They took Callan away to the infirmary. Shock, they said. God knows what having his torc ripped from him felt like. I asked Strange if the elves could make the torc work for them, and he said, What are elves? Which didn’t exactly help matters. We would be revenged on the Blue Fairy later. No one steals from the Droods and lives to boast of it.

After all that drama, everything else went pretty much as planned. The strike forces went into ghoulville after ghoulville, using the tactics we’d developed, and nest after nest was destroyed, along with their towers. The Armourer’s bombs never failed, and we didn’t lose one more Drood to the drones. No more nasty surprises, no more appalling new weapons, just Droods doing their job, making the world safe. The hours trudged slowly by, with golden figures constantly coming and going through the Merlin Glass. The drones still fought savagely, making us work for every victory. But still, step by step, we were winning. Fresh men and women came forward to replace those Droods exhausted by too many raids, and the work went on. The whole family was ready to fight, if need be. The infirmary coped well. Overall, losses were actually less than expected and planned for. We actually had the end in sight when it all went to rat shit again.

A communications officer stood up abruptly to shout his new information to the Matriarch, and the whole War Room went quiet to hear it.

“It’s Truman!” he shouted. “All this time he’s had Loathly One drones in his new underground base, building a tower, hidden behind his protective screens! It must be almost complete, because its presence just punched right through the screens! It’s so powerful Truman can’t hide it any longer. It’s almost ready to open a door and bring the Invaders through! This has all been for nothing!”

“Be calm, man!” snapped the Matriarch. “I will not have emotional displays in my War Room. Someone sit that man down and get him a strong cup of tea. Edwin, which of our major players are still capable of leading a strike force?”

I checked. The Sarjeant-at-Arms and Mr. Stab were still clearing out a nest in northern China. Callan was still in the infirmary. And Giles Deathstalker, having personally led over thirty missions, was lying on a cot right beside Callan, too exhausted to go on, though he’d never admit it. That just left Harry, and Roger Morningstar. They were catching a quick break between missions, and awing the younger Droods with exaggerated tales of their exploits. I had them brought back to the War Room and explained the situation. Harry looked very much like he wanted to spit.

“Just once, I’d like things to go the way they’re supposed to.”

“Are you up for this?” I said.