The Great Troll War

Princesses

The one who had spoken was pencil thin, sumptuously dressed, and seemed to glide when she walked, as if she had spent the first ten years of her life balancing a book on her head to aid elegant deportment.

‘That’s Princess Jocamanica,’ whispered the Princess, who had also been avoiding the princesses. ‘She spent the first ten years of her life balancing a book on her head to aid elegant deportment.’

‘I never would have guessed. They’re not actually going to execute us, are they?’

‘Of course not. It’s all princessy trash talk. We always boast we can have you beheaded or bricked up in a cellar and starved or fed to crocodiles in the moat, but we never actually do. It’s seen as a little unseemly these days – and the price of crocodiles is astronomical.’

‘I’m sorry?’ I said to Jocaminca, in no mood to be threatened with execution. ‘Are you addressing me?’

Princess Jocaminca visibly rankled.

‘I shall be addressed as “Her Royal Highness the Princess of Shropshire, uncrowned queen, Jocaminca Dabforth Pipplesqunge IV”,’ she announced in a haughty manner, ‘and I would expect all others of low birth to address the royalty present in this hotel in the correct fashion. Isn’t that right, girls?’

The others all nodded their heads vigorously, except the ones who thought it below them, who had their servants do it instead.

‘I made some notes as to the correct way we should be addressed and treated,’ said Princess Tabathini, who seemed more pleasant than the rest, probably because she was a second-tier princess, meaning she only had a single castle and fewer than a dozen servants. I think she had only been at the Princess Convention because someone pulled out and they wanted to make up the numbers.

‘It runs to almost ninety pages,’ she continued, ‘so you may have to hand it round once memorised.’

‘On another matter, Miss Strange,’ said Princess Jocaminca, ‘I am hereby informing you that I, as the ranking uncrowned queen of the largest Kingdom here, place myself in charge of negotiating the manner by which we shall surrender to the Troll. I understand there is a Sorcerer’s Conclave planned. I shall preside over it and take control in all matters relating to how we shall proceed.’

‘Oh yes?’ said the Princess, who had obviously been thinking about the whole ‘nominal leader’ deal and decided that now was the moment to reveal herself. ‘Three things: first, we are not going to surrender. Not now, not ever. Second, as uncrowned queen of the Kingdom of Snodd – a bigger and way more prestigious Kingdom than yours – I believe the honour of presiding over the method of resistance should fall to me. Third, I have the support of Jennifer Strange, who is Dragon Ambassador to the world, the nation’s Head Mystician and manages the only House of Enchantment in the Kingdoms. If we are to vanquish the Troll, we need magic on our side, Jennifer as our trusted adviser, and to work together as a team.’

Princess Jocaminca gaped like a fish at what she saw as a servant’s gross impertinence.

‘I beg your pardon. You are emphatically not Princess Shazine. That princess is tall and graceful and lovely, while you are short and ugly and utterly lacking in grace. If I had a servant right now I would command them to horsewhip you for your insolence.’

It was a fair point as the Princess had indeed been bodyswapped, so she related as proof things only a princess could know, such as the optimal temperature when bathing in rabbit’s milk, and the ascending order of eligible princes in the Kingdoms, with all their titles and star ratings for good looks, personality and cash.

‘Anyone who reads What Prince Monthly would know that,’ said Princess Jocaminca in a sniffy tone, ‘it means nothing.’

‘Okay,’ said the Princess, who knew full well that there was no physical proof she was anyone but Laura Scrubb, a lowly servant, ‘let’s ramp this up a notch. You and I and Cheryl and Candice and Tabathini over there were together in I’m a Princess Get Me Out of Here two years ago. You were voted out of the palace in the first round because you refused Task One: shaking hands with a poor person without grimacing.’

‘That was never broadcast.’

‘No,’ said the Princess, ‘and neither was the round where Princess Stellerini threw a massive 3.2 Richter Scale tantrum when she was told to reduce her entourage to only six servants and wear the same dress twice. None of you even got to the round where you had to do ironing or sew a button on a shirt.’

‘Who won?’ I asked out of curiosity. The show had been a big ratings winner, more popular than ‘No Money but an Impressive Title, in which five princes of impecunious means but an impressive bloodline had to battle it out to win the hand of a Grade VII princess, the sort whose Kingdom is barely larger than a couple of football fields.11

‘Princess Organza of Midlandia,’ said the Princess, and they then set about talking about how awful she was, how she would soon lose her looks, how she had ‘certainly let herself go since the wedding’ and was also – shock horror – far too nice to her servants, something that ‘would only lead to ruin’.

‘I was there when Princess Shazine was bodyswapped by her mother the Queen and entrusted to me,’ I said, before the princessy trash-talk got them all too distracted, ‘and as Royal Mystician to the Court of the Kingdom of Snodd, I can vouch for her.’

‘Not conclusive,’ said Princess Jocaminca. ‘Besides, your “princess” currently has her finger up her nose.’

I looked at the Princess, who did indeed have her finger up her nose.

‘I think I’ve found an impressively large booga,’ said the Princess. ‘It’s been bothering me all morning.’

‘It was the bodyswapping,’ I explained hastily. ‘Some of Laura Scrubb’s personal habits came across with it. If she ever asks you to pull her finger, please don’t.’

‘Eugh,’ said Jocaminca.

It was time to play my trump card. I had wanted to keep it for the coronation, but the time was now. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small leather pouch that contained a gold signet ring with the seal of Snodd cut into turquoise, surrounded by oak leaves, a Dragon and a very small advert for Fizzi-Pop.12

‘Queen Mimosa gave me this in secret,’ I said, ‘for a moment such at this.’

I took the Princess’s hand and slid the heavy gold ring on her third finger. She stared at it for a moment, and tears welled up in her eyes. She looked at me and I nodded. Her mother had been an ex-sorceress herself, and likely had a premonition something bad was going to happen, and that bodyswapping her with a lowly maidservant was the only way by which the spirit of the royal bloodline could be preserved. I think Princess Jocaminca realised it too.

‘Your Royal Highness Crown Princess Shazine Blossom Hadridd Snodd,’ she said politely. ‘I humble myself in your presence and await your bidding.’

And she curtsied. As it turned out, the princesses who had signed up for the conference were all Grade II princesses of middling-sized Kingdoms, and none of them had the clout the Princess had – and they knew it. Say what you like about princesses, they know their place within the nation’s royalty.

‘I may have the body of a handmaiden,’ said the Princess, ‘with bandy legs, lank hair and several unsightly skin infections which will be dealt with as soon as the tests come back from the labs, but I have the mind and heart of an uncrowned queen, and I will not rest until the scourge of the Troll is vanquished from this land.’

And without waiting for a reply, she turned and set off for where the Sorcerer’s Conclave was being held: the ballroom of the hotel. I turned and followed her.

‘Did that sound queenly?’ she asked as we walked along the corridor to the ballroom.

‘Very,’ I replied. ‘I’d better start calling you “ma’am”.’

‘Only in public. When we’re alone I want you to call me “Shazza”, and look, for what you’ve done so far and will do in the future, I hereby make you a Knight of the Realm of Snodd.’

‘I’m honoured, of course, I think,’ I said, ‘but can girls actually be knights?’

‘They can if I say they can,’ she replied with a smile. ‘No point being the queen if you can’t make your own rules. Save me a place at the Conclave, would you? I’m bursting for a wee.’

And she hurried off towards the toilets.

‘Well,’ said Tiger once she had gone, ‘Sir Jennifer Strange, eh?’

‘I’m not sure it’s official without the sword stuff,’ I said, ‘but on reflection, I think I’d wear the label “orphan” with greater pride.’

‘Yeah,’ said Tiger, ‘me too.’

‘Quark,’ said the Quarkbeast.

We paused in the elevator lobby outside the ballroom, where Prince Omar Ben Nasil was working on his flying carpet,13 a threadbare specimen that smelled of unwashed spaniels and would have been rejected outright by almost any charity shop you could mention. The carpet was hovering about two feet off the ground, and Nasil was dressed in overalls and lying on a wheeled skate, the way a mechanic might do working under a car. He seemed to be delicately patching the centuries-old carpet, and the inspection light underneath shone through to reveal quite plainly its age and woefully threadbare condition.

‘How’s it going?’ I asked.

‘Not good, Jenny,’ he said, wheeling himself out from under the carpet to talk to us, ‘the Angel’s Feathers entwined in the warp gives it the ability to float, but it’s magic that controls it, so with the HENRY still operative, we’re not going anywhere.’

‘Well, do your best,’ I said, and he nodded, grinned, then wheeled himself back under the carpet and carried on whistling to himself. We were about to walk into the ballroom when I heard someone call my name.

‘Oh, Miss Strange?’

It was Tabathini, the really tall princess, who was so ridiculously thin that if she were painted pink and taught to walk backwards, she would be indistinguishable from a flamingo.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s about Her Royal Highness the Crown Princess Shazine Blossom Hadridd Snodd.’

‘Yes?’

‘She’s not the Crown Princess.’

‘I thought we’d established that’s exactly who she was.’

‘No – no, I mean she’s not just the Crown Princess. She’s technically … the queen of all the UnUnited Kingdoms. Or, as we should say now: the United Kingdoms.’

‘What?’ I said, as the whole point of the Kingdoms was that they had never been united, not once, not ever, not even the tiniest bit.

‘It’s Rule 35b,’ she said, showing me an underlined section in her pocket edition of The Rulebook of Rules about Ruling for Rulers. The awkwardly titled tome was the technical manual that covered all aspects of ruling in the UnUnited Kingdoms, whether they be an insane tyrannical despot or a touchy-feely communal-led socialist collective. I peered closer.

‘Chapter 9, Paragraph 7, Subsection D, Rule 35b,’ said Princess Tabathini, running her finger along the line of fine text. ‘If the Albion Archipelago is invaded by a hostile force, the most senior monarch/ruler still at liberty is to assume command of all the Kingdoms until such time as that ruler relinquishes leadership and/or invading forces are defeated.’

Tiger and I looked at one another.

‘Wow,’ said Tiger, ‘she’s now the supreme leader of all the Kingdoms. That’s a lot of people to be responsible for.’

‘Do we tell her?’ asked Princess Tabathini. ‘I mean, power like that can go to a person’s head, and the next thing we know she’ll be wanting a toilet of pure gold and have an honour guard dressed in peacock feathers and bacon.’

‘Does that happen?’ asked Tiger.

‘More than you think,’ said Tabathini, rolling her eyes.

‘I’ll speak to her,’ I said, ‘but keep this under your hat, eh?’

Princess Tabathini walked off and Tiger and I looked at one another again. The Princess didn’t seem like the sort of person who would suddenly want a gold toilet, but you never knew with princesses.

As soon as we’d entered the ballroom for the meeting and been given our name badges, Monty Vanguard walked over. After escaping Zambini Towers, he’d been in the first wave of displaced citizens to get to Cornwall. As ranking sorcerer he’d directed the filling of the Button Trench, then set up a command post in the Queens Hotel, ostensibly because he had stayed there for a couple of nights in the eighties and really liked it.

‘Hello, Monty,’ I said, ‘how’s the Button Trench holding up?’

‘Secure for the moment,’ he said, ‘although quite what’s stopping them having a human contingent under threat of eat-death remove the buttons to allow them to cross is a little confusing.’

‘Or simply a large tree felled to bridge the gap,’ said Tiger, ‘or a coach.’

‘I agree,’ said Monty. ‘They’re waiting for something.’

‘Shandar was behind all this,’ I replied, ‘and I think it’s something bigger than reluctance over giving refunds.14 How are the observers doing?’

‘Up and running,’ he said. The first task after the Button Trench was completed had been to create a chain of observers who could report in with news of Troll movements to the Human Defence Control room situated in the hotel’s Reading Room.

‘We’ve got at least twelve observers in each Kingdom. They’re also part of an attempt to set up splinter resistance groups who will be ready to move when we have a centralised plan to retake the islands. Since the HENRY has wiped out all wizidrical forms of communication – shoe, conch or hubcap15 – we’re having to rely on antiquated telephone networks with two-way homing snails as a back-up.’

Snails, as anyone will tell you, are only slow through lack of motivation. Suitably enthused, the average snail could match a human at a fast trot, with several larger varieties able to outrun a horse, so long as their moisture content holds out.

‘Okay, then,’ I said, ‘and how are you doing?’

Monty Vanguard was less of a spell maker and more of a spell writer. He wrote spells mainly using the modern ARAMAIC spell language, but could also edit with the ancient RUNIX, which was very useful when trying to figure out how old spells worked, and whether they could be adapted for a more modern use. His most recent triumph was finding a way to utilise the ancient spell that kept bicycles from falling over and rewriting it to offer an auto-stabilisation system for octogenarians who were now a little unsteady on their legs.

‘I’m holding up okay,’ said Monty in the sort of way that meant he wasn’t, ‘but I do miss Wizard Moobin.’

‘So do we all. Any late arrivals for the Conclave?’

He passed me a list of the attendees.

‘No one significant has arrived for over twenty-four hours,’ he replied. ‘I’ve invited non-wizidrical interested parties, too, as you requested.’

I thanked him and walked inside the large and well-decorated ballroom, all chandeliers and decorative plasterwork, with large picture windows lining the side facing the sea. The hotel staff had arranged the tables in a rough circle, and I sat to gather my thoughts. A lot had happened in the past fortnight, and I was still trying to keep up with the rapidly changing sequence of events.

I sighed. The Great Zambini would have known what to do.

Zambini had been my mentor, employer and, after the Mighty Shandar, the most powerful mage on the planet.16 He’d pulled Kazam together when magic was a dying art and had been working tirelessly to preserve the power and majesty of magic until he vanished while performing at a children’s party. He only reappeared from time to time, and never for very long. In his brief appearances I learned he’d become suspicious that he had been taken out of the picture deliberately, and I was convinced he was right. Since only he could realistically challenge the Mighty Shandar, it would make sense for Shandar to remove anyone who could stop him. When sorcerers go to the bad side, things can get very bad indeed.

‘Have I missed anything?’ asked the Princess as she sat next to me. ‘I’ve not been to a Sorcerer’s Conclave before, it’s rather exciting.’

‘We haven’t started yet. Look, I need to speak to you about something.’

‘Is it about Rule 35b?’ she asked in a quiet voice.

‘You know about that?’

‘My mother insisted I read the The Rulebook of Rules about Ruling for Rulers several times. I didn’t mention it earlier as being the supreme leader tends to make one a target for assassination and kidnappings by agents of a foreign power – and people start to grovel a lot and avert their eyes, which is just plain tiresome. It could be useful, though, leading the Kingdoms – and you know what?’

‘What?’

‘According to Rule 35b, I don’t actually have to give the Kingdoms back once the Trolls are vanquished. With absolute power comes the absolute right to do what I want even when the threat is removed. I could leave everything as it was, or radically alter the island – even towards a unification: one land, one people.’

‘You mean we could be a United UnUnited Kingdoms?’ asked Colin the Dragon, who had been listening intently. ‘Now that could be a thing. Standardised currency and education, a broad and attainable public health system for all, targeted financial assistance for those most in need and a centralised government that would promote trade by removing border controls. There could also be freedom of movement,’ he added, suddenly getting quite carried away, ‘equal opportunity employment rights, a banning of discriminatory practices and a responsible and workable constitution so citizens could enjoy broad and defendable rights and equality of opportunity. Best of all,’ he added, ‘domestic electrical plugs can all be the same. That one they use in Financia is just, well, weird.’

‘Five prongs,’ said Tiger, ‘and two of them made of liquorice.’

‘I like the sound of all that,’ said the Princess, ‘especially the plugs. I make you Minister for Good Ideas and Kingdom Integration – starting from now.’

‘Oh,’ said Colin, blinking twice, ‘thank you.’

‘No problem – but we’ve got to get rid of the Trolls first – then we can unite the country.’

‘Which d’you think will be harder?’ asked Tiger.

‘I think they’re probably about the same.’

The Princess removed the Helping Hand^™ from her wrist and placed it into sleep mode. A Helping Hand^™ was a useful magical gadget that was in effect a disembodied hand that could be utilised to help drive a car with heavy steering, reaching up to paint places you couldn’t reach and even playing accompaniment on a double bass. Since the Princess had lost her hand in hand-to-hand combat, she had come to rely on it, even though it was several sizes too big, was male, hairy, and had ‘no more pies’ tattooed on the back.

The doors to the ballroom opened at 2.20 and at 2.30 almost everyone was in place. At 2.34 Feldspar, the second Dragon, arrived, and although seemingly quite frightening, with scales and fangs and the occasional breath of fire – especially when excited – both the Dragons were so utterly non-Dragon and friendly that no one had much fear of them.

‘Sorry,’ he said apologetically, ‘I was conducting an aerial survey of the neighbouring Kingdoms. Have I missed anything?’

‘We were waiting for you,’ I said.

‘Oh,’ he muttered, then tried to get to his seat, but not without some difficulty. Both Dragons were about the size of a largish Shetland pony by now, barely one twentieth of their adult size, and very clumsy – they were happier in the air, to be honest, or curled up on a sofa binge-watching TV series. I had told them about Bergerac in an unguarded moment, and they now loved the series so much they watched it again and again.

‘Ow!’

‘Sorry.’

Feldspar had trodden on the chief marksman’s foot, and someone was sent to find a bag of frozen peas and some paracetamol. And so, after much apologising, everyone was seated. And at exactly 2.52 p.m., the Sorcerer’s Conclave began.