by Eoin Colfer
Artemis watched some of these flashes shoot straight through his body and out the other side. But he was not injured; on the contrary, he felt energized, stronger.
Qwan’s spell is keeping me safe, he thought. It’s simple physics—energy cannot be destroyed, so he’s converting it to another form: magic.
It was a spectacular sight. The bomb’s energy fueled the magic inside the circle until the rolling orange flames were tamed by blue ones. Gradually the bomb’s power was consumed and transformed by sorcery. The rings glowed with a blinding blue light, and the figures inside the circle seemed to be composed from pure power. They shimmered insubstantially as the reverse time spell took hold of them.
Suddenly, the blue rings pulsed, injecting a shock wave of magic into the island itself. Transparency spread like water on the surface and below. Pulse followed pulse until the transparency spread beyond the crater. To the demons in their village, it must have seemed like the volcano was being eaten by the magic. The nothingness spread with each pulse, leaving only shimmering golden sparks where solid land was, moments before.
The dematerialization reached the shore, and beyond to the ten yards of ocean carried here with the island. Soon, there was nothing left but the circle of magic, floating blue in the red rippled space of Limbo.
Qwan reached out to them. Concentrate now. Artemis and Holly, take us home.
Artemis squeezed Holly’s hand tightly. They were as close as they could ever be. Their minds were one.
Artemis turned and stared at his friend with the blue eyes. Holly was staring back, and she was smiling.
“I remember,” she said aloud. “You saved me.”
Artemis smiled back. “It never happened,” he said.
And then their minds and bodies were split right down to the subatomic level and whisked across galaxies and millennia.
Space and time did not have any recognizable form. It was not like flying in a balloon over a timeline and saying “Look, there’s the twenty-first century. Take us down there.”
Everything was impressions and feelings. Artemis had to shut out the desires of the hundreds of demons around him and concentrate on his own internal compass. His mind would feel a longing for its own natural time, and he would just have to follow it.
The longing felt vaguely like a light warming his mind when he turned in its direction.
Good, thought Qwan. Head toward the light.
Is that a joke? Artemis asked.
No, replied Qwan. I don’t make jokes when there are hundreds of lives in the balance.
Good policy, thought Artemis, and turned toward the light.
Holly was concentrating on where to land the island. She was finding this incredibly easy. She had always treasured her aboveground memories, and now could call them up with amazing clarity. She remembered a school tour to the site where Hybras had been. In her mind’s eye, she could see the undulating beach, gold and shining in the summer sunlight. She could see the blue-gray glint on a dolphin’s back as it breached the waves to greet its fairy visitors. She could see the silver-flecked blackness of the water in what humans called Saint George’s Channel. The light of all these memories warmed her face.
Good, sent Qwan. Move—
I know. Move toward the light.
Artemis was trying to put this experience into words, for his diary. But he was finding it difficult, a novel experience for him.
I think I’ll just concentrate on finding my own time, he thought.
Good idea, thought Qwan.
So you turned yourself into a statue? That was Qweffor again, dying to catch up.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, grumbled Qwan. See for yourself. And he sent the relevant memories across to his old apprentice.
Everyone in the tunnel was treated to a cinematic rendering of the initial creation of the time tunnel, ten thousand years ago.
In their minds’ eye, seven warlocks hovered above the very mouth of an active volcano, protected from the heat by a magical circle. This was an altogether more impressive affair than the improvised magic circle Artemis had previously witnessed. These warlocks were a confident crowd, swathed in elaborate robes. Their magical circle was actually a sphere of multicolored light. What’s more, they did not need to get their boots dirty in the ash; they hovered twenty feet above the volcano mouth. Chanting in deep bass tones, they poured bolt after bolt of magic into the magma until it began bubbling and convulsing. As the warlocks concentrated on inducing the volcano, Abbot and his partner Bludwin crept out from behind a rocky outcrop farther up. And even though demon hides can endure great heat, both were sweating profusely.
With barely a pause to realize how moronic and shortsighted their plan was, the saboteurs leaped from an outcrop down toward the circle below. Bludwin, who was blessed with the twin gifts of idiocy and misfortune, missed every warlock in the circle and plunged flailing into the hissing lava. His body slightly raised the temperature of the surface lava, not significantly, but enough to taint the spell. Abbot connected with Qweffor, dragging him out of the circle to the lip of the volcano. Abbot’s hide immediately began steaming, and poor Qweffor, still in a magical stupor, was as helpless as a newborn under his weight.
All of this happened at the worst possible time. The spell was loose in the volcano now, and the warlocks could no more stop it than a mouse could hold back the sea.
A magically enhanced pillar of solid lava spewed—red, orange, and magnificent—from the volcano, straight into the inverted cauldron of blue magic. Grimacing and in obvious distress, the warlocks converted the molten rock into pure power, pumping the energy back into the ground.
Abbot and Qweffor were caught simultaneously by the lava and the magical backwash. Qweffor, already in an insubstantial magical state, collapsed into a body-shaped cluster of stars, which were then absorbed into Abbot’s body. Abbot twisted in agony, tearing at his own skin for a brief moment. Then he was smothered in a deluge of magic and disappeared.
The warlocks maintained the spell for as long as they could, until most of the island had been transported to another dimension. But the lava kept coming from deep beneath the earth, and with the circle broken, they could not contain its savage might. It swatted them aside like a bear would swat annoying insects.
The stricken warlocks spiraled through the air in a rough line, smoke trailing behind them from their flaming robes. Their island was gone, their magic was spent, and the ocean below was ready to crush their bones. There was only one chance for survival. Qwan called on his last sparks of magic and cast a gargoyle spell. The most basic of all warlock talents. In midair, the warlocks were petrified, and they fell in a tumbling line into the bubbling ocean far below. One died instantly when his head snapped off, two more lost arms and legs, and shock killed the rest. All except Qwan, who had known what was coming. They sank to the bottom of Saint George’s Channel, where they would shelter generations of spider crabs for several thousand years.
For several thousand years, thought Qweffor. Maybe being stuck inside Abbot wasn’t so bad.
Where is Abbot now? asked Artemis.
He’s inside me, replied the apprentice. Trying to get out.
Good, thought Qwan. I want a word with him.
CHAPTER 16
POINT OF IMPACT
This time, the materialization was a painful process. Being separated from a thousand consciousnesses left Artemis with a deep sense of loss. For the first time in his life, he had completely belonged. He knew everyone, and they knew him. There would always be a bond between them all, though the specifics of others’ memories were already fading.
Artemis felt like an oversize Band-Aid that had been ripped off an enormous limb and flung on the ground. He lay on the earth shivering. Sharing consciousness had felt so right, that now it was as if he had just lost the use of several senses, including balance.
He opened his eyes, squinting through the sunlight. Sunlight! They were on Earth! Though where and when remained to be seen.
<
br /> Artemis rolled onto his stomach, then struggled slowly to all fours. The others lay in the crater, disorientated like him, but alive, judging by the moans and groans. He himself felt fine, except for a darting pain in his left eye. His vision was sharp but slightly yellowed, as though he were wearing pale sunglasses. Holly, the soldier, was already up, coughing the ash from her lungs. When her airwaves were clear, she helped Artemis to his feet.
She winked at Artemis. “Blue sky. We did it.”
Artemis nodded. “Perhaps.” The wink drew his attention to her left eye. It seemed that they hadn’t made it through the tunnel unaltered.
“Look at me, Holly. Do you notice anything different?”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with puberty, does it?” said Holly, smiling. Then she noticed . . . “Your eyes. They’ve changed. One blue and one hazel.”
Artemis smiled. “You too. We swapped in transit. Just the eye, as far as I can make out.”
Holly thought about this for a moment, then ran her hands over her head and body.
“Everything’s in place, thank goodness. Except now I have a human eye.”
“It could have been a lot worse,” said Artemis. “You could have been traveling with Mulch.”
Holly winced. “Now that you mention it.”
A solitary blue dot of magic sparkled inside Holly’s new eyeball, reducing it in size slightly.
“That’s better,” she sighed. “I had a blinder of a headache. Your new eye must be too small; why don’t you use your ill-gotten magic to fix it.”
Artemis tried, closed his eyes and concentrated. But nothing happened.
“It seems as though the transplant did not take. I must have used all I had in the tunnel.”
Holly punched his shoulder lightly. “Maybe you passed it on to me. I feel great. That time tunnel was like a magical mud bath. Maybe it’s just as well that you lost your magic. The last thing the People need is a magical criminal mastermind running around aboveground.”
“A pity,” sighed Artemis. “The possibilities were endless.”
“Here,” said Holly, taking his head in her hands. “Let me fix you up.”
Her fingertip glowed blue, and Artemis felt his new eye expand slightly in his socket. A single tear ran down his cheek, and the headache disappeared.
“A pity I was unable to do it myself. Being magical for even a short while was simply . . .”
“Magical?”
Artemis smiled. “Exactly. Thank you, Holly.”
Holly smiled back. “It’s the least I can do for someone who brought me back to life.”
Qwan and No1 were on their feet. The old warlock was trying not to look too smug, and No1 was wiggling his tail experimentally.
“You never know what that tunnel will do to you,” he explained. “I lost half a finger last time. It was my favorite finger, too.”
“Rarely in my tunnels,” said Qwan. “My tunnels are works of beauty. If the other warlocks were alive, they would give me a medal. Where is Qweffor, by the way?”
Qweffor was buried up to his waist in an ash mound, head down. Qwan and No1 hauled him out by the boots. He lay spluttering and snorting on the ground.
“Do you need a handkerchief?” asked No1. “All that ash and mucus coming out your nose is horrible.”
Qweffor wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Shut up, Runt!”
No1 took a step backward, which would prove not to be quite enough.
“Runt?”he squeaked.“You’re not Qweffor, you’re N’zall!”
“Abbot!” roared the demon, reaching up and grasping No1 by the throat. “The name is Abbot.”
Holly had her gun out and powered up before Abbot finished his sentence.
“Let him go, Abbot!” she shouted. “You can’t escape. There’s nowhere to escape to. Your world is gone.”
The ex-pride leader was actually crying. “I know it’s gone. This runt took it from me! Now I will take his life from him.”
Holly sent a warning shot over Abbot’s head. “The next one is between your eyes, demon.”
Abbot hefted No1, using him as a shield. “Shoot now, elf. Put us both out of our misery.”
A change had come over No1. Initially he had been sniveling—standard No1 behavior—but now the tears were drying on his cheeks and his eyes were hard.
Every time things are going right for me, Abbot ruins it, he thought. I am so fed up with this stupid demon. I wish he was gone.
This was a big breakthrough for No1. Usually when he found himself in a bad situation, No1 wished himself away. This time he was wishing someone else would disappear. Enough was finally enough, so No1 broke through a lifetime of conditioning and talked back to Abbot.
“I want to speak to Qweffor,” he said in a trembling voice.
“Qweffor’s gone!” shouted Abbot, spraying spittle onto No1’s neck. “All that is left is his magic. My magic!”
“I want to speak to Qweffor,” repeated his hostage, with a little more volume.
For Abbot, this latest subordination was the wind that burst the dwarf’s bum-flap. Even though he was bereft of land and lackeys, Abbot decided that he would not bear impudence from an imp. He tossed No1 upward, spinning him in the air and gripping his shoulders as the imp descended. No1 came down, face-to-face with Abbot, the demon’s horns brushing his ears. Abbot’s eyes were wide and crazy, and his teeth were slick with saliva.
“You’re not long for life, little runt.”
If Abbot had been paying closer attention to his captive, he might have noticed that No1’s eyes were filmed with blue, and his markings glowed and shimmered. But, as usual, Abbot was only interested in his own plight.
No1 wriggled his hands upward, grabbing Abbot by the horns.
“How dare you!” said Abbot incredulously. Touching a demon’s horns was tantamount to a challenge.
No1 stared into his captor’s eyes. “I said, I want to talk to Qweffor.”
Abbot heard him that time, because the voice wasn’t No1’s. It was a voice of pure magic, layered with undeniable power.
Abbot blinked. “I’ll . . . eh . . . see if he’s in.”
It was too late for compliance; No1 wasn’t about to rein in his power now. He sent a magical probe into Abbot’s brain via the horns. Abbot’s horns glowed bright blue and then began shedding large brittle flakes.
“Careful with the horns,” said Abbot blearily, then his eyes rolled back in his head. “The ladies love the horns.”
No1 rooted around in Abbot’s head for a while until he found Qweffor sleeping in a dark corner, in a place scientists would call the limbic system.
The problem, realized No1, is that there is only room in every head for one consciousness. Abbot needs to go somewhere else.
And so, with this instinctive knowledge and absolutely no expertise, No1 fed Qweffor’s consciousness until it expanded, occupying the entire brain. It was not a perfect fit, and poor Qweffor would suffer from twitches and sudden loss of bowel control at public functions, a syndrome which would become known as Abbot’s Revenge. But at least he was in control of the body most of the time.
After several years and three hearings, fairy warlocks would rule to rehouse Abbot’s consciousness in a lower life form. A guinea pig, to be precise. The guinea pig’s own consciousness would soon be subjugated by Abbot’s. Warlock interns would often amuse themselves by throwing tiny swords into the pig’s pen, and cracking up while watching the little piggy try to pick them up.
Qweffor blinked Abbot’s eyes.
“Thanks, No1,” he said, placing the smaller warlock on the ground. “He’s always been too strong for me, but now he’s gone. I’m free.” Qweffor studied his new arms. “And I have muscles.”
Holly lowered her gun, resting a hand on her thigh. “That must be it. Surely our troubles are over?”
Artemis felt the earth tilt a fraction below them. He dropped to one knee, laying the flat of his hands on the ground.
“I ha
te to say this, Holly, but I think we’re sinking.”
* * *
The sinking thing turned out not to be as serious as it sounded. Of course, it was serious; after all, an island was sinking. But there was help at hand.
Holly realized this when her barely functional wrist computer was suddenly flooded with LEP chatter.
The sky is a projection, she thought. They’re waiting for us.
Suddenly, where there had been nothing, hundreds of fairy vehicles appeared in the air above the island. Emergency services air ambulances flew in decreasing circles, searching for landing spots. Huge demolition platforms were guided down by tugpods, and an LEP shuttle dropped straight into the volcano.
The pod had the slick lines of a teardrop and a nonreflective surface that made it difficult to see, even with the shield powered down.
“They were expecting us,” said Artemis, unsurprised. “I thought as much.”
No1 sneezed. “Thank goodness. I am so fed up with this volcano. It’s going to take a month to get this crater stink out of my plates.”
“No, no,” said Qwan, linking arms with his new apprentice. “You can vent your pores magically. It’s a very handy talent.”
Holly waved to attract the shuttle, though there was no need. Even if her helmet hadn’t had a nuclear tracker, the carrier’s scanners would have already scanned, categorized, and checked the LEP database for a match for each one of them.
The shuttle spun and reversed down to them tail first. Its jets blasted, moving furrows in the ash.
“Wow,” said Qwan. “Those ships are fabulous. The People have been busy.”
“A lot has happened in ten thousand years,” said Holly, holding up her palms to show the pilot she was not holding a weapon. Again, probably not necessary, but with Ark Sool in command of the LEP, nothing could be taken for granted.
Four grappler hooks shot from the corners of the shuttle, smashing through the crater crust into the rock below. Once they had a solid grip, they reeled the craft in for a landing. The rear door slid across, and Foaly came trotting down the ramp, dressed in a custom-tailored four-legged LEP jumpsuit. He skidded down the incline to Holly, digging his back hooves through the crust.
