The Great Troll War

That the Trolls were here at all was due to Troll War V, which had been going for only two weeks but already had a clear winner: the Trolls. They had flooded out of Trollvania and rampaged rapidly southwards with little resistance from the various Republics, Duchies, Social Collectives, Fiefdoms, Principalties and privately run City States of the UnUnited Kingdoms. The rapid invasion was due to a favourable tactical advantage: they were indifferent to us. Hating humankind would have been easier to counter as at least there could be some sort of debating position between our species. What led you to hate us so much? How do we arrange some sort of peaceful coexistence? Will you please stop eating us? None of those questions meant much to the Trolls. They can’t be swayed by reason or compassion or compromise for they regard humans as little more than vermin: an annoying pest that can outgrow the boundaries of their own environment in as little as nine centuries. Some humans think of rabbits in the same way: nuisances who damage the land, breed without conscience and are good only for the pot. The only difference between rabbits and humans as far as Trolls are concerned is that they can’t wear us as a hat – although many have tried with varying degrees of success. In any event, there’s little sense arguing with a Troll.

I had been in the Cambrian Empire when they invaded, searching for the Eye of Zoltar,1 a fiery jewel with magical properties that the Mighty Shandar had tasked us to obtain in return for not killing the last two Dragons, something he had been contracted to do several centuries before. You’ll hear more about Shandar later. All you need to know right now is that he’s the most powerful sorcerer that has ever lived – and also turning out to be the least scrupulous.

I’d returned with the Eye and also Once-Magnificent Boo, who we had rescued from being ransomed. Addie, who had been our guide in the Cambrian Empire and in which capacity we owed her our lives, saw us safely to Cornwall, and made good on her promise to protect the Princess on the journey. She then returned to her village to fight the Troll. She had been reluctant to leave us, but the Princess had insisted.

‘What’s the Troll doing?’ asked Princess Shazine of Snodd, who was standing next to me.

‘Imagining us both inside a pie,’ I replied.

‘With white sauce, asparagus and badger’s paws, I imagine,’ said Tiger Prawns, who was also present. He was an orphan like me, only younger – ten, I think – and had a Moral Worth Index that was certainly in the top ten per cent. He had been due to take over from me the running of Kazam, the last house of enchantment, which is a sort of home for barely-sane sorcerers. But all those plans were upset by the Troll invasion: in what was likely a preemptive measure to stop us using magic against the Trolls, the head offices of Kazam at Zambini Towers were destroyed by a single and very powerful thermowizidrical blast, killing several dozen sorcerers, destroying countless volumes of spells and reducing the building to rubble. As soon as it was safe to do so, the dragons and surviving sorcerers headed to Troll-free Cornwall with Tiger Prawns among them. We’d joined him in Penzance a week later. That was five days ago and we’d spent the time trying to figure out a strategy of resistance and had so far not come up with much – I was due to convene a meeting later that morning.

Today’s post-breakfast visit to the Button Trench was to ensure that it was holding firm – and to welcome any human stragglers who had crossed under cover of darkness.

‘Badger’s paws are hideously out of fashion,’ said the Troll, whose ears, although only small holes in his head, made for surprisingly good hearing. ‘We prefer a garnish of week-old goat entrails.’

‘Two weeks,’ said his wife, who was also on guard duty at the Button Trench. ‘Goat entrails aren’t nearly putrid enough in a week.’

They stared at each other angrily and both went the colour of a radish, the veins in their temples standing out like tree-roots. A Troll’s temper is short and explosive and usually accompanied by extreme violence.

‘It’s warmer this far south,’ said the Princess, who always spoke her mind, even to Trolls. ‘You’re probably both right regarding goat putrefaction rates when seen as combination factors of temperature against time.’

This was likely, as all Trolls lived until recently in the far North of the Kingdoms where the weather is disposed towards the inclement.2

‘I can put it in a spreadsheet if you like,’ she added.

‘I like spreadsheets,’ said the Troll Wife thoughtfully; like her husband, she was quick to temper yet quick to lose it. ‘I have one that calculates the correct cooking rates for humans based on their Body Mass Index.’

‘Undercooked humans present numerous health hazards,’ explained the Troll Husband helpfully. ‘It’s a bit of a worry. Spending a day in bed after eating a dodgy human is rarely agreeable.’