“Coming through,” shouted Jolly. “Mind your backs.” He nudged Dozy. “And stop licking that raspberry and lime from your face. You’re ruining the effect.”

“One of my horns is coming loose,” said Angry.

“Then use more chewing gum,” said Jolly. “Here, take mine.”

He removed a lump of pink material from his mouth and handed it to Angry, who accepted it with some reluctance and used it to stick his ice-cream cone horn more securely to his forehead.

“Grrrrrr!” said Mumbles, waving one of D. Bodkin’s staplers in a threatening manner.

“Let us at them!” said Dozy. “We’ll tear their heads off and use them for bowling balls.”

“Sissies, the lot of ’em,” cried Angry, getting into the spirit of the thing and making a variety of rude gestures at Duke Abigor’s forces in the hope that at least one of them would be understood as an insult by the opposing side.

“Easy, lads,” said the voice of Constable Peel from somewhere under the dust cloth. “We don’t want to attract the wrong kind of attention.”

“What kind of attention would that be?” asked Angry, and received his answer as a black arrow whistled past his ear and embedded itself in the body of the ice-cream van. “Oh, right. Fair enough.”

The little convoy made its way slowly alongside the wagon on which rested Samuel’s hooded cage. Dozy and Mumbles produced some paper cups and began pouring drinks for the demons surrounding the wagon.

“Drink up, boys,” said Dozy, handing down the cups. “And girls. And, er, whatever you are. Haven’t you ever heard of having a drink before the war?”

And while the demons drank, temporarily sacrificing their eyesight, their balance, and their desire to live to cups of not-quite-right-but-still-not-too-bad-all-things-considered imitation Spiggit’s, Angry and Jolly dropped from the roof onto the bed of the wagon. Mumbles threw them a sack, and the two dwarfs, with their burden, slipped silently under the cloth.

Mrs. Abernathy raised a hand to halt her troops. Three horses, on which were mounted members of Abigor’s personal guard, advanced from the opposing lines. A white banner fluttered from a pike held by the leader of the three, the captain of the guard. They rode to within hailing distance of Mrs. Abernathy, and halted.

“By order of Duke Abigor, we demand the surrender of the traitor, Mrs. Abernathy,” said the captain.

In the distance Mrs. Abernathy could see Abigor mounted on his great steed, his red cloak bleeding into the air behind him. Surrender? Could he be serious? She thought not. He was covering himself in case questions later arose about his conduct. Yes, he could say, I gave her the opportunity to surrender and avoid conflict, but she refused, and so I had no choice but to proceed against her.