Artemis Fowl. The Lost Colony af-5

by Eoin Colfer

  It is the nature of out of time spells that the ageing process is drastically slowed. Abbot had been a young buck when the warlocks lifted Hybras out of time, and so the spell, combined with good genes, had kept him and his huge ego alive ever since. Possibly a thousand years. Of course, that was a thousand years normal time. In Hybras time, a millennium meant very little. A couple of centuries could skip by in the blink of an eye on the island. An imp could wake up one morning to find that he'd evolved. A while back, every demon and imp in Hybras got up one morning with a stubby tail where his magnificent long one used to be. For a considerable time after that, the most common noises on the island were the sounds of demons falling down, or swearing as they got up again.

  'After that great battle, in which the demon battalions were the bravest and fiercest in the People's army,' continued Abbot, to hoots of approval from the imps, 'we were defeated by treachery and cowardice. The elves would not fight, and the dwarfs would not dig traps. We had no choice but to cast our spell and regroup until the time was right to return.'

  More hooting, plus stamping of feet.

  Every time, thought No.1. Do we have to go through this every time?

  These imps act like they never heard this story before. When is someone going to stand up and say: 'Excuse me. Old news. Move on!

  'And so we breed. We breed and grow strong. Now our army has over five thousand warriors — surely enough to defeat the humans. I know this, because I, Leon Abbot, have been to the world and returned to Hybras alive.'

  This was Abbot's golden nugget. This was where anyone who stood against him withered and blew away. Abbot had not come directly to Limbo with the rest of Hybras. For some reason he had been diverted to the human future, then sucked across to Hybras. He had seen the human camps and actually brought his knowledge home. How all this happened was a bit hazy. According to Abbot there had been a great battle, he'd defeated fifty or so men, then a mysterious warlock had lifted him out of time again. But not before he'd grabbed a couple of things to bring back.

  Since the warlocks had been explosively removed from the eighth family, nobody had much of a clue about magic any more. Normal demons had no magic of their own. It had been thought that all the warlocks had been sucked into space during the transferral of Hybras from Earth to Limbo, but according to Abbot, one had survived. This warlock was in league with the humans and had only helped the demon leader under threat of grievous injury.

  No.1 was highly sceptical of this version of events. First of all, because it came from Abbot, and secondly because warlocks were being cast, once more, in a bad light. Demons seemed to forget that if it wasn't for the warlocks, Hybras would have been overrun by humans.

  On this particular day, No.1 was feeling a special attachment to the warlocks, and he did not appreciate their memory being sullied by this loudmouth braggart. Hardly a day went past where No.1 did not spend a moment praying for the return of the mysterious warlock who had helped Abbot. And now that he was certain of magic in his own blood, No.1 would pray all the harder.

  'The moon separated me from the rest of the island during the great journey,' continued Abbot, his eyes half closed as if the memory had him in a swoon. 'I was powerless to resist her charms. And so I travelled through space and time until I came to rest in the new world.

  Which is now the world of men. The humans clamped silver on my ankles, tried to make me submit, but I would not.' Abbot hunched his massive shoulders and roared at the roof. 'For I am demonkind! And we will never submit!'

  Needless to say the imps went into overdrive. The entire room heaved with their exertions. In No.1's opinion, Abbot's entire performance was wooden, to say the least. The we will never submit speech was the oldest page in Abbot's book. No.1 rubbed his temples, trying to ease the headache. There was worse to come, he knew. First the book, then the crossbow, if Abbot didn't deviate from the script. And why would he? He hadn't in all the years since his return from the new world.

  'And so I fought!' shouted Abbot. 'I kicked off their shackles and Hybras called me home, but before I took my leave of the hated humans, I fought my way to their altar and stole away with two of their blessed objects.'

  'The book and the bow,' muttered No.1, rolling his orange eyes.

  'Tell us what you stole,' begged the others on cue, as if they didn't know.

  'The book and the bow!' proclaimed Leon Abbot, pulling the objects from beneath his robe, as if by magic.

  As if by magic, thought No.1. But not actual magic, because then Abbot would be a warlock, and he couldn't possibly be a warlock as he had already warped and warlocks did not warp.

  'Now we know how the humans think,' said Abbot, waving the book.

  'And how they fight,' he proclaimed, brandishing the crossbow.

  I don't believe any of this for a minute, thought No.1. Or I wouldn't, if we had 'minutes' in Limbo. Oh, how I wish I was on Earth, with the last warlock. Then there would be two of us, and I would find out what really happened when Leon Abbot came calling.

  'And armed with this knowledge, we can return when the time spell fades and retake the old country.'

  'When?' cried the imps. 'When?'

  'Soon,' replied Abbot. 'Soon. And there will be humans enough for us all. They will be crushed like the grass beneath our boots. We will tear their heads off like dandelion flowers.'

  Oh, please, thought No.1. Enough plant similes.

  It was quite possible that No.1 was the only creature on Hybras who ever even thought the human word 'simile'. Saying it aloud would have certainly earned him a thrashing. If the other imps knew that his human vocabulary also included words like 'grooming' and 'decoration' they would string him up for sure. Ironically he had learned these words from Lady Heatherington Smythe's Hedgerow, which was supposed to be a school text.

  'Tear their heads off,' shouted one imp, and it quickly became a chant, taken up by everyone in the room.

  'Yes, tear their heads off,' said No.1, trying it out, but there was no feeling in his voice.

  What's my motivation? he wondered. I've never even met a human.

  The imps climbed on their benches, bobbing in primal rhythm.

  'Tear their heads off! Tear their heads off!'

  Abbot and Rawley urged them on. Flexing their claws and howling. A sickly sweet smell clogged the air. Warp muck. Someone was entering the warp spasm phase. The excitement was bringing on the change.

  No.1 felt nothing. Not so much as a twinge. He tried his best, squeezing his eyelids together, letting the pressure build in his head, thinking bloody thoughts. But his true feelings shattered the false visions of bloodlust and carnage.

  It's no use, he thought. I am not that kind of demon.

  No.1 stopped chanting and sat, head in hands. No point in pretending — another change cycle was passing him by.

  Not so the other imps. Abbot's theatrics had opened a natural well of testosterone, bloodlust and bodily fluid. One by one, they succumbed to the warp spasm. Green gunge flowed from their pores, slowly at first, then in bubbling gushes. They all went under, every one of them. It must be some kind of record, so many imps warping simultaneously. Of course Abbot would take the credit.

  The sight of the fluid brought on fresh rounds of howling. And the more the imps howled, the faster the gunge spurted. No.1 had heard it said that humans took several years to make the transition from childhood to adulthood. Imps did it in a few hours. And a change like that is going to hurt.

  The howls of exultation changed to grunts of pain, as bones stretched and horns curled, the gunge-coated limbs already lengthening. The smell was sweet enough to make N°l gag.

  Imps toppled to the floor all around. They thrashed for a few seconds, then their own fluids mummified them. They were cocooned like enormous green bugs, strapped tight by the hardening gunge. The schoolroom was suddenly silent, except for the crack of drying nutrient fluid and a rustle of flames from the stone fireplace.

  Abbot beamed, a toothy smile that seeme
d to split his head in half.

  'A good morning's work, wouldn't you say, Rawley? I got them all warping.'

  Rawley grunted his agreement, then noticed No.1. 'Except the Runt.'

  'Well, of course not,' began Abbot, then caught himself. 'Yes. Absolutely, except the Runt.'

  No.1's forehead burned under Rawley and Abbot's scrutiny.

  'I want to warp,' he said, looking at his fingers. 'I really do. But it's the hating thing. I just can't manage it. And all that slime. Even the thought of that stuff all over me makes me feel a bit nauseous.'

  'A bit what?' said Rawley suspiciously.

  No.1 realized that he needed to dumb it down for his teacher.

  'Sick. A bit sick.'

  'Oh.' Rawley shook his head in disgust. 'Slime makes you sick? What kind of imp are you? The others live for slime.'

  No.1 took a deep breath and said something aloud that he had known for a long time.

  'I'm not like the others.' No.1's voice trembled. He was on the verge of tears.

  'Are you going to cry?' asked Rawley, his eyes bugging. 'This is too much, Leon. He's going to cry now, just like a female. I give up.'

  Abbot scratched his chin. 'Let me try something.'

  He rummaged in a cape pocket, surreptitiously fixing something over his hand.

  Oh no, thought No.1. Please no. Not Stony.

  Abbot raised a forearm, his cloak draped over it. A mini-stage. A puppet human poked his head over the leather cape. The puppet's head was a grotesque ball of painted clay, with a heavy forehead and clumsy features. No.1 doubted that humans were this ugly in real life, but demons were not known for their artistic skills. Abbot often produced Stony as a visual incentive for those imps who were having difficulty warping. Needless to say, No.1 had been introduced to the puppet before.

  'Grrr,' said the puppet, or rather Abbot said, as he waggled the puppet.

  'Grrr, my name is Stony the Mud Man.'

  'Hello, Stony,' said No.1 weakly. 'How've you been?'

  The puppet held a tiny wooden sword in its hand.

  'Never mind how I've been. I don't care how you've been, because I hate all fairies,' said Abbot in a squeaky voice. 'I drove them from their homes. And if they ever try to come back, I will kill them all.'

  Abbot lowered the puppet. 'Now, how does that make you feel?'

  It makes me feel that the wrong demon is in charge of the pride, thought No.1, but aloud he said, 'Eh, angry?'

  Abbot blinked. 'Angry? Really?'

  'No,' confessed No.1, wringing his hands. 'I don't feel anything. It's a puppet. I can see your fingers through the material.'

  Abbot stuffed Stony back in his pocket.

  'That's it. I've had it with you, Number One. You will never earn a name from the book.'

  Once demons warped, they were given a human name from Lady Heatherington Smythe's Hedgerow. The logic being that learning the human language and possessing a human name would help the demon army think like humans and therefore defeat them. Abbot may have hated the Mud Men, but that wasn't to say he didn't admire them. Also, politically, it was a good idea to have every demon on Hybras calling each other by names that Leon Abbot had procured for them.

  Rawley grabbed No.1's ear, dragging him from his seat to the rear of the classroom. A metal grille on the floor covered a shallow, pungent dung pit.

  'Get to work, Runt,' he said gruffly. 'You know what to do.'

  No.1 sighed. He knew only too well. This wasn't the first or second time he'd had to endure this odious task. He hefted a long-handled gaff from a peg on the wall, pulling the heavy grille from its groove. The smell was rank but not unbearable, as a crust had formed on the dung's surface. Beetles crawled across the craggy skin, their legs clicking like claws on wood.

  No.1 uncovered the pit completely, then selected his nearest classmate.

  There was no way of telling which classmate it actually was because of the slime cocoon. The only movements were small air bubbles around the mouth and nose. At least he hoped it was the mouth and nose.

  No.1 bent low, rolling the cocoon along the floor and into the dung pit.

  The warping imp crashed through the crust, taking a dozen beetles with him into the muck below. A gush of dung stink washed over № 1, and he knew his skin would smell for days. The others would wear their pit stink proudly, but for No.1 it was just another badge of shame.

  It was arduous work. Not all the warping imps were still. Several struggled inside their cocoons, and twice demon claws punctured the green chrysalis centimetres from N°l's skin.

  He persisted, groaning loudly, in the hope that Rawley or Leon Abbot would lend a hand. It was a vain hope. The two demons were huddled at the head of the classroom, poring over Lady Heatherington Smythe's Hedgerow.

  Eventually, No.1 rolled his last classmate into the dung pit. They were piled in there like meat in a thick stew. The nutrient-rich dung would accelerate their warp, ensuring they reached full potential. No.1 sat on the stone floor, catching his breath.

  Lucky you, thought No.1. Dunked in dung.

  No.1 tried to feel envious. But even being near the pit made him gag; the thought of being immersed in it, surrounded by cocooned imps, made his stomach churn.

  A shadow fell across the flagstones before him, flickering in the firelight.

  'Ah, Number One,' said Abbot. 'Always an imp, never a demon, eh?

  What am I going to do with you?'

  No.1 stared at his own feet, clicking baby talons on the floor.

  'Master Abbot, sir. Don't you think? Isn't there the tiniest chance?' He took a deep breath and raised his eyes to meet Abbot's. 'Couldn't I be a warlock? You saw what happened with the skewer. I don't want to embarrass you, but you saw it.'

  Abbot's expression changed instantly. One second he was playing the genial master, the next his true colours shone through.

  'I saw nothing,' he hissed, heaving No.1 to his feet. 'Nothing happened, you odious little freak of nature. The skewer was coated with ash, nothing more. There was no transformation. No magic.'

  Abbot drew No.1 close enough to see the slivers of trapped meat between his yellowed teeth. The next time he spoke, his voice seemed different somehow. Layered. As though an entire choir was singing in harmony. It was a voice that could not be ignored. Magical?

  'If you are a warlock, then you should really be on the other side, with your relative. Wouldn't that be for the best? One quick leap, that's all it would take. Do you understand what I am saying to you, Runt?'

  No.1 nodded, dazed. What a lovely voice. Where had that come from?

  The other side, of course; that's where he should go. One small step for an imp.

  'I understand, sir.'

  'Good. The subject is closed. As Lady Heatherington Smythe would say,

  "Best foot forward, young sir, the world awaits."'

  No.1 nodded, just as he knew Abbot wanted him to, but inside his brain churned along with his stomach. Was this to be the whole extent of his life? Forever mocked, forever different. Never a moment of light or hope. Unless he crossed over.

  Abbot's suggestion was his only hope. Cross over. No.1 had never seen the appeal of jumping into a crater before, but now the notion seemed nigh on irresistible. He was a warlock, there couldn't be any doubt. And somewhere out there, in the human world, there was another like him.

  An ancient brother who could teach him the ways of his kind.

  No.1 watched Abbot stride away from him. Off to exercise his power on some other part of the island, possibly by belittling the females in the compound — another of his favourite pastimes. Then again, how bad could Abbot be? After all, he had given No.1 this wonderful idea.

  I cannot stay here, thought No.1. I must go to the volcano.

  The notion took firm hold of his brain. And in minutes it had drowned out all the other notions in his head.

  Go to the volcano.

  It pounded inside his skull, like waves breaking on the shore.

  Obey Abbot
. Go to the volcano.

  No.1 brushed the dust from his knees.

  'You know what,' he muttered to himself in case Rawley could hear, 'I think I'm going to the volcano.'

  Chapter 4: Mission Impossible

  the Massimo Bellini Theater, Catania, Eastern Sicily

  Artemis Fowl and his bodyguard, Butler, relaxed in a private box at the stage-left side of Sicily's world-famous Massimo Bellini Theatre.

  Perhaps it is not altogether accurate to say Butler relaxed. Rather he appeared to relax, as a tiger appears to relax in the moment before it strikes. Butler was even less happy here than he had been in Barcelona.

  At least for the Spain trip he'd had a few days to prepare, but for this jaunt he barely had time to catch up on his martial arts routines.

  As soon as the Fowl Bentley had pulled up at Fowl Manor, Artemis had disappeared into his study, firing up his computers. Butler took the opportunity to work out, freshen up and prepare dinner: onion marmalade tartlets, rack of lamb with garlic gratin and a red berries crepe to finish.

  Artemis broke the news over coffee.

  'We need to go to Sicily,' he said, toying with the biscotti on his saucer.

  'I made a breakthrough on the time spell figures.'

  'How soon?' asked the bodyguard, mentally listing his contacts on the Mediterranean island.

  Artemis looked at his Rado watch and Butler moaned.

  'Don't check your watch, Artemis. Check the calendar.'

  'Sorry, old friend. But you know time is limited. I can't risk missing a materialization.'

  'But on the jet you said that there wasn't another materialization due for six weeks.'

  'I was wrong, or rather, Foaly was wrong. He missed a few new factors in the temporal equation.'

  Artemis had filled Butler in on the eighth family details as the jet soared over the English Channel.

  'Allow me to demonstrate,' said Artemis. He put a silver salt cellar on his plate, 'Let us say that this salt cellar is Hybras. My plate is where it is: our dimension. And your plate is where it wants to go: Limbo. With me so far?'

  Butler nodded reluctantly. He knew that the more he understood, the more Artemis would tell him, and there wasn't much space in a bodyguard's head for quantum physics.