by Eoin Colfer
“I was just sitting in spit, right?” she said, grimacing.
“It’s not all spit,” said Artemis.
“Well, Artemis,” she said, rubbing the faint red mark on her forehead, “what’s the plan?”
“And hello to you, too,” said Mulch. “And don’t thank me. Saving your life once more has been my pleasure. Just one of the many services offered by Diggums Airlines.”
Holly scowled at him. “I have a warrant out for you.”
“So why don’t you arrest me, then?”
“The secure facilities aren’t really operating at the moment.”
Mulch took a moment to process this, and the trademark bravado drained from his craggy features, crease by crease. It almost seemed like his glow dimmed a few notches.
“Oh, holy lord Vortex,” he said, tracing the sacred sign of the bloated intestine over his stomach to ward off evil. “What has Opal done now?”
Holly sat on a mound, tapping her wrist computer to see if anything worked.
“She’s found and opened the Berserker Gate.”
“And that’s not the worst thing,” said Artemis. “She killed her younger self, which destroyed everything Opal has invented or influenced since then. Haven is shut down, and humans are back in the Stone Age.”
Holly’s face was grim in the glow of luminous spit. “Actually, Artemis, finding the Berserker Gate is the worst thing, because there are two locks. The first releases the Berserkers . . .”
Mulch jumped into the pause. “And the second? Come on, Holly, this is no time for theatrics.”
Holly hugged her knees like a lost child. “The second releases Armageddon. If Opal succeeds in opening it, every single human on the surface of the earth will be killed.”
Artemis felt his head spin as the bloody scale of Opal’s plan became clear.
Butler chose this moment to regain his senses. “Juliet is on the surface with Masters Beckett and Myles, so I guess we can’t let that happen.”
They sat in a tight group around a campfire of glowing spit while Holly told what had been considered a legend but was now being treated as pretty accurate historical fact.
“Most of this you will already know from the spirits who tried to invade you.”
Butler rubbed his branded neck. “Not me. I was out cold. All I have is fractured images. Pretty gross stuff, even for me. Severed limbs, people being buried alive. Dwarfs riding trolls into battle? Could that have happened?”
“It all happened,” Holly confirmed. “There was a dwarf corps that rode trolls.”
“Yep,” said Mulch. “They called themselves the Troll Riders. Pretty cool name, right? There was a group that only went out at night who called themselves the Night Troll Riders.”
Artemis couldn’t help himself. “What were the daytime troll riders called?”
“Those gauchos were called the Daytime Troll Riders,” answered Mulch blithely. “Head to toe in leather. They smelled like the inside of a stinkworm’s bladder, but they got the job done.”
Holly could have wept with frustration, but she’d learned during her brief period as a private investigator when Mulch had served as her partner that the dwarf would shut up only when he was good and ready. Artemis, on the other hand, should know better.
“Artemis,” she said sharply, “don’t encourage him. We are on a timetable.”
Artemis’s expression seemed almost helpless in the luminescence. “Of course. No more comments. I am feeling a little overwhelmed, truth be told. Continue, Holly, please.”
And so Holly told her story, her features sharply lit from below by the unconventional glow. Butler could not help but be reminded of horror stories told to him and his fellow scouts by Master Prunes on weekend trips to the Dan-yr-Ogof cave in Wales. Holly’s delivery was bare bones, but the circumstances sent a shiver along his spine.
And I do not shiver easily, thought the big man, shifting uncomfortably on the muddied root that served as a seat.
“When I was a child, my father told me the story of Taillte almost every night so that I would never forget the sacrifice our ancestors made. Some laid down their lives, but a few went even beyond that and deferred their afterlives.” Holly closed her eyes and tried to tell it as she had heard it. “Ten thousand years ago, humans fought to eradicate the fairy families from the face of the earth. There was no reason for them to do this. Fairies are in the main peace-loving people, and their healing abilities and special connection to the land were of benefit to all, but always among the humans there are those individuals who would control all they see and are threatened by that which they do not understand.”
Artemis refrained from making the obvious point that it was one of the fairy folk who was more or less attempting to destroy the world presently, but he filed it away to trot out at a later date.
“And so the People took refuge on the misty isle of Ériú, the home of magic, where they were most powerful. And they dug their healing pits and massed their army at the Plains of Taillte for a last stand.”
The others were silent now as Holly spoke, for they could see the scene in their own memories.
“It was a brief battle,” said Holly bitterly. “The humans showed no mercy, and it was clear by the first night that the People were doomed to extermination. And so the Council decided that they would retreat to the catacombs below the earth from whence they had come before the dawn of the age of man. All except the demons, who used magic to lift their island out of time.”
“Okay,” said Mulch. “I was sticking with it, but then you said whence, so now I have to go to the fridge.”
Holly scowled briefly, then continued. By now everyone knew that eating was how Mulch handled bad news, and good news, and banal news. All news, really.
“But the Council reasoned that even their underground refuge would be in danger from the humans, and so they built a gate with an enchanted lock. If this lock were ever opened, then the souls of the Berserker warriors buried around the gate would rise up and possess what bodies they could to prevent humans from gaining access.”
Artemis could still remember the sickly stench he’d experienced when the fairy Berserker had attempted to occupy his mind.
“And if the Berserker Gate were opened by fairy hand, then the warriors would be in thrall to that fairy to fight at his or her command. In this case, Opal Koboi.
“This spell was conjured to last for a century at least, until the People were safely away and the location of the gate forgotten.”
Holly’s lip curled as she said this, and Artemis made a deduction.
“But there was a betrayal?”
Holly’s eyes flickered in surprise. “How . . . ? Yes, of course you would guess, Artemis. We were betrayed by the infamous gnome warlock Shayden Fruid, once known as Shayden the Bold, but since called Shayden the Shame of Taillte. There’s an inverted statue of Shayden in the chapel of Hey-Hey, which is not meant as a compliment, believe me.”
“What happened, Holly?” said Artemis, urging her on.
“Shayden Fruid hid in a conjured mist until the dying Berserkers were buried around the gate and the People had descended into the underworld, and then he attempted to tamper with the lock. Not only did he intend to open the lock for the humans, but also to lead the enthralled Berserkers against their own people.”
“This guy was a real sweetheart,” Mulch called, his face bathed in fridge glow. “Legend has it that he once sold his own mother. And I’m not talking metaphorically here. He actually put his mother in a boat and traded her in the next village downstream. That should have been a red flag right there.”
“But Shayden’s plan failed, didn’t it?” said Artemis.
“Yes, because the secret stage of the plan called for someone to stay behind and collapse the valley on top of the gate. A great warlock who could maintain the mist until the gate was buried, and then use it to cover his getaway. As the demons had already left, only the elfin warlock Bruin Fadda, whose hatred of the humans
was legendary, could complete the mission, climbing to the lip of the valley to conjure the collapse that had been prepared by a team of dwarf engineers.”
Somehow it seemed to Artemis, Butler, and Holly that they had all experienced what had happened. Perhaps it was the last remnant of Berserker plasma on their brows, but suddenly they could hear the breath in Bruin Fadda’s throat as he raced down the hillside, screaming at Shayden to step away from the lock.
“They struggled fiercely, each mighty warrior mortally wounding the other. And at the end, Bruin, dying and driven mad with pain, hate, and despair, conjured a second lock, using his own blood and forbidden black magic. If that lock were to be opened, then Danu, the Earth mother, would surrender her magic to the air in a blast of power that would annihilate every human on the surface, and the People would be safe forever.”
“Just humans?”
Holly woke from her reverie. “Just humans. The hated oppressors. Bruin had lost every member of his family in a raid. He was beyond reason.”
Butler rubbed his chin. “Every weapon has a sell-by date, Holly. It’s been ten thousand years. Couldn’t this spell have a half-life or something?”
“It’s possible. But the Berserkers are loose, and the first lock worked just fine.”
“Why would Opal want to open the second lock?”
Artemis knew the answer to that one. “It’s political. There is a huge lobby in Haven that has been advocating for full-scale war for years. Opal would be a hero to them.”
Holly nodded. “Exactly. Plus, Opal is so far gone now that she seriously believes that her destiny is to be some kind of messiah. You saw what she was prepared to do just to escape.”
“Do tell,” said Mulch.
“She had her younger self kidnapped, and she then set up a fake ransom demand for her present self, so that we would put her inside a natural nuclear reactor, thus helping her to generate enough black magic for her to open the first lock.”
Mulch slammed the fridge door. “I am sincerely sorry I asked. This is typical of the kind of mess you get us into, Artemis.”
“Hey,” snapped Holly. “This is not the time to blame Artemis.”
“Thank you,” said Artemis. “Finally.”
“There will be plenty of time to blame Artemis later, when this is resolved.”
Artemis folded his arms with exaggerated movements. “That is uncalled for, Holly. I am as much a victim here as everyone else. Even those Berserkers are being used to fight a war that ended ten thousand years ago. Couldn’t we simply tell them the war is over? They are guarding a gate that I presume doesn’t even lead anywhere anymore.”
“That’s true. We haven’t used the old networks for millennia.”
“Can’t you somehow communicate that?”
“No. They are under fairy bonds. Nothing we say will make an impact.”
“How much time do we have?” asked Artemis.
“I don’t know,” admitted Holly. “My father told me the legend as a bedtime story. It was passed down to him from his father. The whole thing came from the mind of an empath warlock who synched with Bruin Fadda in his final moments. All we know is that the second lock is complex magic. Opal is running on black magic now, but that has a high price and fades fast. She will want to get it open before dawn, while the fairy moon is still high. Her Berserkers will be bare wisps of their former selves after all this time, and they can’t last much longer than that. Some will give in to the afterlife’s call before then.”
Artemis turned to Butler for a question about tactics. This was the bodyguard’s area of expertise. “How should Opal deploy her forces?”
“Opal will have most of those Berserkers gathered around her, watching her back while she picks that magical lock. The rest will guard the walls and run roving patrols around the estate, armed to the teeth, no doubt. Probably with my arms.”
“Do we have any weapons?” asked Artemis.
“I lost my Neutrino after the crash,” said Holly.
“I had to sign in my handgun at Haven immigration,” said Butler. “Never had a chance to pick it up.”
Mulch returned to the campfire. “You did say every human on the surface would be killed. I just want to point out that you are underground. So you could, you know, just stay here.”
Holly shot him a pretty raw poisonous look.
“Hey, no need for that. It’s good to explore all the options.”
“If Opal does open the second lock, not only will it kill billions of humans, but it will spark off an unprecedented civil war among the People. After which Opal Koboi would probably declare herself supreme empress.”
“So you’re saying we should stop her?”
“I’m saying we have to stop her, but I don’t know how.”
Artemis looked toward the heavens as if divine inspiration were forthcoming, but all he could see were the glowing walls of Mulch’s subterranean refuge and the inky blackness of tunnel mouths dotted along their surfaces.
“Mulch,” he said, pointing. “Where do those tunnels lead?”
Dalkey Island, South County Dublin
There is a common misconception that trolls are stupid. The fact is, trolls are only relatively stupid.
Compared to astrophysicists and Grand High Hey-Hey Monks, trolls could be considered a bit lacking in the IQ department; but even a below-average troll will solve a puzzle faster than any chimpanzee or dolphin on the planet. Trolls have been known to fashion crude tools, learn sign language, and even grunt out a few intelligible syllables. In the early Middle Ages, when troll sideshows were legal, the famous performing troll Count Amos Moonbeam would be fed honey punch by his dwarf handler until he belched out a fair approximation of The Ballad of Tingly Smalls.
So, trolls stupid?
Definitely not.
What trolls are is stubborn. Pathologically so. If a troll suspects that someone wishes it to exit through door A, then it will definitely choose door B, possibly after relieving itself all over door A on the way out.
This made it difficult for trolls to integrate in the Lower Elements. The LEP even have a special troll division of trained handlers who log the most overtime hours per capita tracking down rogue trolls who refuse to be corralled in the tunnels of suburban Haven. At any given time there are a hundred-plus trolls who have chewed out their tracking chips and are crawling through cracks in the earth’s crust, moving inexorably toward magical hot spots on the surface.
Trolls are drawn to magical residue like dwarfs are drawn to stuff that doesn’t belong to them. Trolls feed on residue. It nourishes them and increases their life spans. And as they grow older, they grow craftier.
The oldest troll on record has been known by many names in his lifetime. His mother may have named him Gruff, or she may have been trying to say Get off. To LEPtroll he was simply Suspect Zero, and to the humans he was the Abominable Snowman, Bigfoot, or El Chupacabra, depending on which area he had been spotted in.
Gruff had stayed alive for several extra centuries by being prepared to hike across the globe in search of magical residue. There was not a continent he had not visited under cover of darkness, and his graying hide was crisscrossed with the scars and scorch marks of a hundred tussles with the LEP and various human hunters. If Gruff could put a sentence together, he would probably say:
Maybe I look beat up, but you should see the other guys.
Gruff was currently residing in a cave on Dalkey Island, off the coast of South Dublin, and he would swim ashore to a private slipway and help himself to livestock from surrounding farms. He had been spotted a few times by the owner of the slipway, an eccentric Irishman who now sang to him nightly from across the bay. Gruff knew that he would either have to move on or eat the human in the next couple of days, but for this particular evening he was content to lay his head on the carcass of a sheep, which would serve as a pillow for now and as breakfast later on.
His sleep was interrupted by the activation of a sixth sense that inhabited the
space in his brain somewhere between taste and smell. There was magical activity nearby that set the inside of his skull a-tingling, as though fireflies had hatched in there. And where there was magic, there would undoubtedly be residue. Enough to cure the ache in his back and seal up the running sore on his haunch where a walrus had gored him.
Gruff scooped sausages of offal from the sheep’s innards and swallowed them whole to sustain him for the trip. And as he lowered himself into the sea for the short swim to the mainland, he felt the magic’s lure grow stronger and his spirits lifted.
Gruff longed for the sweet nectar of residue to cure what ailed him. And when a troll has its stout heart set on something, there are not many things on this earth capable of blocking its way.
The Fowl Estate
Opal stood on the edge of the collapsed tunnel feeling mildly thwarted but not in the least downhearted. After all, she was a veritable dynamo of black magic for the time being, and Artemis Fowl was buried beneath a ton of rubble—if not dead, then certainly disheveled, which would vex the Mud Boy almost as much.
Whether he was dead or not, the plan remained the same.
Oro kneeled and picked up Holly’s weapon from the crumbled clay. “What is this, mistress?”
Opal held the handgun cupped in her tiny hands and communicated with its energy until the energy agreed to transfer itself across to her person. It was undramatic to watch—the weapon simply exhaled and crumpled.
“I must open the second lock,” she said to Oro, refreshed by this morsel of power. “I have until morning. Then my magic will evaporate with the dawn dew, and I will be left defenseless.”
“The second lock?” said Oro, Beckett’s vocal cords mangling the Gnommish. “Are you certain, mistress?”
“Queen,” corrected Opal. “You will refer to me as Queen Opal. By opening the first lock of the Berserker Gate, I have bonded you to me. But I would prefer that you referred to me as little as possible, as your silly human voice box irritates me. And stop scowling. The expression looks ridiculous on your little boy face. Mommy is tempted to spank you.”