There was nothing to do but dig with our bare hands. Claire was the last one planted and therefore the easiest to remove, and within thirty seconds I’d scooped away enough dirt for her to wiggle herself free. She pressed her filthy face against mine in a quick hug before scrabbling over to the next kid and tearing at the ground to release him. Tub and I set to freeing a little girl I recognized despite the lack of purple glasses. I whispered to her that it was going to be okay. My fingertips bled against rock as I dug.

The more kids we released, the more diggers we had, and within ten minutes we were cowering behind a hill alongside seventeen begrimed others. The murk of the battleground below had cleared enough for me to see the tireless advance of the trollhunters. Perhaps due to their brainwashed state, the Gumm-Gumms were not the best of fighters—ferocious, yes, but undisciplined in the face of a coherent attack. And, as Jack had said, there just weren’t anywhere near enough of them—only two dozen remained. It was time for ARRRGH!!! to make her move.

Pressing both blood-matted paws to the dirt, she took a swinging, simian leap, launching her body through the smoke and landing in front of the throne. Brimstone swirled around her like demonic insects as she rose to full height—less than half that of Gunmar. She swiped to the left with a paw, destroying the Machine’s final length of pipe, just to show the Hungry One that she meant business.

Gunmar’s humungous jaw grinded and the stake-sized teeth fought for placement. His single eye blazed as he rose from his throne. Six sausage-stained arms, including the wooden one, spread open as if preparing to greet his attacker with an embrace. The Eye of Malevolence leapt from Gunmar’s shoulder and scuttled in gleeful circles through its master’s boiling drool.

ARRRGH!!! unleashed a roar so tornadic it generated a storm of dirt. Behind the corkscrews of grit, the trollhunter widened her stance and stomped closer to Gunmar. Rocks rained from the walls and the Machine squealed in protest. The storied foes were within striking distance—the legend of snarled black fur, the myth of all-devouring appetite. Inconceivable muscles flexed; rancid breath poured from open throats; the pestilent air was charged with the electricity of the anticipated first blow.

And then the Killaheed Bridge was completed.