The Great Troll War

The One True Monarch

We made landfall at St Ives, and flew low across the Button Trench, where thousands more Trolls seemed to have gathered ahead of the order to invade. Shandar had said he’d remove the Trolls if we gave up the Quarkbeast, but he’d likely renege on the deal. Either way, we’d be fighting the Trolls – unless Shandar was serious about extracting the power of the sun to kickstart his galactic dominating aspirations – in which case battling the Trolls became somewhat pointless. Like rearranging the chairs on the deck of the Titanic.

The Leviathan dropped us off outside the Queens Hotel, and after I had hugged Ralph, thanked him for his help and he’d given me a gallon of blue warpaint that he bought cheap off a ‘fella he knew’, Tiger, myself and the Princess marched towards the main entrance, where, predictably enough, there was the same crowd that I had almost battled when they came for the Quarkbeast. The wiry one with the wide-set eyes was at the front but to the Princess’s credit, she didn’t break step as she walked towards them, and when they made no sign of moving, she stopped and spoke in a measured yet menacing tone:

‘I am your Queen. Step aside and you will be pardoned; block my way and you shall be beheaded. Choose well, choose fast, choose wisely.’

The wiry one at the front seemed to go through nineteen mixed emotions in the space of about four seconds. He knew, after all, that she was indeed his Queen. They all did. So he said, hedging his bets completely:

‘I agree … that you look very like our Queen. I will escort you to Their Highnesses so the truth of this matter be known.’

His colleagues, clearly relieved at an outcome that batted the decision to higher authority, all nodded their heads vigorously, and with a clanking of armour we were taken to the ballroom, which had been rapidly converted into a throne room, with the two most luxurious chairs in Penzance hastily painted gold with a spray can. Seated upon them were Sir Matt Grifflon and Betty Scrubb, dressed in royal finery and surrounded by a retinue of princesses, dignitaries, legal experts, guards and a whole heap of hangers-on, all eagerly working out how to set up a new constitution whereby Sir Matt could wield absolute power with just the thinnest veneer of democracy. A large copy of The Rulebook of Rules about Ruling for Rulers was laid out on a table, and a lot of people seemed to be discussing it. Or ways to get around the more democratic bits, anyway.

The room descended into hush as we marched in. Sir Matt, however, did not at first see who I was with.

‘Arrest that girl,’ he said when he saw me, ‘and the younger sidekick. Have them put to death.’

‘With or without due process?’ asked one of his aides.

‘Oh, definitely withou—’

His voice halted abruptly as he saw the Princess. Next to him on the dais, Betty Scrubb, usurper to the throne, simply stared daggers at us both, then calmed herself. Sir Matt Grifflon, slippery little eel that he was, might have been expecting something like this.

‘Goodness,’ he said, ‘a royal lookalike. Most useful in case of a kidnap threat. She shall be employed. Have the others beheaded.’

‘Wait a moment,’ said the Princess. ‘I am the rightful Queen of these nations. You kidnapped me, put this impostor on the throne and claimed my authority and lands illegally as your own. This is treason, plain and simple. I am willing to settle for your banishment, if you admit the plot right now, relinquish all rights and apologise in an appropriate manner.’

Sir Matt stared at her.

‘So you’re the Queen, are you?’

‘You know I am.’

He smiled and settled back into the throne.

‘Prove it.’

‘I will vouch for her,’ I said. ‘The so-called Queen up there is none other than Laura Scrubb’s identical sister Betty, a commoner and a thief. I call on the princesses present who knew Princess Shazine to ask her any questions you wish. This princess will be able to answer them, the usurper queen on that throne will not.’

‘I will not submit to parlour tricks which are below my dignity,’ said Betty Scrubb, ‘and you shall not put the burden of proof on me. You heard the King. If you are the Princess, then prove it, here and now. If not, get out.’

I looked at the Princess, who stared back at me. That was the problem about bodyswaps. There was no real way of telling who you really were. Add an identical twin sister to the mix – especially one who had gone to extreme lengths to perfectly match the Princess’s lost hand – and well, that was a bigger problem. Worse, it was indeed up to us to furnish the proof – and it would have to be beyond convincing. It would have to be airtight.