The Great Troll War

‘How many?’ I asked as we peered at the tower.

‘Five,’ said Colin, ‘all heavily armed. If I can’t get my pilot light relit, I don’t really rate our chances. My leathery hide will stop most small-arms fire, but not for ever. What’s Tiger like in a fight?’

‘What he lacks in stature he makes up for in ferocity – and he’s good at throwing knives.’

‘Could he kill someone?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I said, ‘and I can’t say whether I could either.’

It was a good point. Owing to the relentless depiction of death on TV, in theatre and the movies, killing someone often appears an easy choice and a satisfactory and acceptable way of dealing with conflict. I had serious doubts about this, and whether I could actually do so myself, if I had to.

‘A negotiator would be handy right now,’ said Tiger. Kidnapping princesses had generated a new profession: ransom negotiators and re-snatch squads would either work for the insurance company or even be employed by royal families in order to save losing their no-claims bonus.

‘I’m not sure we have the time to find one,’ said Colin. ‘If we don’t get the Princess back on the throne, Sir Matt will be giving the Quarkbeast to Shandar and negotiating with the Trolls.’

‘You’re right,’ I said, ‘this calls for more of an “on the hoof” plan. Tell me: how did you manage to talk to the Mysterious X when you wanted it to get in touch with me just now?’

‘I imagined myself back in the lobby of Zambini Towers and then imagined myself yelling the words.’

‘Think you can again?’

‘Sure.’

A half-hour later I was approaching the tower on foot from along the access road. As I walked, I could see one of the guards step out of the front door to meet me.

‘Far enough,’ he said when I was about fifty yards distant. He was a nasty-looking character, the sort of person I would use to make sure a kidnapped princess stayed kidnapped. He had leathery skin, wore military armour, and had recently been knighted as a chevron was hastily sewn to his shoulder. A knight was the King’s own guard and loyal to death – there would be little point in trying to talk him around.

‘I’ve come for the Princess,’ I said, ‘and I will not leave without her.’

‘Then you will not leave at all,’ he said. ‘The choice is yours.’

‘We will retake the Princess,’ I retorted. ‘She will return to the throne, and she will show mercy to you and your garrison so long as you step away. Refuse, and your next thought will be as carbon. What say you?’

‘I say that’s bold talk coming from a little girl,’ said the knight, and drew a revolver from a holster by his side, cocked the hammer and fired. I heard the shot zip past my ear, nicking my earlobe. Either it was the wind or I was lucky; if he fired at me ninety-nine more times, I think he would have got me square between the eyes every time. He was surprised himself, and pulled back on the hammer once more to place a fresh round behind the hammer.

But at that moment there seemed to be a commotion at the very top of the tower. The knight did not move, well aware that a distraction is a popular ploy. He perhaps should have. As he fired the second shot I brought out Exhorbitus and held it in front of me, and felt the bullet ricochet off the burnished blade and fly over my left shoulder. He fired again and Exhorbitus moved again, instantly changing my pre-thought to action, and the third slug was deflected from my abdomen and pinged off the roadway behind me. It was the last shot he fired. Above him, a lit oil lamp came sailing out of the highest window, just a random thought planted in the Princess’s head by the Mysterious X. Colin, waiting unseen on the back of the invisible Leviathan not sixty feet above the knight’s head, caught the lamp in mid-air and in one seamless move ignited the gaseous breath from his methane-producing stomach, pointed himself vertically downwards and let fly with an oily burst of fire.

I’m not sure of the precise ratio of methane to hydrogen to oxygen in Dragon breath, but what I do know is that Colin’s first attempt at carbonising went spectacularly well. In less than ten seconds the knight was transformed into a perfect charcoal facsimile of himself with every pore and eyelash preserved as a fragile carbon matrix that had once been complex life. As we watched, the blackened gun with the hand still attached fell to the ground, followed by the plates of armour in his coat. Within a few moments he had crumbled into a charcoal-coloured heap on the ground, only his lower legs remaining to show where he had once stood.

‘Woah,’ said Colin, who had alighted by my side. ‘That was necessary and just, right?’

‘He was trying to kill me,’ I said. ‘You did the right thing. Come on.’

We split left and right as a heavy machine gun opened up from a second-floor window, the bullet strikes chasing us along the ground as we ran for cover. But Ralph and the Leviathan’s work was not yet done, and seemingly from nowhere a large hole was punched into the tower, the bulk of the Leviathan suddenly visible as its chameleonic skin rippled with the shock. The front of the tower fell out, the machine gun was silenced, and I scrambled over the rubble to enter the building. I sliced left and right as I entered the ground-floor room, removing the arm and a hand of two potential assailants. There was the crack of a weapon from upstairs and I rushed up the narrow staircase while Colin flew in a tight orbit around the outside, acting as top cover for the operation.