These were not monuments to fallen trolls, but rather the trolls themselves. Multiheaded and multilimbed bodies twined into postures of ultimate torment, jaws caught wide open in eternal screams, arms and tentacles and wings raised in final failed efforts to shield themselves from the dreaded light. I was so stunned that I kicked aside a few stones by accident, which was fine until I remembered that they were not stones at all. They were horns, ears, fingers, teeth.

I returned each of the stones to its rightful spot.

We passed through the rest of the Cemetery of Souls without further comment. By the time we reached the end, it felt as though I’d witnessed the genocide of an entire species. The last of Claire’s pink scraps was speared on the stone antlers of a troll who’d died on all fours, and I took a knee so that I could remove the inappropriate color.

My fellow trollhunters were waiting up ahead. It took me a moment to realize that the light flickering across their bodies was not originating from Blinky. In fact, the illumination came from the chamber that awaited us around the bend: deep, fiery reds; white-hot razors of yellow; churning brown smoke that curled around their ankles like affectionate rodents. I didn’t need to see for myself to know that we had found the Gumm-Gumms.

37.

Black oil dripped from above in long, sticky threads that burned like ant bites when they touched skin. The walls seeped white pus that crawled to the ground like fattened worms. Each step we took eddied the hot steam shooting from shuddering contraptions of delinquent metal. The clangorous moans of these devices added to the wail that thickened the air into fog.

We climbed over a berm of melted steel and found ourselves behind a conveyor belt, a crudely sewn patchwork of stained textiles that shuttled cargo into a large tin funnel. At the moment the belt was empty of everything except greasy stains, but nonetheless I followed the progress. The funnel fed into a thundering box the size of a treehouse, held together with railroad spikes and constructed from miscreant metals: a dented go-cart frame, a child’s red wagon, a neon sign from a strip club. Scorched wires snaked in and out, while virulent fumes poured from electrical circuits gone haywire. The box shook like a laundry machine about to explode and I could hear from inside it the whirring of saw blades and the music-box plinking of a grinder churning through gristled remains. It all led to a spout on the other end.

A gloved hand took my shoulder.

“The Machine,” Jack said. “Be sure you really want to see.”

His goggles gave up nothing but didn’t need to—the force of his grip said it all.