“N—no need for that,” he stammered. “I was just trying to be friendly.”
“Friendly,” scoffed Wart-face. “Your kind don’t know the meanin’ of the word. Cowardly backstabbers, the lot of you.”
Mulch nodded diplomatically. “We have been known to be a bit treacherous.”
“A bit treacherous! A bit treacherous! My brother Phlegm was ambushed by a crowd of dwarfs disguised as dung heaps! He’s still in traction!”
Mulch nodded sympathetically. “The old dung heap ruse. Disgraceful. One of the reasons I don’t associate with the Brotherhood.”
Wart-face twirled the fireball between his fingers. “There are two things under this world that I really despise.”
Mulch had a feeling that he was about to find out what they were.
“One is a stinkin’ dwarf.”
No surprises there.
“And the other is a traitor to his own kind. And from what I hear, you fall neatly into both categories.”
Mulch smiled weakly. “Just my luck.”
“Luck ain’t got nothin’ to do with it. Fortune delivered you into my hands.”
On another day, Mulch might have pointed out that luck and fortune were basically the same thing. Not today.
“You like fire, dwarf?”
Mulch shook his head.
Wart-face grinned.
“Now ain’t that a shame, ’cause any second now I’m going to ram this here fireball down your throat.”
The dwarf swallowed drily. Wasn’t it just typical of the Dwarf Brotherhood? What do dwarfs hate? Fire. Who are the only creatures with the ability to conjure fireballs? Goblins. So who did the dwarfs pick a fight with? A real no-brainer.
Mulch backed up to the wall.
“Careful, there. We could all go up.”
“Not us.” Wart-face grinned, snorting the fireball up two elongated nostrils. “Completely fireproof.”
Mulch was perfectly aware of what would happen next. He’d seen it too many times in the back alleys. A group of goblins would corner a stray brother dwarf, pin him down, and then the leader would give him the double barrels straight in the face.
Wart-face’s nostrils quivered as he prepared to vent the inhaled fireball. Mulch quailed. There was only one chance. The goblins had made a basic mistake. They’d forgotten to pin his arms.
The goblin drew a breath through his mouth, then closed it. More exhalation pressure for the fire stream. He tilted his head back, pointing his nose at the dwarf, and let fly. Quick as a flash, Mulch jammed his thumbs up Wartface’s nostrils. Disgusting, yes, but definitely better than becoming dwarf kebab.
The fireball had nowhere to go. It rebounded on the balls of Mulch’s thumbs and ricocheted back into the goblin’s head. The tear ducts provided the path of least resistance, so the flames compressed into pressurized streams, erupting just below the goblin’s eyes. A sea of flame spread across the cell roof.
Mulch withdrew his thumbs and, after a quick wipe, thrust them in his mouth, allowing the natural balm in his saliva to begin the healing process. Of course if he’d still had his magic, he could have just wished the scorched digits better. But that was the price you paid for a life of crime.
Wart-face didn’t look so good. Smoke was leaking from every orifice in his head. Flameproof goblins may be, but the errant fireball had given his tubes a good scouring. He swayed like a strand of seaweed, then collapsed facedown on the concrete floor. Something crunched. Probably a big goblin nose.
The other gang members did not react favorably.
“Look what he did to the boss!”
“That stinkin’ stump.”
“Let’s fry ’im.”
Mulch backed up even further. He’d been hoping the remaining goblins would lose their nerve once their leader was out of commission. Apparently not. Even though it was most definitely not in his nature, Mulch had no option but to attack.
He unhinged his jaw and leaped forward, clamping his teeth around the foremost goblin’s head.
“Ow, bagg off!” he shouted around the obstruction in his mouth. “Bagg off or ur briend gedds it!”
The others froze, uncertain of their next move. Of course they’d all seen what dwarf molars could do to a goblin head. Not a pretty sight.
Each one popped a fireball in his fist.
“I’m warnih ooh!”
“You can’t get us all, stumpy.”
Mulch resisted the impulse to bite down. It is the strongest of dwarf urges, a genetic memory born from millennia spent tunneling. The fact that the goblin was wriggling slimily didn’t help. His options were running out. The gang was advancing and he was powerless as long as his mouth was full. It was crunch time. Pardon the pun.
Suddenly the cell door clanked open and what seemed like an entire squadron of LEP officers flooded the confined space. Mulch felt the cold steel of a gun barrel against his temple.
“Spit out the prisoner,” ordered a voice.
Mulch was delighted to comply. A thoroughly slimed goblin collapsed retching on the floor.
“You goblins, put ’em out.”
One by one the fireballs were extinguished.
“That’s not my fault,” whined Mulch, pointing to the spasming Wart-face. “He blew himself up.”
The officer holstered his weapon, drawing out a set of cuffs.
“I couldn’t care less what you do to each other,” he said, spinning Mulch and snapping the cuffs on. “If it was up to me, I’d put the whole lot of you in a big room, and come back a week later to sluice it out. But Commander Root wants to see you above ground ASAP.”
“ASAP?”
“Now, if not sooner.”
Mulch knew Root. The commander was responsible for several of his government hotel visits. If Julius wanted to see him, it probably wasn’t for drinks and a movie.
“Now? But it’s daylight now. I’ll burn.”
The LEP officer laughed.
“It ain’t daylight where you’re going, pal. Where you’re going it ain’t anything.”
Root was waiting for the dwarf inside the time-field portal. The portal was yet another of Foaly’s inventions. Fairies could be introduced to and leave the time-field without affecting the altered flow inside the field. This effectively meant that even though it took nearly six hours to get Mulch to the surface, he was injected into the field only moments after Root had the notion to send for him.
It was Mulch’s first time in a field. He stood watching life proceed at an exaggerated rate outside the shimmering corona. Cars zipped by at impossible speeds, and clouds tumbled across the skyline as though driven by force-ten gales.
“Mulch, you little reprobate,” roared Root. “You can take off that suit now. The field is UV-filtered, or so I’m told.”
The dwarf had been issued a blackout suit at E1. Even though dwarfs had thick skins, they were extremely sensitive to sunlight and had a burn time of less than three minutes. Mulch peeled off the skintight suit.
“Nice to see you, Julius.”
“That’s Commander Root to you.”
“Commander, now. I heard that. Clerical error, was it?”
Root’s teeth ground his cigar to a pulp.
“I don’t have time for this impudence, convict. And the only reason that my boot is not up your behind right now is that I have a job for you.”
Mulch frowned. “Convict? I have a name, you know, Julius.”
Root squatted to the dwarf’s level.“I don’t know what dreamworld you live in, convict, but in the real world you are a criminal and it is my job to ensure your life is as unpleasant as possible. So if you’re expecting civility just because I’ve testified against you some fifteen times, forget it!”
Mulch rubbed his wrists where the handcuffs had left red welts.
“Fine, Commander. No need to blow a gasket. I’m not a murderer, you know, just a petty criminal.”
“From what I hear, you nearly made the transformation below in the cells.”
> “Not my fault. They attacked me.”
Root screwed a fresh cigar into his mouth.