Artemis Fowl - Eoin Colfer [47]
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 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.