“Four more River Trolls, in our midst!” said one of the Garden Troll soldiers.
“Wha—?! A quartet of Garden Troll interlopers!” said one of the River Trolls.
But both were talking about the same four figures—Blinky, AAARRRGGHH!!!, Toby, and Claire. As the two armies closed in on them, Blinky said, “It would appear Porgon’s glamours aren’t limited to masks! He’s made us look like River Trolls to the Garden tribe—”
“And like Garden Trolls to the River tribe!” Claire finished, catching on fast.
“Not good,” said AAARRRGGHH!!! as he avoided swipes from both sides.
“Since Claire’s Shadow Staff is out of order, everyone buddy up around me!” said Toby.
The friends grabbed onto his Warhammer, and Toby concentrated, levitating all four of them out of the River and Garden Trolls’ reach. As they floated up toward the cavern’s domed ceiling, Toby, Claire, Blinky, and AAARRRGGHH!!! saw Jim getting to his feet again. They all wanted to go back for him, yet they knew the spell affecting their appearances would only endanger Jim. Drifting away, Claire took one last look back, seeing Merlin’s emerald figure stroll between the battlefronts and up to Jim. She wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or not.
“Merlin, you’re a wizard,” said Jim, his voice surprisingly restrained. “You know magic, even without your staff. Can’t you help my friends? Or make my Amulet—your Amulet—work? Or, or, or—just bring Draal back to life? Please? I . . . I’m begging you here. Please.”
Merlin regarded the boy before him in a new light. He seemed to consider Jim’s plea, taking each impassioned word to heart. And Jim’s own heart skipped a beat when he saw Merlin smile, when he believed the wizard would actually grant his wish. Clearing his throat, Merlin adopted a kind expression and said, “Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day—”
“What,” Jim said flatly. “Are you serious right now? Why can’t you just give me a straight answer for once? If you’re so magical and smart and important, why can’t you just stop all this—this Troll war, the Eternal Night, my friends dying—all of it on your own?”
The wizard waited for Jim to finish, then resumed saying, “. . . but teach a man to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime.”
The Trollhunter lowered his head in resignation, only vaguely aware of the war gradually moving away from him. Merlin paced in a circle around his young champion and said, “I can see that you’re trying to strike a deal. Much like Ballustra with her weapon sales. And I was not unaware of your anger earlier, nor your disbelief upon awakening.” Would it surprise you to know that I’m glad you’re experiencing these emotions this strongly—this quickly?”
Jim looked up and glared at the wizard, confusion clouding his blue eyes. The wizard let out a weary sigh and said, “This is why I decided that we would walk back to your home. And why I didn’t rush to free you from those shackles. To give you the time to get your feelings in order, boy. Had I let your comely lass shadow-jump us to Arcadia Oaks straightaway—and had I let my Trollhunter go up against Gunmar in his present state—you’d wind up deader than your late compatriot, Draal. So, y’know, you’re welcome.”
“You know what? I’m changing my wish,” said Jim. “My new wish is to hear some real advice from a real hero, like Kanjigar the Courageous. Not pointless proverbs from some washed-up old wizard.”
“Okeydoke,” said Merlin before waving a hand and making his Trollhunter disappear.
CHAPTER 10
TO BE, OR NOTENRIQUE TO BE
“Oh dear! And then what happened?” asked Nana Domzalski.
She adjusted her incredibly thick glasses before spooning cat food out of a tin can and into a porcelain thimble. Nana pushed the thimble across her kitchen table, and Chompsky took it into his tiny hand before remembering his manners. He turned and gallantly offered the first bite to the Sally-Go-Back action figure beside him. Despite her twenty points of articulation, Sally remained perfectly still. Chompsky shrugged and started chowing down all by himself.
“Neep, neep neep,” he said between nibbles, looking lovingly into Sally’s plastic eyes.
“I just love hearing stories of how couples met,” Nana said while pouring hot tea into two cups. “You know, Toby’s grandpa and I caused quite a stir when we first got together.”
“Neep?” inquired Chompsky.
“Everyone had an opinion about us,” Nana said, her gummy mouth curling into a nostalgic grin. “In the end, our love outlasted all the naysayers . . . even if my Horace didn’t.”
“What drivel,” muttered Dictatious from the corner. “A Gnome and a doll?! My vision may have failed me of late, but even I can see this ‘relationship’ is doomed.”
“Sounds like someone’s a little jealous,” Nana tittered behind her teacup.
Chompsky joined in giggling, gently elbowing Sally-Go-Back to see if she got the joke too. Sally just stared ahead, smiling pleasantly. Ignoring them, Dictatious sniffed the scent of the tea. He fumbled toward the table and grabbed the second teacup with his four hands. The Troll breathed in the aroma deeply . . . before dumping the tea on the floor and biting into the saucer with a satisfying crunch.
Oblivious to the destruction of her fine china, Nana once again pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and said, “This isn’t about seeing with your eyes. It’s about seeing with your heart. And I’ve got a good feeling these two lovebirds are gonna make it!”
Chompsky gave Sally a kiss on her clear helmet, then went bashful at this public display of affection. Everyone was in such good spirits at the moment—everyone except Dictatious, that is—they failed to notice how Nana’s tea started to ripple in her cup. . . .
• • •
“What a disgrace,” said NotEnrique, his two yellow eyes narrowed in disgust. “I mean, lookit ya. Talkin’ nonsense all the time. Stinkin’ up the house. Fallin’ flat on yer face whenever ya take more than two steps. For the love a’ Gorgus, don’t ya have any self-respect?”
The real Enrique gurgled in delight at the small Changeling perched on his crib like a gargoyle. With drool-lacquered hands, the baby reached out and grabbed two fistfuls of NotEnrique’s fur.
“Hey, watch me scruff!” NotEnrique wailed. “I’m not one a yer stuffed animals!”
The green imp shoved away the hands, losing a few tufts of hair in the process. Enrique’s lips quivered in abrupt sadness. Tears started to well in his enormous eyes.
“Aw swell, here come the waterworks,” the Changeling said in exasperation. “Isn’t that rich! I lose the ability ta change me appearance soon as the Trollhunter rescues ya from the Darklands, and you’re the one who’s about ta cry. Whatta hypocrite. . . .”
He ignored Enrique’s fussy whimpers and looked around at their nursery. Colorful alphabet blocks and plush toys filled the shelves. Mobiles twirled lazily from the ceiling. And sunlight poured through the windows, lending the entire room a cheery glow. NotEnrique sighed heavily and said, “I used ta have a sweet racket goin’ here. Comfy crib, regular feedings, baby wipe warmer . . . I used ta have a place in the surface world. A reason for bein’.”
NotEnrique’s eyes softened, settling on a framed photo of Claire cuddling with her little brother. Well, Claire and her parents had assumed that was Enrique when they took the picture months ago. But NotEnrique remembered the visit to the photography studio at the Arcadia Oaks Mall as if it were yesterday. The thought of it brought a weak smile to the Changeling’s face, even as he started to sniffle.
“Used ta have it all,” NotEnrique said through his congestion. “Until you came back, you . . . you . . .”
Only now did NotEnrique become aware of the insistent tugging on his diaper. He looked down at the baby clinging to his bottom. Enrique offered up his pacifier to the pint-sized Changeling. NotEnrique took it and said, “You want me ta have this?”
“Baba,” said Enrique.
“Er, thanks, but no thanks, short stuff,” said NotEnrique, handing back the pacifier. “I
don’t need to add a case of hand, hoot, and mouth disease to me pile o’ woes.”
“BABA!” Enrique yelled.
“All right, already!” NotEnrique yelled back.
He jammed the baba into his mouth to prevent one of Enrique’s temper tantrums. The pacifier’s curdled taste made NotEnrique want to spit it out and curse at the baby some more. But after a second or two, the flavor mellowed, and NotEnrique discovered that the pacifier left him feeling strangely . . . pacified. Enrique then pulled out a matching baba from somewhere inside his onesie and popped it into his own mouth. The two of them sat at opposite sides of the crib, staring at each other and enjoying their babas—human and Changeling, infant and impostor, Enrique and NotEnrique.
A moment later, NotEnrique felt the mattress vibrate under their bottoms. He cast a suspicious look at the baby and said, “I don’t care that we’re havin’ a moment. If ya just went boom-boom in yer diaper, I ain’t changin’ it!”
The vibrations increased in their intensity, now overtaking the entire room. Toys toppled from the shelves, and the framed portrait of Claire and her hermanito shattered. The door flung open, and a panicked Javier and Ophelia raced into the nursery. But they skidded to a halt at the sight of their son and his green decoy in the same crib. NotEnrique spit out his baba and said, “Look, I know we started off on the wrong hoof, but how would ya like bein’ the proud parents of twins?”
“This . . . this is the most disturbing thing I’ve ever witnessed in my life,” said Ophelia.
“Maybe we should have left Enrique in day care,” said Javier.
They pulled Enrique away from the Changeling as the tremors multiplied. Feeling jilted as well as jolted, NotEnrique hopped out of the crib and onto the windowsill. He took one look outside and said, “I think we’re all ’bout ta get disturbed—big-time!”
• • •
Two blocks away, Barbara Lake felt the same temblors beneath her home. As pots and pans fell onto the kitchen floor, Barbara dashed to the nearest doorframe for safety, although her own well-being was the farthest thing from her mind at the moment. She kept thinking about Jim, about how crushed he sounded before their call cut out. Barbara wished Jim were here so that she could hug him, not the doorframe, during—
“This isn’t an earthquake!” Strickler shouted as he barged in through the front door.
He joined her under the doorframe and, for the first time ever, Walt appeared disheveled to Barbara. His hair was mussed, his clothes rumpled, and sweat beaded his face, as if he’d just run across town—which he had. After watching Gunmar, Usurna, and Angor Rot return to Dark Trollmarket through the Horngazel portal, Strickler had raced to the museum. But he’d apparently missed Nomura by mere minutes, and his frantic phone calls to her cell were met by a full voice-mail inbox. And so Strickler was forced to opt for plan B—or plan C, as it were. A new wave of tremors brought Strickler back into the present, and he said, “This is Gunmar’s work!”
Barbara’s eyes widened in alarm before a savvy look overtook her face. She took a step back from Strickler and said, “Is that so? And I’m just supposed to, what, be thankful you’re here? To save me from the big, bad world after all?”
“I know you don’t trust me,” Strickler admitted. “But if you won’t accept my help, then I hope you’ll at least accept protection from them.”
Steve Palchuk and Eli Pepperjack stepped into the Lake household. Wearing their all-black uniforms and helmets, they checked behind furniture and around corners for enemy agents that simply weren’t there.
“Elijah?” said Barbara in surprise. “Stevie?”
“It’s, uh, Steve now,” he replied. “Nobody’s called me ‘Stevie’ since kindergarten.”
“And we’re on duty, Dr. Lake,” added Eli. “So please refer to us as . . . the Creepslayerz!”
Barbara didn’t know which sounded worse—that ridiculous code name, or the bone-chilling roars that now echoed under her front yard.
CHAPTER 11
LOCKED HORNS
One second ago, Jim had been standing in the middle of a wet, weed-choked battlefield. But now he found himself in the middle of a misty expanse without borders, time, or direction.
“The Void,” Jim said to himself.
“For one who still lives, you make an inordinate number of appearances in our afterlife, Trollhunter,” greeted a familiar voice.
Jim saw an incandescent orb zooming through the haze toward him. The energy sphere then unfurled and assumed the ghostly form of his predecessor, Kanjigar the Courageous. Although they’d never met in life, Kanjigar had grown fond of Jim ever since Merlin’s Amulet passed between them. From this ethereal realm, the previous Trollhunter had watched with great admiration as Jim trained under old friends like Blinky and AAARRRGGHH!!!, valorously shouldering the responsibilities of the human and Troll worlds alike.
“I hadn’t expected to see you again for quite some time, now that Gunmar has taken over Trollmarket, and the Soothscryer within it,” Kanjigar added while holding out a hand.
But Jim sidestepped the handshake and hugged Kanjigar, startling the transparent Troll with the fervor of his embrace. Jim finally let go, wiped his eyes, and said, “Kanjigar, I’m so sorry, but Draal . . . he . . .”
“My son is dead,” Kanjigar said, sparing Jim the onus of uttering the words himself.
“You knew,” Jim realized. “Of course you did. You can see everything from the Void. Then . . . you also saw how it’s my fault. Draal gave up his life so I could keep mine. But it was such a waste. Just because I’ve survived this long doesn’t mean I deserve to be the Trollhunter.”
Gone were the mirth and youthful brio that always flickered behind Jim’s eyes whenever Kanjigar would surveil him from the afterlife. Instead, a deep and somber sadness seemed to have taken root in his teenage heart. Kanjigar extended his hand again, this time clasping it about Jim’s armored shoulder.
“Heed my words, Trollhunter, for they are the truth,” said Kanjigar. “Had Draal wielded Daylight in your place, the Eternal Night would’ve occurred months ago. Make no mistake, I love my son. Yet it is you—and you alone—who keeps that apocalypse at bay, Jim Lake Jr.”
“But he looked up to you, and you were the greatest champion of all!” argued Jim.
“Said the living Trollhunter to the ghost,” Kanjigar replied.
Jim felt like he should probably laugh. But the heavy weight pressing on his belly, heart, and lungs made such a thing seem impossible. Kanjigar must’ve sensed this, for he then said, “I jest, of course. Yet my point remains. Since the day he was born, I have known that Draal would die young. Well, young for a Troll.”
Just as instantaneously as Jim wound up in the Void, he now found himself transported to a place he’d seen only once before—Glastonbury Tor Trollmarket. Nestled deep below the English moors, this underground city resembled the Trollmarket beneath Arcadia, save for the purple Heartstone that jutted from the ceiling like an overgrown stalactite.
“This is another of those Void Visitations, isn’t it?” Jim asked aloud.
Kanjigar nodded and released the Trollhunter’s shoulder. Jim felt so melancholy, so drained, he didn’t even want to take a step. Yet his ghostly guide ushered them to this Trollmarket’s version of the Hero’s Forge. Hearing the clang of swords and the whoosh of fire, Jim looked over the edge and saw none other than—
“Draal!” Jim exclaimed, though no one other than Kanjigar’s spirit heard him.
But there was Draal the Deadly training in the pit, sparring with automated blades, dodging blasts of flame that shot from the floor. Off to the side, Jim saw another Kanjigar—this one also very much alive—paying more attention to the scroll in his hands than to Draal’s practice.
“That’s you, before you became a Trollhunter,” Jim said to the ghost. “That means—”
“Aye, we’re in the past, before Trolls even traveled to your country,” Kanjigar’s spirit confirmed. “Yet some things never change.”
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br /> Taking a closer look at the Hero’s Forge, Jim understood what Kanjigar meant. This Draal was younger than the one Jim had befriended, and he had not yet taken to wearing a nose ring. But it became immediately apparent that Draal, at any age, lived to fight. The spiked Troll rolled through the remainder of his obstacle course and, with his chest still heaving from the exertion, said, “Father, did you see? I cleared the trials in less time than it took this morning—a new record! Are you not proud?”
Jim watched the living Kanjigar pull himself away from his scroll long enough to say, “I’d be prouder if you’d put even half as much effort into your studies.”
“But, Father, I never feel so alive as when I am in combat,” Draal replied.
“Combat cares not for those who are alive, my son,” said Kanjigar. “Only for death.”
“Then I hope I should be so lucky as to meet a glorious death on the field of battle,” Draal huffed before rolling out of the Hero’s Forge in anger.
Jim looked from the living Kanjigar to the ghostly one at his side. He noticed how they both wore the same troubled, inevitable expression.
“Draal must’ve inherited that temper from his mom,” Jim guessed.
“You have no idea, Trollhunter,” sighed Kanjigar’s spirit. “Indeed, Ballustra and I often locked horns over how to raise our son. In the end, we came to the conclusion that we’d fare better as parents if we went our separate ways.”
Jim watched Kanjigar watching his younger self, who was still engrossed with his scroll, and felt sympathy for both of them. The Trollhunter said, “I’m sorry, Kanjigar. I had no idea.”
“Nor did I,” the spirit said as he forced a smile. “As a result, I spent far too long feeling . . . well, feeling the way you do now.”
Jim broke off eye contact and took stock of his own emotions. He hadn’t really comprehended the depth of his own sorrow until someone else pointed it out to him.
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