“Though Nomura still hasn’t responded to my alerts,” Strickler said. “I fear we may be down another member.”
“Then we better not lose any more,” Toby said—right before two pairs of claws snatched him and Claire high into the sky.
The abruptness of the abduction knocked the weapons from their hands. Strickler looked up from the Warhammer and Shadow Staff at his feet and saw two Vulture Trolls speeding away with Toby and Claire, followed by a third.
“I am getting so sick of Stalklings,” said Strickler, reverting to his green, scaly Changeling form.
The Creepslayerz’ eyes bugged as their one-time teacher threw back his cloak. He proceeded to unfurl his own set of wings. As he launched after Toby and Claire, one of Strickler’s wings accidentally slapped Steve in the face during takeoff.
“Ew! Ew! Ew! Some of old man Strickler’s wing skin got into my mouth!” Steve gagged, while Eli fainted beside him.
CHAPTER 7
THE ULTIMATE GAME
Sir Barks-a-Lot’s barking did not help Jim’s migraine. But at least it kept him alive. Like some canine alarm system, the pup spotted Angor Rot a second before he burst from the darkness. And that second was all the Trollhunter needed to instinctively tuck and roll into a defensive crouch. Jim pulled the Daylight Sword from his back, and another flicker of lightning revealed the assassin’s leering face.
“Ah, but you have changed,” Angor Rot taunted. “The Trollhunter I faced in Merlin’s Tomb never moved so swiftly. Nor did your ally. What was his name again? Oh yes. Draal.”
Jim clumsily stood to his full height, inches taller than he was mere minutes ago. He did not take his eyes from the Troll circling around him. Rain poured in sheets on them, matting Jim’s wild mane and Sir Barks’s fur.
“If you’re trying to get a rise out of me, it won’t work,” Jim said. “I’ve already made my peace with Draal’s death. Merlin saw to that.”
“Yes, I can tell the geriatric wizard’s been busy,” Angor Rot replied. “Molding you. Shaping you. Altering you. This is what masters do to their champions, you see. They break us down, only to rebuild us according to their terrible design!”
“I’m nothing like you!” Jim shouted as he charged at Angor Rot.
The mercenary Troll anticipated the strike. He sidestepped Jim’s sword and kicked his armored back, sending Jim face-first into a tree. Feeling like his skull had split open from the impact, he touched his forehead. Jim was certain he’d find blood mixed with the rain on his gauntlets. Instead, the Trollhunter felt two bony lumps protruding from his temples. And his headache finally disappeared.
“Are you quite certain?” Angor Rot asked from behind him. “For are we not both empowered by magical beings? Dispatched to do their bidding? Giving up pieces of ourselves along the way until there’s nothing left but a shell of our former selves?”
Jim used the tree’s trunk to pull himself up, and Sir Barks sprinted over to lick his wounds. He gave the wolf pup a stern look, and the meaning was clear: Stay.
“Hmm, perhaps we are different,” Angor Rot said. “Even now, you betray your own weakness, putting the needs of lesser beings before your own. I long ago learned to rid myself of such pointless compassions. They are but burdens that slow our killing strokes.”
“I’d take those ‘burdens’ over killing any day,” said Jim, his voice stronger now. “That’s your problem, Angor Rot. You’ve been dealing in death for so long, you’ve forgotten what it’s like to live.”
Angor Rot switched his dagger to his other hand and said, “Welcome to the ultimate game, boy—where hunter hunts hunter!”
He slashed at Jim. Only this time, it was the Trollhunter who anticipated the attack. With his head now clear, Jim found his senses heightened. Time seemed to slow as Angor Rot’s blade sliced toward him. All at once, Jim could hear its razor-sharp edge sing through the air, smell the Creeper’s Sun poison coating its metal, and count the raindrops between them one by one.
Jim moved so quickly, he looked like a blur. He twirled his Daylight Sword in one hand, knocking aside the dagger, while delivering a punishing uppercut to Angor Rot’s jaw with the other. The Troll reeled from the blow. He rubbed his chin, and a chunk of rotten stone—knocked loose by Jim’s punch—broke off.
“Yes, earn your horns!” said Angor Rot. “Fight like a Troll before you die like one!”
He pulled a pouch from the leather strap across his chest and breathed in its contents. Plumes of black dust swirled up both nostrils, and his yellow eyes widened.
Grave Sand, thought Jim, recognizing the crushed Gumm-Gumm bones used to exaggerate a Troll’s aggression.
With renewed vigor, Angor Rot ran shrieking toward the Trollhunter. The dagger and Daylight Sword clanged together, giving off sparks that sizzled in the rain. Sir Barks yipped in warning as Jim and Angor Rot faced off, their weapons locked in a fierce metal X between them.
“Tough talk from a two-time loser, Rot,” said Jim through his gnashed fangs. “You got your soulless butt handed to you by Merlin in ye olden times—before my friends and I did the exact same thing!”
Angor Rot head-butted the Trollhunter between their blades. Jim expected the blow to hurt a lot more than it did. But Angor Rot’s skull must’ve glanced off his growing horns.
“Alas, I came back, and that is where our similarities end, Trollhunter!” said Angor Rot. “When I kill you, it shall be permanent! You’ll experience no rebirth at Merlin’s hand or any other. And once I wipe my blade clean of your blood, I’ll hunt down those you love! Tell me, does your dear, sweet mother still live in the same home?”
The threat exposed a new feeling within Jim. It went far beyond human concepts of rage. For most of his life, Jim Lake Jr. tried to behave, to mind his manners and be polite. But whatever emotional filters he’d built over time finally broke, just as the two horns broke the flesh on his scalp. The Trollhunter unleashed a primal cry. The howl echoed across Lake Arcadia Oaks, startling Sir Barks—and Angor Rot.
Jim fanned his shield and banged it into his enemy’s exposed side, knocking the wind out of him. Jim sent him upright again with an armored knee to the face. He followed with a flurry of jabs and kicks, not so much softening up his Troll punching bag as toying with him. Jim discovered a newfound, feral glee even in the middle of this life-or-death fight. He then gripped the handle of his Daylight Sword with both hands and swung with all his might.
Angor Rot managed to step back just in time as the sword cut through his chest strap. With the leather strap severed, the Pixie hive fell and landed in the mud behind him. Jim swept the off-balance Troll’s feet out from under him with a final kick. Angor Rot fell backward, his spine smashing open the hive, his Grave Sand spilling out in a black cloud.
The Pixies escaped their shattered prison in luminous zig-zag patterns and flew through the powdered Gumm-Gumm bones. It made them buzz faster and brighter. Having encountered Pixies before, Jim commanded the helmet to appear over his head while cupping his hands over Sir Barks’s nose, mouth, and ears. The Pixies pelted against Jim’s armored helmet and hands, but could not worm into any exposed orifices. Riled by the impenetrable armor, the insane insects spiraled off in the other direction. As they went, the Pixies whisked up the sack of Grave Sand, ferrying it away on their collective backs.
Jim watched them disappear into the thunderheads—only to realize that Angor Rot had disappeared too. Safe now, he released the grateful Sir Barks and vanished his helmet.
“That’s right, Angor Rot! RUN!” shouted the Trollhunter before he gave another savage roar and chased after his prey.
CHAPTER 8
LOCAL LUNATICS
“That’s the problem with a full moon—brings out all the crazies,” said Detective Scott.
He hunted and pecked on his computer keyboard, while Barbara craned her neck to look out his office window. It offered a clear view of the Arcadia Oaks Police Department, which appeared alarmingly busy for seven p.m. on a Thursday night.<
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“I’ve seen them!” ranted a deranged man at the booking desk. “They fell from the sky! With their glowing skin! And arms! Lots of arms! But now they could be any of us!”
Two uniformed officers dragged the raving madman toward the holding cells. Along the way, they passed the precinct’s waiting area, where an incredibly bored Merlin sat. Instead of his usual emerald armor, he now wore high-top sneakers, baggy parachute pants, a PAPA SKULL LIVE IN CONCERT ’92 T-shirt, sunglasses, and a porkpie hat. The wizard looked nuts, but those clothes were the only ones in Barbara’s house that fit him.
“Yeah, I see what you mean, Detective Scott,” Barbara said.
“Oh please, call me Louis,” he said. “I mean, we should be on a first-name basis if we’re in the same theater company, right?”
“Right,” sighed Barbara, still regretting the extensive lie she told him to protect Jim’s Trollhunting secret. “Look, Louis, I know someone needs to be gone for at least forty-eight hours before the police can file a missing person’s report, but—”
“Hey, as a fellow parent, I get it,” Detective Scott said. “If my Darci went somewhere without telling me where she was going—and left her cell phone behind—I’d be worried too. Then again, some of the things Darci’s told me about Jim’s behavior at school are also worrying. Failing grades, poor attendance, mood swings where he’s incredibly cocky one day, fast asleep in Señor Uhl’s Spanish class the next . . . and then there’s this.”
Detective Scott swiveled his monitor so that Barbara could see it. The screen showed Jim and Toby’s mugshots from the time they were booked for breaking into the Museum of Arcadia. Barbara’s heart sank.
“I’m sorry, but all this paints a picture of a very irresponsible young man,” Detective Scott said in sympathy. “And don’t get me started on Domzalski.”
“Louis, I realize there’s no way you could possibly understand this, but my son is the most responsible human being I know,” said Barbara.
“Okay,” Detective Scott said, holding up his palms in apology. “Here’s what I do understand. Often in these situations, a missing child has been taken by someone they know, even a parent. Is it possible—”
“No,” interrupted Barbara. “It definitely isn’t. Jim’s dad hasn’t come back to Arcadia since the day he left. Not even for his belongings.”
She stole another look at Merlin wearing her ex-husband’s clothes and stood up to leave. Detective Scott also rose from his seat and said, “Barbara, I can see you’re upset, but hang in there. I’m sure he’ll turn up safe and sound.”
“No offense, Detective Scott, but if it was Darci that went missing, do you think you’d be able to ‘hang in there’?” Barbara asked, her voice trembling with restraint.
“Listen . . . officially, the department’s got its hands full with the local lunatics—I mean, obviously,” said Detective Scott, gesturing to the busy booking desk behind him. “But unofficially? I’ll keep an eye out for your son. Promise.”
• • •
Detective Scott wasn’t the only one keeping an eye out for Jim. Outside the police department, Nomura lurked in her human form. Her catlike eyes narrowed as Barbara Lake barged out of the precinct, dragging Merlin into the rain behind her. The wizard tried to pull free, but Barbara tightened her grip on his beard and subjected him to another earful. They disappeared around the corner, and Nomura’s painted purple lips curled into a smile—before pursing with pain.
The lithe Changeling’s shoulder still troubled her after her recent run-in with Queen Usurna’s goons at the museum. Nomura had been excited to return to her old “day job” and to check out the rare rock exhibit before it moved to the next stop on its tour. But instead of a polite “welcome back” reception with tea and tasteful finger foods, she was greeted by a Gumm-Gumm ambush. Narrowly escaping with her life—and a dislocated shoulder—Nomura returned to her tenuous association with Team Trollhunters and joined in their search for the missing Jim . . . not that they knew it.
Of course, she’d received Strickler’s calls for assistance. But Nomura couldn’t bring herself to answer them, because her pain ran far deeper than her shoulder. Changelings never admitted weakness, for to do so was to divulge an aspect of one’s true identity. Yet here Nomura was, skulking in the dark and privately grieving the loss of the Troll she once loved.
Although she dedicated her entire Changeling existence to perfectly mimicking fleshbags, Nomura had never been able to re-create one central aspect of human nature: the ability to share feelings. She hissed in self-recrimination and resolved to keep her distance from the others, at least for now. So Nomura sank deeper into her isolation within the shadows, just as three other shadows passed overhead.
High above Arcadia, the Stalklings ascended with Toby and Claire clasped in their scabrous talons. Rain lashed the teens’ exposed faces, and lightning streaked nearby, adding to their overall discomfort.
“On the plus side, at least this new armor kept us from getting gored by their claws!” Toby yelled over the wind. “These Stalklings could use a major pedicure!”
“Somehow, I don’t think a spa day’s what they had in mind, Toby!” Claire hollered back.
As the Vulture Troll tightened its hold around her body, she heard a cracking sound and hoped it came from her armor, not her ribs. Even if she still had her Shadow Staff, Claire scarcely believed she’d be able to use it. Between the Stalkling’s bone-crunching grip, the rain in her eyes, and the thinning oxygen at this altitude, Claire believed she was starting to see things—things like her former history teacher flying toward them.
“Whoa! You’ve got wings now?!” shouted Toby, also spotting the airborne Strickler. “I still think the tweed-and-turtleneck’s a better look for you, dude!”
“Let’s save the fashion tips until after you’ve graduated from sweater vests and braces, shall we, Mr. Domzalski?” Strickler said.
The Changeling tucked his wings and barreled into one of the Stalklings. Strickler pulled a feather dart from his cowl and stuck it into the Vulture Troll’s back. The metal fléchette acted as a lightning rod of sorts, attracting a bolt of electricity from the heavens. The discharge turned the Stalkling to ash, but also knocked Strickler across the stratosphere.
The lightning strike also startled the other two Vulture Trolls, who accidentally released their captives. Toby and Claire cried out as they fell toward Arcadia, but their screams went unheard amidst the thunder.
CHAPTER 9
RULE NUMBER THREE
Jim and Sir Barks crept through the woods. Their alert eyes easily picked out the muddy footprints and broken branches Angor Rot had left in his wake. Jim doubted he ever would’ve noticed such subtleties in the past—before he got in touch with his inner Troll, that is. The trail led to a deforested clearing at the other end of the lake, where the Arcadia Oaks Dam regulated the rising river. Great torrents of water overflowed from its spillways, cascading down a steep six-hundred-foot drop. The manmade waterfall poured so powerfully, the mist obscured whatever existed over the other side of the dam.
He’s around here somewhere, thought Jim. Waiting for me to become a target out in the open, especially in a gleaming metal suit.
Opting for a stealthier approach, the Trollhunter whispered, “For the doom of Gunmar, Eclipse is mine to command.”
In a swirl of ebony energy, the Daylight Armor transformed into the Eclipse Armor. Jim mentally instructed the red piping along his body to cool, so that the armor’s onyx plates better blended in to the surroundings. Sir Barks braved forward, and Jim followed like a living shadow.
Finally, thought Jim. I’ve got the upper hand—not Angor Rot, for a change. And all it took was splicing my DNA with a Troll’s. Go figure.
He stepped onto the narrow cement walkway at the top of the dam, his Sword of Eclipse at the ready. Without a canopy of trees to serve as a natural umbrella, Jim felt the full weight of the downpour clatter against his armor. The Trollhunter was grateful for the ch
ance to challenge Angor Rot to a rematch. It kept Jim in the present, distracting him from the worries gathered at the fringes of his consciousness—worries about what his mom and friends would say when they found out that Jim was . . . no longer Jim. At least, not entirely, any—
Wait, Jim thought, stopping short and signaling Sir Barks to do the same.
Peering through the veil of rain, he saw a pale gray body hunched over just ahead. It slumped there, motionless, on the dam’s crest.
I must’ve hit Angor Rot harder than I realized! thought Jim. But with all the mist coming off that waterfall, it’s hard to tell if he’s alive or dead. Probably better not to take any chances. . . .
The Trollhunter threw the Sword of Eclipse with incredible strength and precision. The weapon pinwheeled through the air before it sank blade-first into the stationary figure’s bent back. The impaled body shattered into thousands of pieces of rubble, now unquestionably dead.
“I . . . I did it?” Jim said in disbelief. “Well, that was easy!”
He rushed up to pile of rocks and retrieved the Sword of Eclipse. Finally rid of the menace of Angor Rot, Jim broke into a victory dance on the dam’s crest, and Sir Barks playfully hopped around him. The Trollhunter smiled in relief and was about to vanish his sword when he noticed something stuck on its tip. It was a fetish—a little totem carved out of stone, just like the ones Angor Rot used to make.
“Oh no,” Jim muttered in dread. “It was a trick!”
Two bark-covered arms seized him. Jim looked back and found that he was now in the clutches of a Wood Golem, its arms as thick as tree trunks. It squeezed tighter, and Jim heard splintering sounds.
Of course, Jim thought as he struggled. Angor Rot made a Stone Golem as a decoy to lure me out, then blocked off my only other way out. Way to fall for the oldest trap in the book, Lake!
Sir Barks bit down on one of the creature’s branches and refused to let go like in a deadly game of fetch. The Golem tried to shake off the puppy, giving Jim the opportunity he needed to conjure the Glaives back into his hands. He dug them into the Wood Golem’s sides, and it released Jim with a moan of pain.
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