TIME to introduce a new character to our otherworldly pageant. Well, not strictly speaking a new
character. We have encountered him before, in the LEP booking line. On remand for numerous
larcenies: Mulch Diggums, the kleptomaniac dwarf. A dubious individual, even by Artemis Fowl's
standards. As if this account didn't already suffer from an overdose of amoral individuals.
Born to a typical dwarf cavern-dwelling family, Mulch had decided early that mining was not for
him and resolved to put his talents to another use, namely digging and entering, generally entering
Mud People's property. Of course this meant forfeiting his magic. Dwellings were sacred. If you
broke that rule, you had to be prepared to accept the consequences. Mulch didn't mind. He didn't
care much for magic anyway. There had never been much use for it down the mines.
Things had gone pretty well for a few centuries, and he'd built up quite a lucrative above-ground
memorabilia business. That was until he'd tried to sell the Jules Rimet Cup to an undercover LEP
operative. From then on his luck had turned, and he'd been arrested over twenty times to date. A
total of 300 years in and out of prison.
Mulch had a prodigious appetite for tunnelling, and that, unfortunately, is a literal translation. For
those unfamiliar with the mechanics of dwarf tunnelling, I shall endeavour to explain them as
tastefully as possible. Like some members of the reptile family, dwarf males can unhinge their jaws,
allowing them to ingest several kilos of earth a second. This material is processed by a
super-efficient metabolism, stripped of any useful minerals and…ejected at the other end, as it
were. Charming.
At present, Mulch was languishing in a stone-walled cell in LEP Central. At least, he was trying
to project an image of a languishing, unperturbed kind of dwarf. Actually, he was quaking in his
steel-toe-capped boots.
The goblin/dwarf turf war was flaring up at the moment and some bright spark LEP elf had seen
fit to put him in a cell with a gang of psyched-up goblins. An oversight perhaps. More likely a spot
of revenge for trying to pick his arresting officer's pocket in the booking line.
'So, dwarf,' sneered the head-honcho goblin, a wart-faced fellow covered in tattoos. 'How come
you don't chew your way outta here?'
Mulch rapped on the walls. 'Solid rock.'
The goblin laughed. 'So what? Can't be any harder than your dwarf skull.'
His cronies laughed. So did Mulch. He thought it might be wise. Wrong.
'You laughin' at me, dwarf?'
Mulch stopped laughing.
'With you,' he corrected. 'I'm laughing with you. That skull joke was pretty funny.'
The goblin advanced until his slimy nose was a centimetre from Mulch's own. 'You pay-tron-izin'
me, dwarf?'
Mulch swallowed, calculating. If he unhinged now, he could probably swallow the leader before
the others reacted. Still, goblins were murder on the digestion. Very bony.
The goblin conjured up a fireball around his fist. 'I asked you a question, stumpy.'
Mulch could feel every sweat gland on his body pop into instant overdrive. Dwarfs did not like
fire. They didn't even like thinking about flames. Unlike the rest of the fairy races, dwarfs had no
desire to live above ground. Too close to the sun. Ironic for someone in the Mud People Possession
Liberation business.
'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
back-stabbers, 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? What a real no-brainer.
Mulch backed up to the wall.
'Careful there. We could all go up.'
'Not us,' grinned wart-face, snorting the fireball up two elongated nostrils. 'Completely fireproof.'
Mulch was perfectly aware 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 wart-face's nostrils. Disgusting, yes, but definitely better than being 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 face down on the concrete floor. Something crunched. Probably a big
goblin nose.
The other gang members did not react favourably.
'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 tunnelling. 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.'
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