“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.”
“But the second lock?” persisted Oro. “That will unleash the power of Danu.”
“Firstly, what did I just say about referring to me? Secondly, take a peek inside the brain of your human. A little Danu wave is the best thing for this planet.”
Oro seemed puzzled, but his bonds forbade him to argue, and Opal knew that even if the Berserker could argue, his points would be presented in turgid Middle Ages prose with simplistic logic.
“Let me speak to the human boy,” she said, reasoning that a Fowl child, however young, would appreciate what she had accomplished here. Plus it would be fun to watch a human squirm.
Oro sighed, wishing that his old friend Bruin Fadda had built a little leeway into the fairy bonds, then shuddered as he allowed his own consciousness to be subsumed temporarily by Beckett Fowl’s.
The centuries dropped from Oro’s face, and Beckett emerged shiny and smiling.
“I was dreaming,” he said. “In my dream I looked like me but with more fingers.”
Opal spread her arms wide, allowing the black magic to pulse in orange cables along her limbs. “Are you not terrified, boy?”
Beckett hopped monkeylike into his version of a ninja pose. “Nope. You should be terror-fied.”
“Me?” said Opal, laughing. “You cannot harm me. The fairy bonds prevent it.”
Beckett punched Opal in the stomach, from the shoulder like Butler had taught him.
&n
bsp; “Oh yeah. I’m pretty fast. Faster than your stupid fairy bonds. Butler says I’m a natch-u-ral.”
Opal’s breath left her in a huff and she stumbled backward, cracking her elbow on the Berserker Gate’s raised dais. Luckily for her, the fairy bonds kicked in and Oro reclaimed control of the body; otherwise four-year-old Beckett Fowl might have put an end to Opal’s world domination plans right there.
Oro rushed to help Opal up. “My queen, are you harmed?”
Opal waved her hand, unable to speak, and was forced to endure several seconds of Oro pumping her torso up and down like a bellows until her breath returned.
“Release me, you stupid elf. Are you trying to break my spine?”
Oro did as he was told. “That boy is a quick one. He beat the bonds. Not many could do that.”
Opal rubbed her stomach with a magic hand, just in case there was bruising.
“Are you sure you didn’t give the boy a little help?” she said suspiciously.
“Of course not, my queen,” said Oro. “Berserkers do not help humans. Do you wish to speak with the boy again?”
“No!” Opal squeaked, then regained her composure. “I mean…no. The boy has served his purpose. We must move ahead with the plan.”
Oro knelt, scooping a handful of loose earth. “We should at least give chase to our attackers. The elf has battle skills; the big human is also a formidable warrior. They will most definitely attempt sabotage.”
Opal was prepared to concede this point. “Very well, tiresome elf. Send your craftiest lieutenant with a few soldiers. Make sure to include the other boy in your party. Fowl may be reluctant to kill his own brother.” Opal blew through her lips, a small action that made it abundantly clear that she herself would not hesitate to kill any family member were she in Fowl’s position. In fact, she would see any hesitation to hack down a sibling as a lack of commitment to the plan.
After all, she thought, did I not personally have myself killed to escape prison?