The Book of Ga-Huel Read online

  PROLOGUE

  EYES OF STONE

  Foolish fleshbags.

  The angry words popped into Spar the Spiteful’s mind as he charged through the humans’ pathetic excuse for a city. The Trollhunter never much cared for the hornless, helpless creatures Merlin had entrusted him to defend. And this new village of theirs—this “Sumer,” as they called it—paled woefully in comparison to the jeweled majesty of his own underground home, Glastonbury Tor Trollmarket. At least the Sumerians were asleep at this late hour and not around to bother Spar.

  This desert heat wasn’t doing much to improve his mood, though. Being a Garden Troll, Spar wasn’t fond of Sumer’s arid winds and sandy dunes. The lack of moisture made his moss itch and his branch-horns ache. Sweating profusely under his Daylight Armor, Spar raced up one of the city’s torchlit staircases and jumped onto a nearby house. Amazingly, the roof did not collapse under the weight of the stocky Trollhunter’s ironclad body.

  Spar vaulted over the wide gap between houses and landed on the next roof. His footing was off this time, causing the Trollhunter to stumble and nearly fall over the side. But he quickly regained his balance and continued running. Spar the Spiteful never broke his stride, never slowed down. He couldn’t. Not with a Gumm-Gumm on the loose.

  The Trollhunter’s keen eyes caught sight of his enemy dead ahead. The hulking, horned monster bounded from rooftop to rooftop, his hooves clattering against the shingles.

  “Gunmar the Black!” Spar called out. “Cease your cowardly escape! Come face me—Troll to Troll—instead of hiding behind innocent humans!”

  “But I hunger, Trollhunter!” taunted Gunmar, his veins pulsing with pale blue light. “And fleshlings make the tastiest of midnight snacks!”

  Gunmar sank his claws into the side of the next building and slid down to the street level, leaving eight deep gashes along the wall in his wake. Spar gritted his tusklike teeth as Gunmar hurried toward Sumer’s ziggurat—a squat pyramid at the city’s center.

  The Trollhunter somersaulted off his current roof and aimed toward a nearby wall. Landing feetfirst on the wall, Spar immediately pushed off again with his muscular legs, carrying him to a second wall. He kept springing back and forth between the two walls, getting lower and lower each time, until he reached the street and took off after Gunmar.

  As soon as the Trollhunter entered the ziggurat, he understood that it was a holy place to the Sumerians. Low flames flickered from bronze braziers. Polished metal objects lined the altars. And petroglyphs—crude drawings carved into the sandstone walls by human hands—stretched as far as Spar’s eyes could see. He figured the pyramid held thousands of Sumerians during their worship hours. But at night, the deserted temple seemed as silent and lonely as a graveyard.

  A scraping noise caught Spar’s attention, and he saw something shift in the darkness. The Trollhunter held out his hands and conjured the Daylight Club. Spar aimed his blunt, silvery weapon toward the temple’s shadowed corner. The Amulet on his chest glowed brighter.

  “You’re trapped in here, Gunmar,” said Spar, inching closer. “I stand between you and the only exit. Stop running and face Merlin’s justice once and for—”

  The Trollhunter reached the darkened corner, only to find it empty. He turned around to see if Gunmar had somehow slipped past him. Looking back, Spar noticed a new detail illuminated by the Amulet. Eight matching scratches ran across one of the large floor tiles.

  “Claw marks,” muttered Spar.

  Kneeling, the Trollhunter pried open the tile with the handle of his club. His Amulet now cast its glow upon a hidden tunnel beneath the temple floor. The passageway appeared far older than the pyramid that sat atop it. Cobwebs clogged the tunnel, and eons of dust coated its floor—except where Gumm-Gumm footprints appeared next to those of another, smaller Troll. Spar wondered if the humans even knew of these catacombs that existed under their ziggurat. Then, a much more troubling question came to the Trollhunter’s mind: What if Gunmar isn’t running from me? What if he’s running toward something?

  • • •

  The Amulet lit the tunnels like a torch. Spar crept down the passage, sweeping aside thick sheets of webs and keeping his Daylight Club at the ready. At least it felt cooler to the Garden Troll down here. He tracked the two sets of fresh footprints into an underground chamber. Crystals cropped out of the ceiling and floor, lending a dim glow to the cavern.

  Spar discovered that the walls down here had been adorned with petroglyphs too. Only these images appeared far more sophisticated than the ones in the Sumerian pyramid, as if carved by a skilled artisan. What’s more, these engravings depicted events that no human could—or should—have ever witnessed. Spar’s eyes went to one petroglyph in particular, etched in the shape of a bearded man holding a crystal staff. It looked like a wizard. It looked like . . .

  “Merlin?” said Spar, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Staring farther down the wall, he spotted an engraving of a puny human boy wearing the armor of the Trollhunter and muttered, “Impossible.”

  Spar’s mind reeled in confusion. He braced himself against the wall, looked up—and saw his own tusked face staring back at him. The Trollhunter pulled away from the wall as if it were white-hot, but his eyes had not deceived him. Spar the Spiteful stared at a petroglyph of Spar the Spiteful staring at a petroglyph of Spar the Spiteful and so on. A dizzying sensation overcame him, as if he were still bouncing endlessly between those two city walls.

  “How . . . how can this be?” he asked in confusion.

  “Shh!” whispered a new voice.

  Spar spun around and found a Troll sitting on the cave floor, scribbling something into a big, heavy book on his lap. Short and potbellied with piglike features, the Troll wore thick crystal spectacles. He didn’t even bother looking up as he added, “I’m trying to concentrate.”

  Disoriented, Spar glanced at the Troll’s tiny feet—a perfect match to the other set of prints in the dusty tunnels. The Trollhunter noticed how the studious little creature kept looking back and forth between the petroglyphs and his book as he wrote.

  “You . . . you are copying what these ancient walls show,” said Spar. “But how can they possibly show events that have just happened—events that have not yet come to pass?”

  “You’d have to ask their author,” answered the Troll, nodding to the carved likeness of the wizard. “He’s left them in countless caves across the surface world.”

  “Then . . . then this must be the reason Gunmar came here,” reasoned Spar.

  The crystal pen immediately stopped scratching against the parchment. Leaping to his feet so fast he almost lost his glasses, the paunchy Troll cried, “The Skullcrusher is here?! You must protect me, Trollhunter! You must help me escape!”

  The porcine Troll scurried behind Spar’s armored body for protection. Spar ignored the Troll’s whimpers and concentrated on searching their surroundings. But the Trollhunter’s always reliable eyesight failed him. Between the faint gemlight and the endless engravings on the walls, he felt overwhelmed, vulnerable.

  “The book!” exclaimed Spar. “Its pages may reveal Gunmar’s location!”

  “No!” yelled the Troll as Spar snatched the book from his grasp. “The Book of Ga-Huel isn’t meant to be read by ordinary eyes! The enchantments used to write it are beyond powerful! If you look upon the latest page before the ink has dried—”

  So great was Spar’s spite in this moment that he refused to heed the warnings. He flipped to a blank page, which erupted with brilliant, otherworldly light. The glare struck Spar directly in his eyes. He cried out in pain and dropped the book.

  “I—I can’t see!” Spar cried.

  He fumbled his fingers ove
r his eyes, which had turned to stone. The Troll in the crystal spectacles reclaimed The Book of Ga-Huel and looked up in time to see Gunmar emerge from the cavern’s shadows.

  “You always were the better fighter, Trollhunter,” Spar heard Gunmar say.

  “So you waited until my sight was stolen to strike,” said Spar. “Is that it?”

  “More or less, although it won’t be I who strikes you down,” Gunmar answered. “I’ve reserved that pleasure for my heir.”

  Gunmar grunted, and a new Gumm-Gumm strode into the chamber from the underground tunnel, dragging a barbaric broadsword behind him. He bore a striking resemblance to his much larger father, even if Spar could not see it. The Trollhunter’s eyes did not move in their sockets as he felt a stabbing pain through his chest. The rest of Spar the Spiteful’s body turned to solid stone and shattered into thousands of pieces.

  “Well done, Bular,” said Gunmar to his son.

  “I know of no greater honor than to slay in your name, father,” answered Bular.

  Gunmar circled around his fallen nemesis, gloating, until a blue glow shone between the cracks of Spar’s remains. The Amulet then burst out of the pile of rubble, flew past both Gumm-Gumms’ clutching claws, and out of the cavern. Bular howled in outrage. He raked his claws along the carved walls, defiling them.

  “No matter,” said Gunmar. “Merlin’s Amulet may have escaped us, but I now possess a far greater treasure! The Book of—”

  Gunmar stopped short and snarled as he realized the Amulet wasn’t the only thing to leave the ziggurat. His two burning eyes scoured the entire cavern and found no trace of The Book of Ga-Huel nor its bespectacled author.

  “Bodus!” shouted Gunmar. “Come back here, you coward! You already know too much of my designs! Show me my future or forfeit your own!”

  Across Sumer, Bodus shuddered at the echo of Gunmar’s roars. The Troll adjusted his crystal specs and looked down at The Book of Ga-Huel. Its latest page showed Spar the Spiteful clutching at his eyes, two Gumm-Gumms lurking behind him. Tucking the book under his traveling cloak, Bodus fled into the night—into history—just as Merlin’s Amulet soared the night sky in search of its next champion. . . .

  CHAPTER 1

  GUAC ’N’ TROLL

  Roughly 5,200 years later, Jim Lake Jr. held Merlin’s Amulet in his young hands. He felt the device’s inner workings tick and whir in his palm, sensing the full weight of his destiny. Clearing his mind and his heart, Jim read the mystical incantation inscribed upon the Amulet’s back, and said, “For the glory of Merlin—LET’S GET THIS PARTY STARTED!”

  Music thumped through the speakers. Carnival lights lit up Jim’s backyard. A WELCOME HOME, JIMBO! banner unfurled. And Jim’s best friends—Toby, Claire, Blinky, and AAARRRGGHH!!!—group-hugged their returned Trollhunter. Well, except for NotEnrique. The little Changeling wasn’t too big on public displays of affection.

  “Master Jim!” exclaimed Blinky, wiping the tears from his six Troll eyes. “I can still scarcely believe that you managed to return from the Darklands—and alive, no less!”

  “Glad to have you back,” AAARRRGGHH!!! grumbled, tousling Jim’s hair.

  “You too, big guy,” said Jim.

  He hugged the giant Troll, happy to hear a heartbeat under all that muscle and fur. Jim reminded himself that it wasn’t long ago that a poisoned blade had solidified AAARRRGGHH!!! into a lifeless statue, only for the spirits of past Trollhunters to revive him.

  “We would’ve had this shindig a little earlier, if it wasn’t for this week’s Goblin trouble,” Toby said, flashing a braces-filled grin.

  “And under normal circumstances, we’d host this celebration at Trollmarket,” added Blinky. “But I fear Queen Usurna wouldn’t look kindly upon honoring the Trollhunter who defied her! Not to mention we don’t have much in the way of human party snacks there. . . .”

  “Eh, human food’s overrated,” said NotEnrique, scarfing down an old gym sock.

  “Speaking of snacks, it’s time to unlock the guac!” Claire announced.

  She held out a bowl of her famous guacamole for the group. Jim dipped in a tortilla chip, took a bite, and closed his eyes. He chewed in silence, and Claire tried to read his reaction.

  “Is it too bland?” she asked. “I can throw a ghost pepper in there for more heat! Or—”

  “Claire,” said Jim, opening his eyes and smiling. “It’s perfect.”

  He hugged her, and his smile spread to the others. Jim looked around at his friends gathered in the backyard and added, “The guac, the decorations, the weather, the company—it’s all perfect.”

  In truth, everything did seem perfect to Jim—especially when compared to what he endured in the Darklands. For two weeks Jim fought for his life in the dismal dimension. The only foods he had eaten there were raw Nyarlagroth eggs. The only banners he had seen were the war flags carried by two clashing armies. The only weather he had experienced was the mercilessly cold wind whipping against his Eclipse Armor. And the only company he had kept was the chalk drawing Jim made of his friends—that, and a talking fireball who betrayed Jim shortly before trying to kill him. Overall, it had been a pretty weird time for the Trollhunter.

  The sounds of his teammates’ laughter roused Jim back to the present. Blinky hoisted a glass of glug into the air and said, “And now, in the immortal words of the Venerable Bedehilde: Yo, DJ! Pump up the jamz!”

  NotEnrique popped a vinyl record onto the turntable and cranked up the volume. A blistering Papa Skull track flooded the yard, and Team Trollhunters started dancing. Claire giggled at Jim’s patented “thumbs-up groove.” Blinky popped and locked with all four of his arms. And Toby cheered on AAARRRGGHH!!!, who had picked up a lot of moves from their Go-Go Dance Uprising video game.

  “Go Wingman! Go Wingman! It’s your birthday!” said Toby.

  “What is the meaning of this?!” yelled someone from across the yard.

  The record needle scratched, and everybody stopped dancing. At first Jim thought they must’ve been found out by a neighbor with a noise complaint. How was Jim going to explain to his mom that he was throwing a house party while she worked a night shift at the hospital? Or that he was secretly living a double life as an armored, magically powered champion? Or that Jim had already erased the truth about his Trollhunting from her memory once before? But before Jim could come up with a lame excuse, the party crasher stepped closer. The twinkling carnival lights revealed a blue, broad, and spiked Troll.

  “Draal!” Jim hollered.

  “How can you possibly have a party . . . without these?” said Draal, pulling his mechanical arm from behind his back to reveal three plump watermelons.

  “Oh, it’s on,” Jim said. “For the glory of Merlin, Daylight is mine to command!”

  The Amulet floated before Jim and released swarming orbs of pale blue energy. Interlocking metal plates manifested out of the thin air and contracted around Jim’s body, sheathing him in radiant armor. The Trollhunter gestured, and the Sword of Daylight appeared in his awaiting hand.

  Draal hurled all three of the melons. In one fluid stroke, Jim slashed through each of them, splattering the rest of Team Trollhunters with melon chunks. They looked at one another in startled silence—then burst into applause.

  “Now that’s how you party,” said Draal.

  “Hey, Draal, any more where those came from?” asked Toby, pulling a small hammer from his back pocket.

  The spiked Troll winked before rolling over to the garden bed, where Jim grew organic fruits, vegetables, and herbs to be used in his cooking. Draal peered between shrubs of thyme and rosemary, finding a fourth, much larger watermelon. He cocked a metal thumbs up to the group, and Toby extended his Warhammer to its full, formidable size. Knowing what was coming next, Jim, Claire, Blinky, and AAARRRGGHH!!! hid behind one of the boulders in the backyard and giggled.

  “Batter up!” yelled Toby.

  As Draal launched the melon like a cannonball, Toby swung his Warhammer with ev
erything he had, the weapon’s crystal head trailing amber fire in the night air. The watermelon exploded in a thunderclap of fruit and flame, and the shockwaves sent Toby flying rear-first into Jim’s trash cans. With melon juice raining down, NotEnrique cueing a new song, and everyone else hoisting the woozy Toby on their shoulders, Jim felt like he wanted this moment to last forever. The Trollhunter pumped his fists into the air and shouted, “This is the greatest night of my life!”

  • • •

  Much later that night—after his guests had picked the last melon seeds from their hair and fur, and left—Jim went to sleep with a smile still on his face. But when he heard a strange sound and opened his eyes, Jim discovered he wasn’t in his bedroom anymore.

  He was back in the Darklands. In place of pajamas, Jim now wore the black-and-red Eclipse Armor. Frigid gales whipped his exposed hair, and a photonegative sun shone sickly green light upon the jagged terrain.

  “Oh no,” moaned Jim. “I can’t be back here! I—I don’t ever want to be back here!”

  Overcome with dread, Jim took a step backward, only for the ground to crumble beneath his feet. Jim cried out as he plunged through darkness. He thought he might die this way, falling forever, until the Trollhunter’s open hand caught something.

  It was a chain. The abrupt stop made Jim’s shoulder pop out of its socket, but he still managed to hold on to the rusted metal links. Mustering all his strength, Jim pulled himself up the chain. Even the slightest movement sent an agonizing throb running down his arm, but he refused to let go. Blinking away tears, Jim’s eyes refocused and saw that he was now clinging on to a bassinet.

  “The Changeling nursery!” he gasped.

  Jim then heard a baby start to cry. The wail came from everywhere and nowhere at once. His armored hand reached into the bassinet, peeling back the blankets. But the more Jim pulled on the fabric, the more folds it seemed to reveal. The bleating cries grew louder, drowning out the sound of the Jim’s pounding heartbeat. He finally tore off the last blanket. And the very sight of the horror he unveiled made the Trollhunter scream.