The Adventure Begins

by Richard Ashley Hamilton

  Tick.

  “Master Jim!” cried out Blinky in triumphant greeting.

  “AAAH!” screamed Jim.

  He lost his balance and fell backward onto his butt. Jim scrambled away from the six-eyed creature . . . and right into the basement’s heating duct. His head whacked into the pipe with a loud thunk.

  “Master Jim!” Blinky tried again.

  Thunk. Jim bopped his head on the duct again.

  “We have found you,” Blinky continued, despite Jim’s terror. “I am known as Blinky.”

  Jim screamed once more and crab-walked in a different direction across the basement floor, until he ran into something else. Looking up, Jim saw an even larger creature gazing down at him with a puzzled expression.

  “Hi,” said AAARRRGGHH!!!.

  “AAAH!” Jim screamed again.

  “It’s ‘AAARRRGGHH!!!,’ ” the large Troll corrected. “Three Rs.”

  Jim staggered to his feet, running away from AAARRRGGHH!!! and right toward Blinky’s four outstretched arms. With fumbling feet, Jim avoided Blinky but accidentally bumped into the furnace and burned his hands.

  Another scream.

  “Hmm,” mused AAARRRGGHH!!!. “He says ‘AAAH!’ a lot.”

  Jim dropped to his knees and covered his head with his arms, praying this was all just a very vivid, very messed-up dream. The two Trolls stood above him, trying to decipher the human’s unusual behavior.

  “It’s more of a yelp, I believe,” Blinky concluded. “A greeting, perhaps!”

  Blinky leaned in closer and tried a scream of his own by repeating, “AAAH!”

  “AAAH!” Jim screamed back, before running away.

  But AAARRRGGHH!!! snagged Jim with ease and brought him back over to the warmth of the furnace. Unfortunately for Jim, the gargantuan Troll held him upside down. Jim couldn’t help but think back to Toby and the gym rope, even as he covered his eyes.

  “Master Jim,” said Blinky. “You have been chosen.”

  “Blinky, he looks scared,” said AAARRRGGHH!!!.

  The Troll was right. Jim trembled in his grip.

  “Uh, AAARRRGGHH!!!, my good fellow, would you mind?” Blinky said as he indicated the ground. “This is a moment of some solemnity.”

  “Solembily?” AAARRRGGHH!!! repeated.

  “It means serious and dignified,” explained Blinky.

  AAARRRGGHH!!! tried to pronounce that last word, but the best he could manage was “Dig-oo-nified.”

  “P-p-put me down, please!” Jim stammered.

  “Oh,” said AAARRRGGHH!!!, reminded of the shivering human in his hand. He placed Jim on the basement floor, right side up, and patted him on the head.

  “Thank you!” said Blinky. “Now, where was I?”

  “Uh, Master Jim . . . found you . . .” AAARRRGGHH!!! said to refresh Blinky’s memory.

  “Yes. Thank you,” said Blinky. “Master Jim, you have been chosen.”

  Jim didn’t care. He just wanted to get out of this basement and out of this nightmare. Jim tried dodging to the left and slammed into one of AAARRRGGHH!!!’s arms. He ducked to the right and bounced off the other arm.

  “The Amulet of Merlin challenges you to ascend to the most sacred of offices,” Blinky said over the commotion.

  “Orifices?” said AAARRRGGHH!!!, not following again. “What orifices?”

  “Offices. It means responsibility,” Blinky said quickly, then looked back at Jim. “Unbeknownst to your kind, there is a secret world. A vast civilization of Trolls lurking beneath your feet, hidden from view.”

  Jim finally stopped running in circles. “T-T-Trolls?”

  “Trolls,” said Blinky. “Yes, Trolls. And it is now your charge to protect them. For you, Master Jim . . . are the Trollhunter.”

  “Trollhunter,” echoed AAARRRGGHH!!!.

  “This honor is yours to accept,” Blinky said while appraising Jim’s terror-stricken face. “So, what say you?”

  By way of answer, Jim’s eyes rolled back in his head and he promptly fainted. The two Trolls looked down at the unconscious champion sprawled across the floor between them.

  “Is that a yes?” asked AAARRRGGHH!!!.

  CHAPTER 7

  CHECKMATE

  Jim kneeled alone in the basement, surrounded once again by thousands of loose parts for a Vespa scooter. Only this time, there were six headlights scattered among the hardware, not one. All six headlights blinked on and off at Jim, like three sets of otherworldly, yet familiar, eyes.

  Groaning, Jim awoke with a start from the dream, still sprawled across the basement floor. The stiffness in his back told him he had been sleeping there for hours. Or maybe that was just from ping-ponging between that Troll’s gigantic arms last night. They’d felt smooth, like rock, only warmer, as if there was blood pumping just under the solid surface. Jim pulled his cell from his pocket and checked the time: 7:27 a.m.

  Forget texting, Jim thought. There probably aren’t emojis for giant monsters. Ones with stone . . . for skin. . . .

  As soon as he thought those last words, Jim immediately remembered how Eli had said the exact same thing from inside his locker. What was going on here?

  “Pick up, pick up,” said Jim as he autodialed Toby.

  “Hey, Jim,” answered Toby, although his mouth sounded like it was stuffed with food.

  “Tobes,” Jim said. “You’re never gonna believe what happened last night!”

  “Yeah, I’m kinda in the middle of something, Jimbo,” said Toby in that odd voice again.

  “I am freaking out here! Seriously freaking!” Jim said. “I need to talk to somebody.”

  “Chillax,” said Toby. “What’s going on?”

  “Okay, last night I heard something in my basement,” Jim began. “I thought it was raccoons, but then—”

  “Yeah, hang on a second,” interrupted Toby, before the shrill whine of a high-pitched drill came across the line, followed by Toby’s panicked screams.

  Jim nearly dropped his cell at the racket, then realized that Toby had said he’d be at the dentist this morning. That wasn’t food in Tobes’s mouth. It was gauze.

  “Sorry, Jim, I have to call you back,” Toby managed to say, followed by more drilling.

  Jim winced in sympathy and then hung up. He still felt the need to talk to someone he trusted about what happened to him last night, but who? His mom was still stuck in her double shift at the hospital.

  Jim briefly entertained the idea of telling Claire. She seemed like a great listener. He would just bike to her house, reintroduce himself, and walk her through his entire encounter with two Trolls named Blinky and AAARRRGGHH!!! and . . . and . . . and who was Jim kidding? Mentioning any of this to Claire would be romantic suicide.

  Looking down, Jim saw something on the basement floor: the yellow sticky note with Mr. Strickler’s number. It must’ve fallen out of Jim’s pocket when he had gone for his cell.

  • • •

  Jim walked as quickly as he could down the hallway at Arcadia Oaks High School, trying not to make eye contact with anybody, especially Steve. Jim didn’t need any more pain this morning. Between the ache in his back and the soreness on his fingertips—Jim’s chef game was so off, he’d nicked himself with the knife twice during breakfast prep—he was already hurting.

  Reaching Mr. Strickler’s office, Jim held his ear to the door and heard orchestra music playing from the other side. He took a deep breath and eased open the door.

  “Ah, hello, Jim,” said Mr. Strickler from behind his desk. “What can I do for you?”

  “Um, do you have a minute?” asked Jim, his head still poking through the doorway.

  “Are you all right? You look piqued,” Mr. Strickler said with concern, motioning to the stool in front of his desk. “Here, sit.”

  Jim sat on the stool, his book bag still slung over his shoulder, and began saying, “Okay, I don’t really know how to say this, but last night something incredible happened.”

  Mr. Strickler rai
sed his eyebrows with curiosity. Jim suddenly realized how low the stool was compared to his teacher’s seat. One of the taller students must’ve sat there before Jim. Feeling self-conscious, like he was a little kid at the grown-ups’ table, Jim stood and spun the stool cushion on its axle to elevate it, talking as he did so.

  “Actually, unbelievable. Completely unbelievable,” Jim continued, distracted by the stool. “As in, you won’t believe me, but I’m telling you it’s true. I promise you it’s true.”

  “All right, just calm down,” Mr. Strickler said. “I’ll believe you.”

  He took a pen from his desk and clicked it to jot down any notes, just as he often did in AP World History class. The clicking pen sound somehow reassured Jim, making him feel that this was just another normal day at school. Almost.

  “Uh, okay,” Jim said. “Last night two, um, things showed up at my house.”

  “Things?” asked Mr. Strickler, looking up from his notepad.

  “You know, things,” Jim said. “Guys. But really weird. One had these eyes, and the other one was huge and hairy.”

  Here comes the hard part, Jim thought. He inhaled and shut his eyes.

  “And they said they were Tro—” Jim said, cutting off that last word.

  “Tro?” Mr. Strickler repeated, looking confused.

  But Jim just couldn’t bring himself to say “Trolls.” Sitting there, in the broad daylight that filtered into Mr. Strickler’s office, Jim quickly felt foolish. Maybe it had all just been a dream, fueled by too many Sally-Go-Back reruns and Eli’s crazy story from the day before. But Jim had to think of something else to say. He couldn’t just end on “Tro.”

  “Tr-Trainers,” Jim fibbed on the fly. “Trainers! Who want to train me in . . .”

  His eyes searched Mr. Strickler’s office for ideas. Jim looked past the desk, the bookcase, and the tribal masks on the wall, until he finally settled on Mr. Strickler’s chess set by the window.

  “Ch . . . uh . . . chess!” said Jim.

  “And why would that have you so perturbed?” Mr. Strickler asked, clicking his pen.

  Jim abandoned the stool, now swiveled so high up that his feet couldn’t even touch the floor, and crossed to the chess set. He picked up the white knight piece with his scabbed fingers.

  “They really weirded me out,” Jim improvised.

  He looked up from the knight and out the window. His blood ran cold. Steve Palchuk was practicing soccer on the field just outside Mr. Strickler’s office. With zero effort, Steve kicked the ball, arcing it in the air so that it landed square on his teammate’s head. The other guy dropped to the turf, stunned by the soccer ball. Steve then turned and found Jim watching him through Mr. Strickler’s window.

  “Tick-tock. Tick-tock,” mouthed Steve with glee, wagging his metronome finger at Jim.

  Jim felt his insides churn even as Mr. Strickler rose and joined him at the chess set.

  “Now, I think I know what has you so distraught, Jim,” said Mr. Strickler, taking the knight from his student.

  “You do?” asked Jim, more than a little surprised.

  “It’s like I told you yesterday,” Mr. Strickler said. “You have a lot on your shoulders. Too much, in my opinion, for someone your age. And I think this opportunity—”

  “Chess?” Jim interjected, still clinging to his quickly invented lie.

  “I think it’s causing you anxiety,” Mr. Strickler continued. “I know you want to be there for your mother, but it’s as a great poet once wrote . . .”

  Mr. Strickler returned the knight to its position on the board. 6. Knight takes king. Checkmate. He toppled the king with a flick of his finger for effect.

  “ ‘Do what’s good for you, or you’re not good for anybody,’ ” said Mr. Strickler, just as the first-period bell rang in the hall.

  Jim looked up from the chessboard and found his teacher smiling at him. He smiled back, feeling better.

  “Hey, thanks for the advice,” Jim said with all sincerity. “I like talking to you.”

  “Always,” replied Mr. Strickler as Jim turned and left for his first class.

  Walter Strickler watched Jim go, noticing the book bag across his back . . . and the Amulet peeking out from one of the unzipped pouches. Its face shone bright blue, as it had the night before.

  Strickler’s eyes went wide with disbelief. But there was no mistaking what he had just seen. That was the Amulet of Merlin. In Jim Lake’s backpack. He was certain of it.

  The teacher clicked his pen and unscrewed the cap, revealing an unusually shaped key. Strickler removed a dictionary from his bookshelf, exposing a hidden lock. He inserted the key and accessed a secret room behind the wall.

  A pair of antique battle spears from some long-lost civilization hung from the cinderblock walls. Stacks of ancient books and scrolls occupied the corners, with misshapen skulls acting as paperweights. Strickler entered, picked up a rotary phone, and heard the call connect to the other end of the line.

  “Alert the rest of the Janus Order,” Strickler said into the phone, all traces of warmth gone from his voice. “After many, many years of deceit, it looks as if my patience is about to finally pay off. . . .”

  CHAPTER 8

  BELLY OF THE BEAST

  No sooner had the sun set over Arcadia Oaks than a new activity took place in its dry canal. A small speck of intense light appeared on one of the concrete walls, then arced a semicircle about six feet in diameter. The line shattered inward, and from the magical portal of swirling rocks and light stepped Blinky and AAARRRGGHH!!!. The doorway closed behind the Trolls once they’d crossed into the surface world.

  Blinky still held what looked like a crystal dagger, with more of those specks of intense light swirling within its facets. He placed the object into the pouch on his belt, licked his finger, and held it high in the air to feel the direction of the wind.

  “That way,” Blinky said, pointing to the woods with his other three hands. “Bular would want to stay downwind so as to avoid detection.”

  The two Trolls clambered up the canal’s steep incline and entered the neighboring woods. Countless broken branches and uprooted trunks let them know Bular had been this way already.

  “Sure about this?” asked AAARRRGGHH!!!, his round eyes taking in the destruction.

  “More or less,” Blinky said, forging deeper into the woods. “After last night’s . . . less than successful introduction, perhaps it would be wise to give Master Jim the night off, so to speak. Allow his human brain extra time to process all the information we shared.”

  “But hunting for Bular?” said AAARRRGGHH!!!. “We’re Trolls. Not Trollhunters.”

  “Most certainly, my friend,” Blinky agreed. “I’ve never been much of a fighter, nor have you these past few centuries. But if we can somehow find and capture Bular, then perhaps we needn’t even bother training Master Jim.”

  AAARRRGGHH!!! followed Blinky deeper into the woods, periodically checking over his shoulder to make sure that no one else was following them in turn.

  “But if Kanjigar couldn’t . . . ,” AAARRRGGHH!!! said.

  “Then our chances at survival are slim to none,” Blinky added, finishing the thought. “Yes, I’ll admit that success seems unlikely. The best we can do is attempt to retrace the steps of Master Jim’s courageous predecessor and hope we get lucky.”

  They reached the edge of the woods. Blinky’s four arms parted some thick shrubs, revealing the abandoned Vespa factory just beyond the tree line, silent and foreboding.

  “I believe the humans have a term for moments such as this,” said Blinky. “Bingo.”

  “Bongo?” AAARRRGGHH!!! asked.

  “Eh, close enough,” said Blinky, before walking toward the factory, AAARRRGGHH!!! right behind him.

  Wind rustled through the tall, unruly weeds growing around the factory’s entrance. AAARRRGGHH!!! nudged open the rusted front door, an easy feat for a Troll his size. Blinky went in first, holding up a different crystal that glowe
d pale yellow, like a mystical flashlight. Their stone feet crunched on shattered glass, wads of garbage, and a downed sign that said VESPA MOTORS ASSEMBLY PLANT. Holding the crystal closer to the floor, Blinky highlighted a trail of blood drops, now dried and faded to brown.

  “This is most assuredly the place,” Blinky whispered.

  Moving as quietly as they could, the pair rounded the next corner and gasped at the sight of the throne room. They saw the destroyed brick walls, collections of digested bones, and the large seat formed from squashed Vespa engines . . . but no Bular.

  “Thank Gorgus,” Blinky sighed in relief. “AAARRRGGHH!!!, we may not have much time before he returns. Let’s scour the area for any clues that might prove useful in Bular’s undoing.”

  AAARRRGGHH!!! lumbered over to the throne, sniffing at the steps beneath it. His mossy green head jerked back immediately, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  “Impure,” AAARRRGGHH!!! said, still tasting bitterness on his tongue.

  “Changelings?” Blinky asked, dropping the bent Vespa license plate he had been examining. “Here? In league with Bular? This is a dire development indeed.”

  Blinky moved toward the throne to smell for himself when he accidentally walked into a scrap of fabric hanging above him. Looking up, Blinky’s six eyes beheld a large filthy cloth, tattered and stained. Two large metal spikes held the top corners in place high on the brick wall. Another breeze blew through the factory’s empty windowpanes, fluttering the cloth and revealing something underneath.

  Overcome with curiosity, Blinky tugged on the fabric, and the entire sheet came down.

  “Aarghaumont,” Blinky said to his friend, his mouth dry with fear. “Look!”

  AAARRRGGHH!!! turned around and saw what Blinky saw. His body tensed.

  A massive mural covered the factory wall, previously hidden by the cloth. Painted in faded brown with brutal brushstrokes, the chilling image depicted a large Troll with a crown of horns, clearly Bular. The painted Bular held a crude rendering of the Amulet up to a bridge. Below his hooved feet, countless drawn humans worshipped Bular from some sort of underworld. And below them an even larger painted Troll awaited, one of his eyes missing.