Artemis Fowl 08 - The Last Guardian (14 page)

Gobdaw tucked the pike under the crook of his good arm and charged. The pike seemed as big as a jousting lance in his hand. He fanned the tip from side to side in a flashing arc, slicing Holly’s elbow before she could sidestep the attack.

The wound was not serious, but it was painful, and Holly did not have the magic for a quick heal.

“By Danu’s Beard,” said Gobdaw. “First blood to the Berserkers.”

The two soldiers faced each other a second time, but now Holly was backed into the corner with less room to maneuver, and Gobdaw’s deadened arm was coming back to life. The Berserker grabbed the pike with both hands, increasing the speed and steadiness of his sweep. He inched closer, giving Holly no space to make a move.

“I take no pleasure in this,” he said. “But then, I don’t feel much sorrow, either. You chose your worm, elf.”

Chose your worm
was a reference to the fairy game of chewing root worms. A group of kids would dig up five worms, and each would choose one to pop in their mouth. Statistically, at least one of the worms would be in its dying cycle and have begun to rot from the inside, so one of the kids would be in for a putrid mouthful. But it didn’t matter, because the rules of the game dictated that you had to swallow it regardless. A human equivalent of this saying would be:
You made your bed, so now you have to lie in it.

This looks bad, thought Holly. I don’t see any way of taking out Gobdaw without hurting Myles.

Suddenly Artemis waved his arms and shouted, “Myles! The tip of that pike is steel. Where does steel sit on the periodic table?”

Gobdaw’s features twisted, and Myles emerged. “Artemis, steel isn’t on the table. It is not an element, as you well know. It is composed of two elements: carbon and iron.”

Toward the end of the last sentence Gobdaw took control once more, just in time to feel his arms being yanked behind his back and to hear the sounds of the plasti-cuffs ratcheting over his wrists.

“You tricked me,” he said, not sure exactly how he’d been hoodwinked.

“Sorry, Gobdaw,” said Holly, lifting him by the collar. “The human doesn’t play fair.”

“When did humans ever play fair?” muttered Gobdaw, who at that moment would have gladly vacated young Myles Fowl’s head if another host had been available. But then he realized how clever Artemis had been.

That is not a bad strategy, he thought. Perhaps I can show the butterfly its own wings and turn that human’s trick against him.

Suddenly Myles’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he hung slack in Holly’s arms.

“I think Gobdaw has gone,” said Holly. “Artemis, it looks like you have your brother back.”

Butler pursued Bellico into the office, where she was two steps away from sabotaging the siege box. Her fist was drawn back for the strike when Butler hooked his own arm through the crook of her elbow and they spun like dancers away from the security terminal and onto the rug. Bellico’s arm slipped free, and she pirouetted to the wall.

“You’re finished,” said Butler. “Why don’t you release my sister?”

“Both of us will die first, human!” said Bellico, circling warily.

Butler stood his ground. “If you have access to my sister’s memories, have a flick through them. You can never defeat me. She never has, and you never will.”

Bellico froze for a moment, accessing the database of Juliet’s mind. It was true, Butler had easily defeated his sister a thousand times. His talents were far superior to hers…but, wait. There was a vision of the big human on his back, with pain on his brow. He was speaking:

You really nailed me with that move, Jules. It came out of nowhere. How is your big old brother supposed to defend himself against that?

Bellico’s eyes flashed.
Which move was the big human speaking of?

She dug a little deeper and found a fifty-four-step
kata
that Juliet Butler had developed herself, loosely based on the teachings of Kan
o
Jigor
o
, the founder of judo.

I have found the human’s weak spot.

Bellico allowed the memory to fully surface and send instructions to the body. Juliet’s limbs began to seamlessly perform the
kata
.

Butler frowned and dropped into a boxer’s defensive stance. “Hey, what are you doing?”

Bellico did not answer. There was anxiety in the Mud Man’s voice, and that was enough to assure Bellico that she had chosen the correct course of action. She swept around the office like a dancer, her speed increasing with each revolution.

“Stand still!” said Butler, struggling to keep her in his line of sight. “You can’t win!”

Bellico could win, she was certain of it. This old man was no match for the young powerful body she inhabited. Faster and faster she spun, her feet barely touching the ground, air whistling through the jade ring that held her long ponytail.

“I’ll give you one more chance, Juliet, or whoever the hell you are. Then I will have to hurt you.”

He was bluffing. A scared, obvious bluff.

I will win, thought Bellico, feeling invulnerable now.

On the fifty-second step, Bellico launched herself high into the air, backward, then braced her hind leg against the wall, switching direction and increasing her altitude. She descended on Butler in a blur of speed, her heel aimed like an arrowhead at the nerve cluster in his neck.

Once the human is disabled, I will destroy the siege box, thought Bellico, already celebrating her victory.

Butler slapped her heel with his left palm and jabbed the fingers of his right hand into Bellico’s gut, just hard enough to wind her—and there is not a warrior on the planet who can fight when they cannot breathe. Bellico dropped like a sack of stones to the rug and lay whooping in the fetal position.

“How?” she gasped. “How?”

Butler lifted her by the collar. “That day was Juliet’s birthday. I let her win.”

He marched her toward the security panel and had typed in the lockdown sequence when he heard a snare-drum roll of claws clicking on the floor behind him. He recognized the pattern instantly.

The hound is attacking me.

But he was wrong. The hound hurled itself at Bellico, propelling them both underneath the descending steel shutter and through the office window, leaving Butler with a patch of material in his hand.

He stared blankly at the fallen shutter, thinking.

I did not even see her land, and I don’t know if my sister is alive or dead.

He hurried to Artemis’s desk and activated the security cameras, just in time to see Juliet pat the dog and limp out of sight—back toward Opal, he supposed.

“Alive for now,” muttered the bodyguard.

And where there was life, there was hope. For a few more hours, at least.

Nobody, human or fairy, had been declared dead more times than Mulch Diggums, and it was a record he was inordinately proud of. In Mulch’s eyes, being declared dead by the LEP was just a less embarrassing way for them to admit that he had escaped for the umpteenth time. In the Sozzled Parrot fugitives’ bar, LEP death certificates were printed up and tacked to the Wall of Heroes.

Mulch had fond memories of the very first time he had faked his own death to throw police officers off his trail.

My gods, could that really be over two hundred years ago now? Time flies faster than wind through a bum flap, as Grandmother used to say, bless her.

He’d been on a job with his cousin Nord, on Haven’s moneyed mountain, when the homeowner had come home unexpectedly from the convention in Atlantis where he was supposed to be living it up on taxpayers’ gold for two more days.

I hate it when they come home early, thought Mulch. Why do people do that when there’s a very good chance they will find burglars in their living rooms?

Anyway, the homeowner happened to be ex–law enforcement and the registered owner of a buzz baton, which he had used on the dwarf cousins with great gusto. Nord managed to escape into their tunnel, but Mulch had been forced to clutch his heart, faking a cardiac, and then crash through a window, playing dead all the way down to the river below.

Corpsing was the hard part, remembered Mulch. There is nothing more unnatural than keeping your arms slack when they want to be pinwheeling.

LEP had interviewed the ex–law enforcement homeowner, who had emphatically claimed:
Yeah, I killed him. It was an accident, of course. I only meant to maim that dwarf, then kick him senseless; but you can put that sucker down as dead. Nobody can corpse for three stories.

And so Mulch Diggums was declared deceased for the first time. There would be twelve more official occasions on which people mistakenly thought Mulch had flown the final coop; and he was, unbeknownst to himself, tunneling toward an unofficial one at this very moment.

His instructions were simple enough. Dig a parallel tunnel to the one he had recently collapsed, sneak into the crashed
Cupid
, and then steal any weapons that were in the locker.
Dig
,
sneak
, and
steal
. Three of Mulch’s four favorite verbs.

I do not know why I am doing this, Mulch thought as he tunneled. I should be heading down to the crust to find myself a nice crevice. They say that Opal’s death wave will only kill humans, but why take such irresponsible chances with the great gift of life?

Mulch knew that this reasoning was a crock of troll patties, but he found he could dig better if he was annoyed, even if he was the object of his own annoyance. And so the dwarf fumed silently as he churned up through the earth toward the shuttle wreck.

Twenty feet up and thirty yards to the south, Opal Koboi was sinking her hands into the deep algebraic enchantments of the second Berserker lock. Symbols wrapped themselves like glowworms around her fingers and surrendered their power one by one as she discovered their secrets. Some could be beaten into submission by the sheer force of her black magic, but others had to be coaxed with sly hexes or magical tickles.

I am close, she thought. I can feel the earth’s strength.

The wave of death would be in the form of geothermal energy, she presumed, and would be drawn from the entire planet’s resources and not just the shallow hydrothermal reservoirs. This would put quite a dent in the world’s reserves and could theoretically plunge Earth into another ice age.

We’ll survive, she thought callously. I have some nice heated boots in storage.

The work was challenging but manageable, and it gave Opal some satisfaction to know that she was the only fairy alive who had done enough research on the intricacies of ancient magicks to open the second lock. The first had been simple—that had required little more than a blast of black magic—but the second needed an encyclopedic knowledge of spell craft.

That techno-fool Foaly would never have managed this. Not in a million years.

Opal was not aware of it, but so self-satisfied was she at that moment that she rolled her shoulders and made a purring noise.

Everything is going so well.

This plan had been outlandish even by her standards; but unlikely or not, all the elements were falling into place. Her initial thought had been to sacrifice her younger self and use the ill-gotten power to escape from the Deeps. It then occurred to her that this power would have to be jettisoned almost immediately to prevent it from eating her alive—so why not put it to good use?

Opportunity had presented itself to Opal when her younger self had made telepathic contact.

One morning Opal had been deep in a cleansing coma and—
ping!
—suddenly there was a voice in her head, calling her
Sister
and asking for help. It had occurred to her briefly that she could in fact be insane but, little by little, the information filtered through.
A younger Opal had followed Artemis Fowl from the past.

I have no memory of this, Opal realized. Therefore, my younger self must have been captured and sent back with these events wiped from her mind.

Unless…

Unless the time line had split. Then anything was possible.

Opal was surprised to find her younger self a little whiny, even boring. Had she really been so self-absorbed?

It’s all me me me, thought Opal.
I injured my leg in the explosion. My magic is fading. I need to get back to my own time.

None of this was in the least helpful to Opal stuck in her prison.

What you need to do is get me out of here,
she broadcast to her younger self.
Then we can see to your injuries and send you home.

But how to accomplish this? That darned centaur Foaly had incarcerated her in the most technologically advanced cell in the world.

The answer was simple:
I have to force them to release me because the alternative would be simply too horrible to even contemplate.

Opal wrestled with the problem for several minutes before she accepted that the younger Opal would have to be sacrificed, and once that piece of the puzzle had clunked into place, she quickly built the rest of the plan around it.

Pip and Kip were two sleeper gnomes who worked in the civil service. The Council had sent them to do an audit of one of her factory’s accounts a few years ago, and Opal had hypnotized them using forbidden runes and dark magic. All it took was a phone call from young Opal to activate their loyalty even at the cost of one or both of their lives. She broadcast instructions to young Opal, telling her exactly how to set up the fake kidnapping and telling her how to use the traces of dark magic still left in her system to find the legendary Berserker Gate. The gate was the way back to the past—or at least that was the story Opal sent out.

Younger Opal could not know, but the instructions for Pip and Kip were very specific for a reason. Hidden inside the words was a simple code that Opal had implanted along with their loyalty bonds. If young Opal had thought to write down all the letters that corresponded to prime numbers, she would have found a far more sinister message than the one she thought she was delivering:

Kill the hostage when time runs out.

You had to keep it simple for civil servants.

Everything had worked out exactly as she had foreseen, except for the arrival of Fowl and Short. But in a way, that too was a stroke of good fortune. Now she could kill them up close and personal.

Every cloud has a silver lining.

Suddenly Opal felt her stomach churn as a wave of nausea assailed her. The pixie’s first thought was that the black magic was struggling with her own antibodies, but then she realized that the source was external.

Something offends my enhanced magical senses, she thought. Something over there.

The wrecked shuttle stood beyond the circle of warriors that stood guard over their queen.

Below the shuttle. Something is coated in a substance that sickens me.

It was that cursed dwarf, sticking his bum flap in where it didn’t belong, and not for the first time.

Opal scowled. How many times must she bear humiliation from a flatulent dwarf? It was intolerable.

Sent to retrieve weapons from the ship, no doubt.

Opal raised her gaze fifteen degrees to the shuttle. Crushed though the
Cupid
was, her sixth sense could see an aura of magic winding around the fuselage like a fat snake. This particular wavelength would not help to open the second lock, but it could certainly provide enough juice for an extremely visible demonstration of her power.

Opal withdrew a hand from the sluggishly heaving rock and formed the fingers into a claw, arranging the molecules to attract any energy inside the
Cupid
. The power left the vehicle in a glowing morass, shrinking the
Cupid
to a wizened wreck and hovering in the air over the awed Berserkers.

“See what your queen can accomplish!” she cried, eyes bright. Her tiny fingers twirled, manipulating the energy into a sharp wedge, which she sent crashing through the earth to where the dwarf labored. There was a solid
thump
, and a spume of dirt and rocks jetted skyward, leaving a scorched crater in their wake.

Opal returned her attention to the second lock.

“Can you see the dwarf?” she asked Oro, who stood peering into the hole.

“I see one foot and some blood. The foot is jittering about, so he’s still alive. I’ll go and bring him up.”

“No,” said Opal. “You do not leave Mommy’s sight. Send the earth creatures to kill him.”

If the fairy bonds had not had Oro’s free will in such a tight bind, he would have taken Opal to task for repeatedly disrespecting her elders; but as it was, even the thought of reprimanding his queen cost him a severe stomach cramp.

When the pain passed, he raised two fingers to his lips to whistle for his diggers. He found out that it was not an easy thing to whistle with strange fingers, and all that emerged from his mouth was a watery slobbering noise.

“Don’t know that signal, chief,” said Yezhwi Khan, who had once been a pretty handy ax gnome. “Is that lunch break?”

“No!” shouted Oro. “I need my diggers. Gather ’round.”

A dozen rabbits hopped quickly to bunch at his feet. Their little whiskers quivered with anticipation of finally seeing some action.

“Get the dwarf,” Oro ordered. “I would say bring him back alive, but you do not really have the skills for parlay.”

The rabbits thumped their hind legs in agreement.

“So the order is simple,” said Oro, with a touch of regret. “Kill him.”

The rabbits piled en masse into the hole, eagerly scrabbling toward the injured dwarf.

Death by bunny, thought Oro. Not a nice way to go.

Oro did not wish to look. Dwarfs were part of the fairy world, and in other circumstances they could have been allies. From behind him he heard the crunch of bone and the rattled
whoosh
of earth collapsing.

Oro shuddered. He would face a troll any day before a bunch of carnivorous rabbits.

On the dais, Opal felt a load lift from her heart as another enemy suffered.

Soon it will be your turn to suffer, Foaly, she thought. But death would be too easy for you. Perhaps you are already suffering. Perhaps your lovely wife has already opened the gift my little gnomes sent to her.

Opal sang a little ditty as she worked on the second lock.

“Hey, hey, hey,

This is the day,

Things are gonna go my way.”

Opal was not consciously aware of it, but this was a popular song from the Pip and Kip show.