Jasper Fforde - The Great Troll War

At that very instant the first rays of the new day bathed the scene in an amber glow.

‘Ma’am, your retreat path is waiting,’ said Tiger, pointing towards where the open door of my VW was waiting for us, engine ticking over. Colin would be waiting at the hotel, ready to whisk her off to the Isles of Scilly, where there would be no Trolls.

‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘General: order every barrier closed.’

The general transmitted the new order, but this went not just to one regional headquarters, but all of them: to the 173-mile fence that had been constructed along the old Offa’s path by an army of over ten thousand, who built the barrier from whatever was to hand, at night, by the light of torches and lanterns. It was decorated with buttons, and the last gap was completed, as we found out later, just as the sun rose. The fencers, their work complete, their hands and fingers bleeding, collapsed exhausted on the grassy flanks of the huge earthwork that would, for the second time in history, stand as a bulwark against the Troll.

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 53 Molly, the fifteenth, was with us. She never did go home. 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.’

It was the Mighty Shandar, who had been watching while seated on a deckchair. I hadn’t noticed him until now. With five thousand Trolls about to treat you as little more than a live buffet, I think I could be excused that.

I didn’t say anything; I knew what he’d come for.

‘Are you ready to go?’ he asked, looking at me. ‘I have a date with destiny and she doesn’t like being kept waiting.’

‘While I still have air in my lungs, Shandar,’ I said, ‘you will never have the Quarkbeast and I shall never be party to your heinous plans.’

‘Never say never, Jennifer. See there: the little fellow understands what he is, and what he was always meant to do.’

‘Quark,’ said the Quarkbeast as he trotted up. He looked up at me with his large mauve eyes. I felt him very clearly speaking in my head. Through the Mysterious X, I imagine.

‘It’s okay, Jennifer,’ he seemed to say, ‘sometimes death brings about opportunity. Don’t be afraid.’

I turned to Shandar.

‘You like deals. Here’s mine: if I come with you to be your strategic moral compass, will you spare the planet?’

He stared at me for a moment. Shandar was not called ‘The Mighty’ for nothing, and his power, against mine, was vast. There are occasions when you have to be realistic, and get the best deal you can in a bad situation. It was the first time I had put something on the table, the first time I had even conceded that he might have a winning hand. But then I think he knew I would – that the Better Angels that were once his were powerful indeed, the sort that would trade themselves for others. If he’d kept them, he might have been a good man.