Artemis Fowl - The Lost Colony Part 6

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.

No1 felt nothing. Not so much as a twinge. He tried his best, squeezing his eyelids together, letting the pressure build in his head, thinking b.l.o.o.d.y thoughts. But his true feelings shattered the false visions of bloodl.u.s.t and carnage.

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

No1 stopped chanting and sat, head in hands. No point in pretending another change cycle was pa.s.sing him by.

Not so the other imps. Abbot's theatrics had opened a natural well of testosterone, bloodl.u.s.t and bodily fluid. One by one, they succ.u.mbed 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. No1 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 No1 gag.

Imps toppled to the floor all around. They thrashed for a few seconds, then their own fluids mummified them. They were coc.o.o.ned 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 seemed 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 No1. 'Except the Runt.'

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

No1'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.

No1 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.'

No1 took a deep breath and said something aloud that he had known for a long time.

'I'm not like the others.' No1'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, surrept.i.tiously fixing something over his hand.

Oh no, thought No1. Please no. Not Stony 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. No1 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, No1 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.'

'h.e.l.lo, Stony,' said No1 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 No1, but aloud he said, 'Eh, angry?'

Abbot blinked. 'Angry? Really?'

'No,' confessed No1, 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 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 No1's ear, dragging him from his seat to the rear of the cla.s.sroom. A metal grille on the floor covered a shallow, pungent dung pit.

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

No1 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.

No1 uncovered the pit completely, then selected his nearest cla.s.smate. There was no way of telling which cla.s.smate it actually was because of the slime coc.o.o.n. The only movements were small air bubbles around the mouth and nose. At least he hoped it was the mouth and nose.

No1 bent low, rolling the coc.o.o.n 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 No1, and he knew his skin would smell for days. The others would wear their pit stink proudly, but for No1 it was just another badge of shame.

It was arduous work. Not all the warping imps were still. Several struggled inside their coc.o.o.ns, and twice demon claws punctured the green chrysalis centimetres from No1'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 cla.s.sroom, poring over Lady Heatherington Smythe's Hedgerow Lady Heatherington Smythe's Hedgerow.

Eventually, No1 rolled his last cla.s.smate 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. No1 sat on the stone floor, catching his breath.

Lucky you, thought No1. Dunked in dung Dunked in dung.

No1 tried to feel envious. But even being near the pit made him gag; the thought of being immersed in it, surrounded by coc.o.o.ned 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?'

No1 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 embarra.s.s 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 No1 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 No1 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?'

No1 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."'

No1 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 Cross over. No1 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.

No1 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 No1 this wonderful idea.

I cannot stay here, thought No1. I must go to the volcano 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 sh.o.r.e.

Obey Abbot. Go to the volcano.

No1 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 M Ma.s.sIMO B BELLINI T THEATRE, CATANIA, EASTERN S SICILY.

ARTEMIS Fowl and his bodyguard, Butler, relaxed in a private box at the stage-left side of Sicily's world-famous Ma.s.simo Bellini Theatre. Perhaps it is not altogether accurate to say Butler Fowl and his bodyguard, Butler, relaxed in a private box at the stage-left side of Sicily's world-famous Ma.s.simo Bellini Theatre. Perhaps it is not altogether accurate to say Butler relaxed relaxed. Rather he appeared appeared to relax, as a tiger appears to relax in the moment before it strikes. 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 s.p.a.ce in a bodyguard's head for quantum physics.

'So, the demon warlocks wanted to move the island from plate A to plate B, but not through s.p.a.ce, through time.'

'How do you know all this?'

'It's all in the fairy Book,' replied the Irish teenager. 'Quite a detailed description, if a bit flowery.'

The Book was the fairy Bible, containing their history and commandments. Artemis had managed to obtain a copy from a drunken sprite in Ho Chi Minh City years earlier. It was proving to be an invaluable source of information.

'I doubt the Book has too many charts and graphs,' noted Butler.

Artemis smiled. 'No, I got the specifics from Foaly, not that he knows he's sharing information.'

Butler rubbed his temples. 'Artemis. I warned you not to mess with Foaly. The decoy thing is bad enough.'

Artemis was fully aware that Foaly was tracking him and any decoys he sent out. In fact, he only sent out the decoys to make Foaly dip into his funds. It was his idea of a joke.

'I didn't initiate the surveillance,' objected Artemis. 'Foaly did. I found over a dozen devices on my computers alone. All I did was reverse the spike to get into some of his shared files. Nothing cla.s.sified. Well, maybe a few. Foaly's been busy since he left the LEP.'

'So, what did Foaly's files tell you?' said Butler resignedly.

'They told me about magic. Basically, magic is energy and the ability to manipulate energy. To move Hybras from A to B, the demon warlocks harnessed the power of their volcano to create a time rent or tunnel.' Artemis rolled his napkin into a tube, popped the salt cellar into it and deposited the cellar on Butler's plate.

'Simple as that?' said Butler doubtfully.

'Not really,' said Artemis. 'In fact, the warlocks did an exceptional job, considering the instruments available to them at the time. They had to calculate the power of the volcano, the size of the island, the energy of each individual demon on the island, not to mention the reverse pull of lunar attraction. It's amazing the spell worked as well as it did.'