbing into one another, like spilled mercury. They did it without noise or complaint, just stoically accepting their new density ratio as their biology dictated. In less than half a minute their numbers had decreased by about a half.

‘That’s a relief,’ said Field Marshal Worrier.

It was indeed. We didn’t know it at the time, but the planned final gap of the Thin Blue Line that cut off Devon had not been the last one: farther down the line and unknown to the rest of the team was another group of painters, and it was this group that completed the line and precipitated the Trolls’ sudden reduction in numbers. Many of the surviving Trolls turned to go in order to seek partners to conjoin, while others stood there, looking foolish and unsure what to do next.

But their defeat was not yet complete. We knew we couldn’t get rid of them entirely since even the area the size of a sports hall could accommodate at least two – hence the second phase of our plan, when Field Marshal Worrier gave the order that the Troll Gates were to be closed. We knew the gates had been heavily guarded, but with the Troll numbers depleted by their enforced geographic bounding, their numbers might be small enough to be defeated by twelve hundred ‘gate pushers’ picked for their strength, bravery and willingness to be painted head to toe in cerulean blue. The field marshal gave the order, and we waited.

‘I don’t know about you,’ said the Troll Wife, who was one of only perhaps thirty left at the Button Trench bridges, ‘but I fancy a working breakfast.’

And they started once more to walk across the bridge. I drew out Exhorbitus and readied to do battle. But I didn’t need to, for every single Troll stopped, merged with a partner if it had one and, if not, wandered off to find one. It would take another six days for them to merge back into a minimum of fourteen,53 and two weeks for that small group to reach the Troll Wall, their progress assisted by the button barriers being raised and lowered as they walked.

The invasion was over. We had won.

But we didn’t celebrate or jump up and down, we just felt … relieved. Generally speaking, those who celebrate at the end of a conflict are the ones who were not directly involved. For those of us in the front line, for all those who built fences, dug trenches and painted blue lines while at risk of being eaten, all we wanted was to get home and back to normality – and to try and forget that our mother, brother, sister or children ended up in a large cauldron to be eaten with badger sauce, or boiled down into a sticky mass, frozen and then sold on a stick at a Troll carnival.

‘Bravo,’ came a voice accompanied by a slow handclap, ‘that was really very impressive.’