‘Precious ones,’ Nonna cooed in between kissing and stroking their faces with her sandpaper hands. ‘It is important to want to save da world but more important to stay close to those who lova you. Now, promise you won’t desert us again.’
‘It’s only been a few days, Nonna,’ Ernest protested, his voice muffled by the garlicky apron. Nonna Luna allowed him to come up for air but surveyed him closely.
‘No tattoos?’ she asked suspiciously, checking any skin that was exposed. ‘When Lampo meet that beastly Bombasta the firsta thing he do is get her name tattooed sumawhere I’d rather not say,’ she explained.
Ernest flushed with embarrassment. ‘No, Nonna, I haven’t got any tattoos,’ he replied, hastily pulling down his shirt as Nonna tried to peer under it. ‘And I’m not remotely interested in a girlfriend.’
‘Ask him if he found a boyfriend,’ Milli prompted, thinking of Princess Salt.
Nonna Luna’s head jerked around in horror, but Ernest glared at Milli and came up with an effective distraction.
‘One thing I have noticed is a lot more headaches since being away from here. You might need to check me for the Malocchio.’
At the mention of the evil eye all the children gave a synchronised groan. With no Milli and Ernesto to tend to, Nonna Luna had kept herself occupied by flushing their systems of all bad thoughts and ill intentions. They had only submitted to this because of Nonna Luna’s skill for making chicken parmigiana, which was nothing short of a gift.
Harrietta was not quite ready to surrender the limelight just yet. ‘First let them see what we’ve been working on,’ she said to Nonna Luna.
Nonna nodded in agreement and took back the tray she had been carrying. Under the tea towel was the strangest and most unappetising-looking snack the children had ever seen. Milli guessed it was supposed to be some sort of dessert given the fine-stemmed glass it was served in. But unlike most desserts, it was a murky shade of green.
‘One broccoli soufflé for my Gummy,’ Nonna said and set the tray down before him.
Milli looked in wonder at Gummy, who had taken on the demeanour of an emperor. Everyone hovered around him like disciples, hoping he might share some of his wisdom. But the only words that passed Gummy’s lips were, ‘Mmm, tasty…’ He picked up a spoon and licked his lips.
You see, it does not matter to a boy like Gummy Grumbleguts what he is eating, so long as he is eating something. If he can engage in the action of chewing and swallowing then he is content. Today there would be all sorts of theories as to why Gummy was the size he was, and terms like ‘low self-esteem’ and ‘smothering parents’ might be bandied about in staff rooms. But the simple fact of the matter was that Gummy lived to eat. He did not like food; he loved it. And he saw no reason to deprive himself of what he loved. You cannot dream about food the way Gummy did; about chocolate pudding with white chocolate sauce or Christmas turkey with all the trimmings, and then be expected to survive on tinned salmon and raw vegetables.
The broccoli soufflé was primarily made up of layers of green foam. It looked more like a green ice-cream sundae and the children wondered if Nonna Luna, with her imperfect English, had got her words mixed up. They stopped thinking this once they spotted the giant red bean on the top where you might have expected to find a glacé cherry or a shard of chocolate. Beneath the mushy layers, pale stalks floated alongside noodles around the bottom of the glass. It looked like some sort of monstrous alien creation that should have come with a warning: Not for human consumption. But Gummy tucked in readily and even paid his compliments to the beaming chef.
It was an indication of Nonna’s wizardry in the kitchen that the expression on Gummy’s face as he shovelled the green gunge into his mouth was one of pure bliss.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Bloodthirsty Preparations
Before she left them for what would be their last night at Battalion Minor, Nonna Luna poured each child a thimbleful of a bitter liquor she called A Hundred Herbs, which she said would aid their digestion and settle their nerves. Even with the assistance of this draught, not much sleeping went on in the barracks that night.
Milli, for one, could not relax. The change in some of the children worried her. It was a new obstacle that could threaten their unity as a group, and it made her consider the old adage divide and conquer with a new understanding. How could the division be repaired? The damage done in their absence was too extensive to be undone overnight. How could she convince the children that their fears of the Fada were unfounded? Milli’s thoughts turned to the impact recent events had had on her own outlook. Experience was certainly a double-edged sword, she decided. On the one hand, it was necessary to prevent one making the same mistakes (which could make life very tedious after a while). On the other hand, it meant you might never again have the pleasure of letting your thoughts wander untrammelled by concern about what lay around the next corner. It was not such a good idea to acquire too much knowledge of the world too soon.
For the first time since their arrival in the Conjurors’ Realm, Milli felt a wave of remorse. She had been so petulant and preoccupied about attending the Lampo Circus that she had not once stopped to consider her mother’s objective in keeping her away.
As it turned out, Rosie’s apprehension had been justified. She was right to be wary. If the parents of Drabville had been less trusting, they might not have so guilelessly surrendered their children to a stranger in a top hat, no matter how much amusement he promised them.
Milli suddenly felt the need for a friendly ear with whom to share such weighty observations. She looked around for Ernest. He was shaking out his bedding.
‘What exactly are you doing?’ she snapped.
‘Airing my pallet as you can see,’ Ernest replied calmly. ‘I want to make sure it’s infestation free.’
‘Pallet’ is just another word for a mattress or bed made of straw. Ernest was taking comfort in the one thing he felt he had some control over: precision of language. It was Ernest’s belief that if you knew the exact word for something you should try to incorporate it into your everyday speech. Milli, he had not failed to notice, had become rather careless with her speech lately and had more than once substituted ‘thingy’ when the correct word eluded her.
Milli rolled her eyes in a display of impatience. ‘Can’t you find anything more useful to do?’ she said more rudely than she intended.
‘Milli, don’t be such a baguette.’
‘For your information, Ernest Perriclof, baguette is the French word for a bread stick. Are you sure you mean baguette?’
‘Quite sure. It also means “little bag”.’
‘I’ll stop being a little bag when you stop being a…a horseradish!’
‘Let me get this straight—you are comparing me to a sharp condiment?’
‘You obviously don’t know that horseradish is a root vegetable so tasteless and horrible only a horse will eat it.’
They both had to laugh then, comforted by the knowledge that whatever else had altered in their lives, their ability to get on each other’s nerves and just as quickly make up had not.
When they woke, the children discovered that several heavy trunks had been delivered to the barracks overnight. Rummaging through them they found various pieces of armour from different time periods, some so corroded they might have come from a munitions museum. They gingerly lifted out dusty breastplates, visors, steel tubing designed to protect shins, and various rusty rapiers taller than themselves. There were shields so big they were only going to be effective if the children hid under them.
When Milli succeeded in putting on a breastplate designed for a grown man she could barely stand straight under its weight. When Ernest experimented with the shin protectors he found he could only walk with his legs spread wide apart, which prompted a comment from someone that he looked like he’d just had a major accident.
‘I thought this stuff was meant to be indestructible,’ commented Gummy as he held up a shield so badly corrod
ed he could put his fist through in several places. He discarded it and struggled with a chainmail headpiece, finally giving up and deciding to wear it as a headband instead.
Were they not about to march off to actual warfare, the children might have enjoyed the dress-ups, so comical did they all look. Of one thing there was little doubt: not much thought had gone into their safety.
When Oslo looked in to check on their progress, Milli had the temerity to ask, ‘Don’t you think we would fight much more effectively if we could actually move?’
‘Is it Question Time?’ he asked sardonically and ordered them all outside.
‘At last the Final Fray is upon us. Are you ready to conquer?’ Oslo boomed from Fiend’s back as he cantered up and down the ranks of children assembled outside the mess hall. When no response was forthcoming, he tried to spur them on further.
‘Never forget the three Cs: crush, clobber and clout all who stand in your path! You don’t look like warriors to me! Bare those teeth and flex those forearms. This is no game you are playing. You are about to sully [sally] forth into battle against some of the most feared creatures in the Realm. Remember to be on your guard. If you don’t desiccate [decimate] those Fada quickly, they won’t hesitate to get you!’
Oslo proceeded to coach his young fighters on the conventions of battle but it seemed to the children that he really had only one message for them: that there were no conventions. He did not appear at all confident about their readiness for the Final Fray, and some of the more soft-hearted children felt like patting his arm and reassuring him that he’d done his best. As no one could predict what response this might unleash it was best their commiseration remained unshared.
Oslo ended his rousing speech with a short demonstration on the use of weaponry. He showed them how effective a blunt object (like the mace with its metal spikes) could be in penetrating armour and causing concussion and trauma to vital organs like the brain. Daggers, on the other hand, were useful for striking vulnerable points on the body like the eyes or armpits.
‘The trick to wearing armour,’ Oslo said, as if he were imparting a highly guarded secret, ‘is to forget you’ve got it on. A trained knight can run, tumble and even belly dance in his armour he is so used to wearing it.’
The children noticed that this couldn’t be said for Oslo, who was wearing a new plumed helmet that kept slipping down and obscuring his vision. It wasn’t a sight to inspire confidence. So beside himself with nerves was he that at times Oslo broke into spontaneous war chant or clasped the child unfortunate enough to be closest to him in a clumsy soldierly embrace. Oslo’s hope on this frosty morning was that he had at least instilled in his young soldiers a thirst for victory. Given their long faces and the way they restlessly shuffled their feet, he was not sure he had succeeded.
Federico Lampo and Contessa Bombasta arrived in a curtained litter carried by stumpy-legged ogres. It was little wonder they looked so fresh and well rested. By contrast, the poor children had been woken at the crack of dawn by the dogs, had struggled to put on their battle gear and been ordered to line up before they’d even had a warm drink. Most were still rubbing sleep from their eyes, too tired to be all that concerned about the day’s outcome. Rather than lusty warriors about to conquer a province, they felt as rusty as old bicycles.
The Contessa’s personal assistants arrived wearing tailored suits and carrying briefcases. They were followed by her little bow-legged accountant. Mr Ledger squinted as if unaccustomed to daylight and carried a wad of invoices under one arm.
When Oslo assisted the Contessa down from the litter, the children could see through the fringed curtains that it had been packed full of snacks (clusters of grapes, stuffed figs, champagne, caviar and roasted quail) as well as light reading in the form of romance novels. Clearly, the Contessa was expecting it to be a long day. If they were far enough away from the action, she hoped Federico might be persuaded to read to her from an old favourite as she fed him frosted grapes.
Both Lampo and the Contessa had chosen elaborate outfits in honour of the occasion and the children’s eyes widened when they saw them in their full glory. Federico’s rosy cheeks were redder than ever and he wore a rich mantle of red velvet over his pressed uniform. Bombasta was dressed from head to foot in silver fur, making her look like the Abominable Snowman. Her gloves were made from the thick coat of the recently extinct Chinwag Penguin and her shoes were fringed with the fleece of baby pandas. To get into the spirit of the occasion she wore diamond earrings in the shape of miniature bows and arrows. Her appearance confirmed the maxim: money cannot buy taste. Even Muffy-Boo—who must have regretted returning to his mistress that morning—was dressed for battle in a breastplate of beaten brass. It must have chafed terribly because the little dog was constantly scratching and became very distressed when he couldn’t reach the spots that needed most attention.
‘I am very worried,’ Bombasta said suddenly. ‘How will we know what is happening, Lampo?’
‘Reports will be brought to us, my dear Contessa. We will be kept constantly informed.’
‘I require my information to be first-hand,’ pouted Bombasta.
One of her assistants promptly produced a pair of dainty binoculars from her briefcase and placed them solemnly in the Contessa’s hand.
‘What if I used binoculars?’ Bombasta suggested, as if the idea had just occurred to her. She turned again to Lampo. ‘Have those wretched artists arrived yet?’
‘Of course. Van Palette and Canvasari are already on location, setting up their easels as we speak. They are demanding double their fee if any of their blood is spilled.’
‘Artists can be so precious!’ said the Contessa with a shake of her head.
‘However, as Patroness of the Arts it would be remiss of me to let such a momentous occasion pass without it resulting in at least a couple of masterpieces.’
‘Your generosity knows no bounds,’ Lampo gushed as he kissed her hand.
‘How will we dispose of any leftover brats when the battle is won?’ Contessa Bombasta pondered now that she was on a problem-solving roll. ‘My piranhas are very fussy eaters.’
‘Don’t trouble yourself about such matters. I believe the slave trade is alive and well and healthy children fetch a good price,’ Lampo sniggered.
‘Goody!’ said the Contessa, and they enjoyed a private giggle like a pair of schoolgirls who have just left a love note in a boy’s locker.
Fortunately our protagonists did not hear any of this conversation, otherwise Milli would have been inclined to march over and bop the Contessa with her own binoculars. Clearly the hundreds of abducted children were no more than bait in Lampo and the Contessa’s lucrative scheme. Once their goal had been realised, the children would be as irrelevant as theories about the creation of the Realm. What did it matter how things started? It was how they finished that was important to Bombasta.
‘It’s criminal what some people get away with,’ Finn said. He had been keeping a close eye on the Contessa and Lampo.
‘Maybe in the short-term,’ Milli replied. ‘But they always get their comeuppance.’
‘You don’t know that,’ Finn said, scrunching his freckled face into a scowl. His electric blue eyes clouded over and Milli knew he was thinking of the men who had taken his parents.
‘I don’t know it but I choose to believe it,’ she said firmly.
Just as they had been marshalled inside the gates by Oslo so many weeks before, the children now marched out in much the same manner. This time they were followed by Nonna Luna pushing the first aid cart, which now had a red cross roughly painted on its tarpaulin cover. Olive was perched on her shoulder. The owl looked unsettled by the commotion and kept swivelling her head around in order to try and hear what she could not see.
The children looked back for what might be their last glimpse of Battalion Minor. Although they weren’t sorry to be leaving, they did not want to forget their stay there. Despite their hardships, they had learned some impo
rtant lessons. They had banded together, taken care of one another and discovered the real meaning of friendship.
Oslo rode Fiend up and down alongside his tousled troops and looked back at the words suspended above the camp gates. ‘On to victory!’ he howled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Final Fray
The raggle-taggle army marched for a good three hours before Oslo called them to a halt near the border of Mirth. He had led them along back roads so overrun with bracken that they’d had to hack their way through in places. Still, they arrived so quickly compared to their first journey that Milli and Ernest could only conclude there must have been magic involved.
They made their way through a copse to find themselves in an open field where the earth was so parched and cracked only some sturdy cacti had managed to survive. In the distance they recognised the domed top of Queen Fidelis’s toadstool palace and the gates of the walled city. When they looked behind them, they saw that their army had burgeoned in size. They seemed to have picked up a diverse collection of Lord Aldor’s supporters along the way.
There were trolls armed with buckets and mops (being simpletons, they had taken the idea of cleaning up on the battlefield quite literally). A mob of leering witches from Hagdad hovered overhead, pouches of ingredients swinging from the ends of their twisted sticks. Occasionally, the white-haired women zoomed down to adjust a child’s shield or remind another of posture. The children squirmed at this contact and noticed that smudges of charcoal were left behind on whatever surface the hands of the hags happened to touch. The Goblins from Gobbo looked like they had drunkenly stumbled into a costume hire shop and made a poor selection. They wore cheerleader uniforms complete with pompoms and cropped jackets which they wore unbuttoned over their stout chests. Occasionally they broke into a cheerleading routine, singing jingles about the Fada (too bawdy to repeat here) and swinging their batons as if they were javelins. A line of giants from Thumpalot brought up the rear. They had been instructed to travel at some distance behind the group as the earth tremors caused by their lumbering steps was resulting in an outbreak of motion sickness. Some of them carried boulders, whilst others waved banners (actually old bed sheets) that read: MUSTA ALDOR ROKS DA REALM. Alas, with brains capable of entertaining only one idea at a time, some of the giants were already becoming sidetracked. They covered themselves with the sheets and pretended to be ghouls, or played peek-a-boo with each other by hiding their faces behind the boulders.