Welcome to the Darklands

by Richard Ashley Hamilton

  The Nyarlagroth lay motionless before him, its tongue lolling on the floor and a huge rusted spear jutting from its side. A female Gumm-Gumm with powerfully muscular arms emerged from the darkness and retrieved her spear from the Nyarlagroth.

  “I am Skarlagk the Scorned, daughter of Orlagk,” she said. “And I have an offer for you, Trollhunter: join me so that we might take up arms against Gunmar together.”

  Jim’s eyes went wide with surprise before they rolled back in his head. The Sword of Eclipse vanished, the armor’s red lines faded, and the Trollhunter—still reeling from a lack of oxygen—fainted fast at Skarlagk’s feet.

  CHAPTER 7

  SWITCHEROO

  “And so, as you can see, this was all just a rather large misunderstanding,” Jim continued from under the shady tree in front of his home. “While Barbara—that is to say, my mother—recuperated in the hospital following her concussion, I foolishly hosted a party at our house. A little pre-Spring Fling bash for my fellow students, if you will.”

  “A . . . bash?” asked Barbara and Detective Scott simultaneously.

  Toby, Claire, and NotEnrique seemed just as confused as the grown-ups and policemen who had gathered around Jim.

  “Alas, yes,” Jim said. “But this turned out to be an unfortunate lapse in judgment on my part, as the festivities soon grew out of hand. Too many guests tried to fit inside, some furniture broke, and, well, we trashed the place. I take full responsibility for my actions and apologize for any inconvenience to you fine, upstanding law enforcement officials.”

  Jim beamed an unnaturally wide smile at his mom, who stared back at him. In fact, everyone was staring a Jim. Even Draal, who watched dumbfounded from some nearby bushes.

  “Teenagers,” grumbled Detective Scott as he folded up his notebook. “False alarm, guys. Let’s pack it up.”

  As the police left grumbling, Jim turned to the stunned Toby and Claire and gave them a knowing wink.

  • • •

  As the sun set, Claire, Toby, and NotEnrique—back in his Changeling form—watched through Jim’s bedroom window as the last police car pulled out of the driveway.

  “That . . . was close,” said Claire.

  “No kidding,” NotEnrique agreed. “I think I almost soiled meself.”

  “Me too,” Toby said just as the bedroom door opened behind them.

  Jim entered quietly and whispered, “I finally got Barbara to take a nap. By the time she wakes, the last effects of the memory spell will have worn off. Even today’s excitement with the police will seem like a distant dream and—”

  His last words became muffled as Toby and Claire rushed up and embraced Jim. Even NotEnrique got in on the group hug, until he realized what he was doing and let go of Jim’s leg.

  “Jim! I’ve been wanting to do this the second I saw you!” Claire said, her voice thick with emotion.

  “How’d you get back, Jimbo?” asked Toby, his arms still wrapped around his best friend. “And just how hard did you kick Gunmar’s Gumm-Gumm butt?!”

  Jim looked down in disappointment. Toby and Claire released him and took a step back.

  “Jim?” Claire said. “What is it? Are you okay?”

  “No, actually,” Jim began. “In point of fact, I’m not even me.”

  With a heavy sigh, Jim reached behind his head and pulled off his own face. Blinky now stood where Jim had a moment ago, holding a bizarre tiki-like mask in two of his four hands. Claire gasped.

  “Blinky?!” Toby exclaimed. “That was you this whole time?”

  “I’m afraid so, Tobias,” said Blinky. “I apologize for the deception. I merely wanted to help all of you—and Barbara—in Jim’s absence. This Glamour Mask seemed like the best way to do so . . . at the time.”

  NotEnrique’s round yellow eyes looked from the mask to Claire. She pursed her lips tightly, as if she wanted to say something, but was holding back.

  “Hey, sponge-face,” NotEnrique said in an unusually soft manner. “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s nothing,” Claire said quickly, turning her back to them and wiping something from her eye.

  “And you were right about that Glamour Mask, Blinky,” Claire continued, now back to business. “It’ll definitely help cover for Jim at school and home. At least until he comes back.”

  “Yeah, but maybe Claire or I should be the ones to wear it,” Toby said.

  He carefully took the mask from Blinky’s hands and examined the bizarre patterns etched into its surface. “No offense, but you use way more SAT words than the average human!”

  “Indubitably!” said Blinky proudly.

  “Where’d you even find this thing?” Toby asked, turning the mask in his hands.

  “Ah, now that is a story worth telling,” Blinky said with his usual flair. “You see, once you all shadow-jumped away, I scoured my library for a cure to AAARRRGGHH!!!’s concrete condition. During my research, I stumbled upon a reference to the Glamour Mask in A Brief Recapitulation of Troll Lore, volume thirty-seven, I think. Or was that volume thirty-eight? No—volume thirty-seven!”

  “Cut to the chase, Galadrigal!” NotEnrique barked.

  “But of course,” Blinky resumed. “As it turns out, Glamour Masks are exceedingly rare artifacts crafted by a Troll civilization that no longer exists. I raced to RotGut’s Apothecary and, by Deya’s grace, they just happened to have the last known mask in existence. The very mask you now hold in your tender young hands, Master Tobias.”

  “Finally! Some good luck for a change!” cheered Toby—right before the mask slipped out of his fingers and shattered against the floor into hundreds of tiny pieces.

  “Oh, Grumbly Gruesome!” hollered Blinky.

  “Um, my bad?” Toby winced in apology.

  NotEnrique literally rolled on the floor and laughed out loud. Ignoring him, Claire knelt down beside the mask fragments and tried to fit them back together like puzzle pieces.

  “I don’t think there’s enough super glue in Arcadia Oaks and Trollmarket combined to fix this,” she said. “Anyone got a plan—let’s see, what letter are we up to by now?”

  “Q,” grumbled Draal as he climbed through the open window, dusk visible behind him.

  “Thanks,” said Claire. “Anyone got a Plan Q we can use?”

  “No,” said Blinky, thoughtfully tapping a finger to his lips. “But I may have a Plan K. . . .”

  CHAPTER 8

  WHISTLE IN THE DARK

  A purple hand reached up to the withered vine and plucked the fruit that sagged from it.

  “Mmm, Cimmerian fruit. Smells like . . . death,” said Nomura before she took a ravenous bite and snatched some more from the vines.

  Nomura couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten. The Changeling had grown used to hunger and other discomforts in the months since she’d become trapped in the Darklands. Every time she thought of the reason why—a failed attempt to return Gunmar to the surface that backfired and brought Nomura here—she simmered with rage. But then Nomura would calm herself by whistling her favorite human melody, Peer Gynt.

  Devouring the rest of the rotted fruit, plus a few more, Nomura whistled a few bars, before drifting into a long overdue sleep. Yet the muted sounds of nearby movement made her cat eyes snap back open. Nomura sprang to her feet and unsheathed the two scimitars strapped to her back. She scanned the darkness and saw several pairs of beady red eyes glowing back at her.

  “Cha-hoon! Cha-hoon!” wailed dozens of tiny voices before a pack of Albino Goblins leaped out at Nomura from behind the wilted vines.

  She slapped away a few of the white-skinned, red-eyed creatures with her curved blades and ran from the twisted vineyard. The Goblins chased her like deranged bloodhounds and kept calling, “Cha-hoon! Cha-hoon!”

  With her long, muscular legs, Nomura easily outpaced the Goblin pack. But she halted in the middle of a narrow rope bridge that stretched over a deep pit. Dictatious and a platoon of Gumm-Gumms waited at the other end, their barbed weapons
drawn.

  “Well, isn’t this a surprise?” Dictatious said with menace. “An unregistered Changeling running free in the Darklands.”

  Nomura looked back and saw the Goblins massing at the other end. Trapped, she peered over the side of the rope bridge and saw nothing but endless black beneath her.

  “Did you enter our realm with the Trollhunter?” Dictatious asked. “The human they call Jim Lake Junior?”

  A bitter laugh overcame Nomura. The Goblins and Gumm-Gumms all looked at one another, not getting the joke.

  “The Trollhunter?” she cackled. “You’d find him in pieces if we’d traveled together.”

  Dictatious arched his six eyebrows and said, “Charming, I’m sure. But tell me, if not the Trollhunter, then what, exactly, brings you to the domain of Gunmar the Vicious?”

  “As if I’d tell a scheming underling like you.” Nomura smirked.

  She took a step backward and almost lost her footing. A few pebbles dropped off the rope bridge and disappeared in the darkness below. Nomura regained her balance, but remained slightly distracted since she never heard those pebbles hit the bottom.

  “It doesn’t look like you have much choice,” Dictatious said, and then sneered before addressing the Gumm-Gumm soldiers. “Make it painful.”

  Dictatious’s cloak swirled as he turned on his heels and walked away from the bridge. The Gumm-Gumms and Goblins closed in on Nomura, bloodlust in their manic eyes. She gripped her scimitars tighter.

  “You still have one last chance to save your life,” Nomura called out.

  Dictatious looked back at her with bemused curiosity and asked, “Save my life?”

  “That’s right,” Nomura answered. “All who serve Gunmar know of his distaste for failure. I’ve trekked from one end of the Darklands to the other just to avoid his vengeance.”

  “The only failure my six eyes see here is you, Impure,” Dictatious spat.

  His four arms flashed a signal, and the Gumm-Gumms and Goblins encroached upon Nomura once again. But rather than strike out at her enemies, Nomura relaxed and returned her swords to the scabbards on her back.

  “True,” she said. “But if I die, I take the location of Skarlagk’s hidden fortress with me.”

  Dictatious’s six eyes went wide. Nomura smirked again.

  “Wait!” Dictatious ordered, and everyone froze. “You know, a long time ago, I also bartered for my life in the Darklands. I betrayed others—Trolls I admired, even respected—so that I might survive. You’d do the same, Changeling?”

  “That’s right,” said Nomura. “I’ve been here long enough to know Gunmar hates Skarlagk almost as much as he does the Trollhunter. And only I know where to find her. But if you end me before I can share that information with Gunmar . . . well, who’s the failure now?”

  Nomura laughed again. Dictatious considered the offer. And those pebbles finally hit the bottom.

  CHAPTER 9

  UNDERGROUND RESISTANCE

  Much to his surprise, the Trollhunter woke up alive.

  Jim winced. His ribs were still sore from earlier. His tongue felt like sandpaper inside of his dry, sticky mouth. His skull throbbed with a splitting headache. And now he found himself on top of another Nyarlagroth as it moved through the Darklands. Reacting on instinct, Jim jumped to his feet. The Sword of Eclipse returned to his armored hand in a whirl of mist and magic.

  “You’ll find this Nyarlagroth a little tamer than the last,” said a husky voice.

  Jim spun around and found Skarlagk standing at the head of the enormous eel, controlling its motions with the chains in her hands. Approaching carefully, Jim looked over Skarlagk’s shoulder and saw how her reins connected to a bridle in the Nyarlagroth’s jaws. She pulled left, and with another splitting screech, so did the Nyarlagroth.

  More screeches resounded behind Jim. Looking back, he saw three more domesticated Nyarlagroths obey their Gumm-Gumm riders.

  “No offense, but I didn’t take you for the animal-loving type,” Jim said. “Seeing as how you speared that other Nyarlagroth and all.”

  “Would you prefer that I had speared you instead?” Skarlagk asked flatly. “Put you out of your misery before the Nyarlagroth devoured you?”

  Jim thought it over and said, “Fair point. Thank you . . . Skarlagk, is it?”

  She nodded, the spears in her quiver clattering together as the Nyarlagroth carried them over a particularly rugged stretch of wasteland. Jim raised his eyebrows, impressed by how much ground they were covering in such a short time.

  “I guess Nyarlagroths are the only way to travel in the Darklands, huh?” he joked feebly.

  “My rebels and I choose to survive alongside the creatures native to this dark dimension, unlike Gunmar. He would crush them under his heel without a second thought,” Skarlagk answered.

  “Yeah, about Gunmar,” Jim resumed. “I seem to recall you mentioning something about us teaming up against him. Before I, y’know, passed out.”

  Skarlagk looked upon Jim with eyes as dark as storm clouds, then nodded again. Jim pointed his sword at the three Gumm-Gumms who piloted the Nyarlagroths in formation behind them.

  “Well, not that I don’t appreciate the extra help,” Jim continued. “But I don’t see how a handful of rebels on overgrown earthworms necessarily improves our chances. Especially against a guy who uses the word ‘Skullcrusher’ in his job description!”

  “A handful won’t help you against Gunmar,” said Skarlagk as she pulled back on her reins, halting the Nyarlagroth on top of a high ridge. “But an army might.”

  Jim’s jaw hung open as he took in the sight of the blighted valley below them. There, a titanic stone fortress teemed with hundreds upon hundreds of rebel Gumm-Gumms. They ran drills along its battlements and practiced close combat in the open ward at the center. A bulky obsidian roof covered the ramparts, the black volcanic glass glinting in the endless twilight, while thick fog obscured the castle’s foundation. From the highest tower, a billowing flag bore an image of Gunmar’s eye with a red slash painted across it.

  Jim stood in awe before a fully armed fighting force. From her Nyarlagroth steed, Skarlagk held a spear high in the air. The rebels on the fortress returned the salute, chanting, “SKARLAGK! SKARLAGK! SKARLAGK!”

  • • •

  Once the Nyarlagroths had been stabled, Skarlagk led Jim inside her stronghold. He stared agog at the fearsome rebels who looked back from the parapets. Most of the Gumm-Gumms cursed under their breath at the sight of the Trollhunter. Some even spat at his armor.

  “Your soldiers remind me a lot of this guy I know, Steve,” said Jim as he dodged the phlegmy spitballs and stuck close to Skarlagk. “He likes to bully people too.”

  “Pay them no mind,” Skarlagk said. “Some still harbor ill will against one of your predecessors, Deya. But even that grudge pales in comparison to the one they hold for Gunmar.”

  Jim stepped over a heaping pile of dung—he didn’t want to guess what had left it—and said, “And here I thought all Gumm-Gumms worshipped him.”

  “Not all . . . ,” answered Skarlagk.

  Her face tightened momentarily before returning to its usual impassive state. This was the first hint of emotion Skarlagk had shown since Jim met her. Recovering, she pointed her spear at the soldiers around them. Every one of them knelt before their warrior queen’s presence.

  “And these ones broke from Gunmar after our defeat at the Battle of Killahead,” Skarlagk said. “Many still blame him for losing to Deya and, thus, for our exile to the Darklands. When I started this rebellion to seek retribution against Gunmar, they were only too eager to enlist.”

  Reaching the heart of the keep, Skarlagk threw open the doors to the mess hall, where dozens of Gumm-Gumm rebels gathered. She indicated a spot for Jim in the middle of a long battered bench, while she took her seat at the head of an equally long, equally battered table.

  Jim squeezed between two oversized rebels who must have each been quadruple his size. His eyes se
arched the hall for food but found none. The mess hall doors kicked open again, and more Gumm-Gumms entered carrying deep stone bowls. Half the bowls held boiling water, while the others overflowed with what looked to be round red rocks.

  Jim elbowed the Gumm-Gumm beside him and whispered, “What’re those?”

  The rebel looked down at him in astonishment and asked, “You’ve never seen a Nyarlagroth egg before, fleshbag?”

  Hungry enough to eat pretty much anything, Jim grabbed an egg and prepared to crack it. The same rebel slapped him on the back of the head, motioning toward one of the bowls with water.

  “Ya gotta boil the egg first,” said the Gumm-Gumm. “Eat it raw, and ya might as well chug a flagon of Gnome poison!”

  The nearby rebels all laughed heartily at Jim, but he ignored them. Jim stared at the scalding water and licked his parched lips. He was so thirsty, Jim considered dunking his entire head in the bowl before deciding against it. Placing the egg on the end of his Sword of Eclipse, the Trollhunter lowered it into the steaming water, just like the Gumm-Gumms around him.

  “Looks like I get to practice my poaching skills in the Darklands, after all,” Jim said and smiled.

  When they retrieved their eggs, Jim did the same, juggling the egg in his hands. After it was cool enough, Jim cracked open the shell and nearly gagged at the sight and smell of a runny, rancid yolk.

  He looked around and watched, aghast, as the Gumm-Gumms downed their eggs in a single slurp each. None of them seemed to keel over . . . yet. Despite his better judgment, Jim closed his eyes, said a quiet prayer, and poured the slimy egg into his mouth.

  It was like swallowing warm liquid garbage. Jim immediately coughed it out, and the entire mess hall erupted in Gumm-Gumm laughter. The only one who didn’t laugh was Skarlagk.

  “Guess that’s an acquired taste,” Jim said, still spitting up gummy bits of yolk. “But it beats Chicken Surprise.”

  Queasy, Jim looked to the head of the table, but found Skarlagk gone. Jim stood, clearly unable to choke down anymore soft-boiled swill for the time being. He left the others laughing behind him and walked out of the mess hall in search of their sullen leader.