“It seems like George has a fight on his hands, with or without his precious blessing,” Terry said. “Maurice, can you use your sandals to warn him?”

“They make me fast, but I’m still a body in motion—I’d have to get myself through the troll army somehow,” Maurice replied.

“I’m not sure what good a warning would do at this point,” Gregor said. “He can’t sober up his army in a couple of hours. Besides, they should have their own scouts to prepare them.”

“They should, but do you think they do?” Arabelle said.

“I hope so,” Gregor replied. “But honestly I have no idea.”

“All right,” Terry said. “If we can’t feasibly warn him, then we’ve got to get to the castle and speak with the king. He’ll want to know about the troll army, as well.”

They moved through the forest at an even faster pace than previously, and as expected, arrived just as the sliver of a new moon was rising.

They crossed the royal lawns and in the dim light saw the horrific shadowy figure of the monster that had once been Talia and was now a hulking mass of dead flesh.

“I would have thought they’d have done something with her by now,” Maurice said.

“My mother would probably like to see her buried,” Terry replied, glumly.

“Sorry, Terry,” Arabelle said.

“It’s my mother’s burden, not mine,” Terry said. “Come on. Our duties lie with the living, not the dead.”

The sentries immediately lowered the drawbridge, and Terry saw that their arrival had interrupted dinner. The king sat at the long banquet table, with three senior members of the royal military. The queen was not in attendance.

“Come in,” the king shouted, glad in spite of the darkness of the occasion. “And tell us the news of the brigand army. I assume you’ve put down the rebellion? I’ve been discussing your skills at quickly amassing a fighting force, albeit an unruly one, with my chancellor. We’re quite impressed.”

“I did put down the rebellion, yes. Now they are about to be tested in battle with what appears to be a well-organized troll army,” Gregor said gravely.

“But will they fight?” the king said.

“I think so,” Gregor replied. “But I need proof of your blessing. They thought I had deceived them into becoming traitors to the crown.”

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“Of course we can provide you with a scroll, upon which we will place the royal seal,” the chancellor said.

Gregor cleared his throat uncomfortably. “That’s not all I need.”

“They want 10 gold coins. Each,” Terry said bluntly, and the king’s eyes grew large with disbelief. A rosy flush crept in on his face as he processed what his daughter had said.

“That’s—that’s—preposterous!” He finally finished. “And how many of these brigands are there?”

Terry looked at Gregor. “About 2500, milord,” he replied.

“So you need 25,000 gold coins to fight the trolls! That’s a quarter of the royal treasury!” He addressed his chancellor. “Have you ever heard of such—”

“Highway robbery?” Terry inserted, a funny smile on her face.

“Yes, indeed,” the chancellor said. “Sire, you are aware that our military, such as it is, has been largely ceremonial for the past 50 years. We can’t have a troll army and a mob of ogres controlling the forest next to your royal castle. I don’t see where we have a choice.” He addressed Gregor. “Will they take scrip?”

“I think so,” Gregor said.

“Surely they don’t expect to tuck ten gold coins upon their person and tromp through the forest fighting trolls,” the king scoffed.

“I don’t think they’re thinking anything,” Terry said. “It was the highwayman who proposed the idea—they just took to it right away, as one would expect.”

“The highwayman?” the king said.

“That’s the nickname of my twin brother, George,” Gregor replied. “He’s taking charge of the army in my absence.”

“And is it just a nickname?” the chancellor asked.

“It’s no matter,” Gregor replied. “His nickname will be vanquisher of trolls after tonight, or nothing at all.”

The crew provided more details about the troll army and the human rabble army that opposed it. Then the king rang a bell. A very sleepy old man with a long white beard and a plain black robe eventually stood before them, yawning. It was the chief scribe.

“Wake up your assistants,” the king said, and make out 2500 pieces of scrip good for 10 gold coins each.

“Yes, sire,” the old scribe said, now fully awake. But he remained standing still, his mouth a bit open.

“Well, go on—hurry! We need it by dawn.”

“Oh—yes, sire,” he responded again, and this time hurried out of the room.

“We’ll take our leave, too,” the king said, rising. His advisors rose along with him. “I’ll see you off at dawn with the scroll and the scrip. Try to get some sleep dear,” he added, and patted Terry on the shoulder.

“Your father’s right,” Maurice said. “We should try to sleep.”

But Arabelle shook her head. “I can’t. I’ve got this one chance to retrieve my wand. Without it, I’m almost useless to you.”

“How are you going to do that?” Terry asked.

“I’m going out to the royal lawns, where Zyzzyva disappeared. Then I’m going to cast a wand-finding spell and see if I can wrest it back from whatever realm it’s stuck in. It’s only been 24 hours. I have a better chance to find it now than I ever will.”

“Do you think a spell could help me find my golden ball?” Terry asked.

“Are you sure you should even still have it?” Maurice said. “Something tells me it disappeared for a reason. Maybe you should be looking for something that suits you better as a more developed warrior. You’re a mighty force with the saber.”

“Yes, I should still have it!” Terry said, stubbornly. “It’s my golden ball!” She knew her answer was unreasonable. “It’s—a family heirloom,” she finished weakly. “Blessed by Old Tom.”

“I don’t think Old Tom is returning this generation,” Arabelle said.

“Me neither,” Old Tom replied.