by Eoin Colfer
Hadley Shrivelington Basset, a demon who was actually six months No1’s junior, but already fully fledged, strolled down the tiled corridor on his way to the washroom. His horns corkscrewed impressively and his ears had at least four points. Hadley enjoyed parading his new demon self in front of the imps. Generally, demons shouldn’t even bunk in the imp lodge, but Basset seemed in no hurry to move out.
“Hey, imp,” he said, snapping his towel at No1’s behind. It connected with a sharp crack. “Are you going to warp any time soon? Maybe if I get you angry enough.”
The towel stung, but No1 didn’t get angry. Just nervous. Everything made him nervous. That was his problem.
Time for a quick subject change. “Morning, Basset. Nice ears.”
“I know,” said Hadley, tipping the points one after another. “Four points already, and I think there’s a fifth coming up. Abbot himself only has six points.”
Leon Abbot, the hero of Hybras. The demons’ self-proclaimed savior.
Hadley snapped No1 again with the towel.
“Don’t you get a pain in your face looking in the mirror, imp? Because you’re giving me a pain in mine.”
He put his hands on his hips, threw back his head, and laughed. It was all very dramatic. You’d think there was an artist in the wings doing sketches.
“Eh, Basset. You’re not wearing any silver.”
The laughing stopped, to be replaced by a froglike gurgle. Shrivelington Basset bolted down the lodge corridor without pause for more bullying. No1 knew scaring people half to death shouldn’t give him any satisfaction, and generally it wouldn’t. But for Basset, he’d make an exception. Not wearing silver on your person is much more than a fashion disaster for a demon or imp. For them it could be fatal, or worse. Painful for all eternity. This rule usually only applied when an imp or demon was near the volcano crater, but luckily Basset was too scared to remember that.
No1 ducked back into the senior imp dorm, hoping his roommates were still snoring. No such luck. They were knuckling the sleep from their eyes and already searching for the target of their daily ribbing, which was, of course, him. He was by far the oldest in the senior dorm, no one else had made it to fourteen without warping. It was getting to the point where he was a permanent fixture. Each night his legs protruded from the foot of the bed, and his blanket barely covered the swirling moon markings on his chest.
“Hey, Runt,” called one. “Are you going to warp today, do you think? Or will flowers grow out of my armpits?”
“I’ll check your armpits tomorrow,” sniggered another.
More abuse. This time from a couple of twelve-year-old imps who were so pumped up that they were likely to warp before class. But they were right. He would have gone for the pink flowers option, too.
Runt was his imp nickname. They didn’t have real names, not until after they warped. Then they would be given a name from the sacred text. Until that moment, he was stuck with No1, or Runt.
He smiled good-naturedly. It didn’t pay to antagonize his dorm-mates. Even though they were smaller than him today, they could be a lot bigger tomorrow.
“I’m feeling pumped,” he said, flexing his biceps. “Today is going to be my day.”
Everyone in the dorm was excited. Tomorrow they could be out of this room for good. Once they warped, they were transferred to decent accommodations, and nothing in Hybras was off-limits.
“Who do we hate?” shouted one.
“Humans!” came the reply.
The next minute or so was spent howling at the ceiling. Imp No1 joined in, but he wasn’t really feeling it.
It shouldn’t be “who do we hate,” he thought. It really should be “whom.”
But this probably wasn’t a good time to bring that up.
Imp School
Sometimes No1 wished he had known his mother. This was not a very demonlike desire, so he kept it to himself.
Demons were born equal, and whatever they made of themselves, they did with their claws and teeth. As soon as the female laid an egg, it was tossed in a bucket of mineral-enriched mud and left to hatch. Imps never knew who their family was, and therefore everyone was their family.
But still, some days, when his self-esteem had taken a bit of a pounding, No1 couldn’t help gazing wistfully across at the female compound on his way to school, and wondering which one was his mother.
There was one demoness with red markings like his own, and a kind face. Often she smiled across the wall at him. She was looking for her son, No1 had realized. And from that day he smiled back. They could both pretend to have found each other.
No1 had never experienced a feeling of belonging. He ached for the time when he could wake up and look forward to what lay ahead. That day hadn’t come yet, and it wasn’t likely to, not as long as they lived in Limbo. Nothing would change. Nothing could change. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. Things could get worse.
Imp School was a low stone building with little ventilation and hardly any light. Perfect for most imps. The stench and the smoky fire made them feel hard done-by and warlike.
No1 longed for light and fresh air. He was uniquely different, a brand new point on the compass. Or maybe an old one. No1 often thought that perhaps he could be a warlock. True, there hadn’t been a warlock in the demon pride since they’d lifted out of time, but maybe he was the first, and that was why he felt so differently about almost everything. No1 had raised his theory with Master Rawley, but the teacher had cuffed his ear hole and sent him digging grubs for the other imps.
There was another thing. Why couldn’t they, just once, have a cooked meal? What would be so horrible about a soft stew and maybe even a few spices? Why did imps delight in chomping their food down before it stopped wriggling?
As usual, No1 was the last to school. The other dozen or so imps were already in the hall, reveling in the thoughts of another day spent hunting, skinning, butchering, and possibly even warping.
No1 wasn’t feeling particularly hopeful. Maybe today would be his day, but he doubted it. The warp spasm was brought on by bloodlust, and No1 had never felt the slightest urge to hurt any other creature. He even felt bad for the rabbits he ate, and sometimes dreamed that their little spirits were haunting him.
Master Rawley sat at his bench, sharpening a curved sword. Every now and then he would hack a chunk from the bench and grunt with satisfaction. The desk surface was littered with various weapons for hacking, sawing, and cutting. And of course one book. A copy of Lady Heatherington Smythe’s Hedgerow. The book Leon Abbot had brought back from the old world. The book that would save them all, according to Abbot himself.
When Rawley had sharpened the blade to a silver crescent, he banged the hilt of the weapon on his bench.
“Sit down,”he roared at the imps.“And make it fast, you shower of stinking rabbit droppings. I’ve got a fresh blade here that I’m just itching to test.”
The imps hurried to their places. Rawley would not cut them, but he was certainly not above strapping their backs with the flat of his sword. And then again, maybe he would cut them.
No1 squashed in on the end of the fourth row. Look tough, he told himself. Sneer a bit. You’re an imp!
Rawley sank his blade into the wood, leaving it there quivering. The other imps grunted. Impressed. All No1 could think was: Show off. And: He’s ruined that bench.
“So, pig slime,” said Rawley. “You want to be demons, do you?”
“Yes, Master Rawley!” roared the imps.
“You think you have what it takes?”
“Yes, Master Rawley!”
Rawley spread his muscled arms wide. He threw back a green head and roared. “Well then, let me hear it!”
The imps screamed and stomped, bashed their desks with weapons, and clattered each other on the shoulders. No1 avoided as much of the ruckus as possible while doing his best to seem involved. Not an easy trick.
Finally Rawley settled them down. “Well, we’ll see. This morning is a big morning for
some of you, but for others it will be just be one more day of dishonor, grub hunting with the females.” He stared pointedly at No1. “But before we get to oozing, we have to do some snoozing.”
Much groaning from the imps.
“That’s right, girls. History time. Nothing to kill and nothing to eat, just knowledge for the sake of it.” Rawley shrugged his giant knotted shoulders. “It’s a waste of time, if you ask me. But I’m under orders here.”
“That’s right, Master Rawley,” said a voice from the doorway. “You’re under orders.”
The voice belonged to Leon Abbot himself, paying one of his surprise visits to the school. Abbot was immediately surrounded by adoring imps clamoring to receive a friendly cuff on the ear, or to touch his sword.
Abbot endured this adoration for a moment, then brushed the imps aside. He elbowed Rawley out of the prime spot at the head of the class, then waited for silence. He didn’t have to wait long. Abbot was an impressive specimen, even if you didn’t know a thing about his past. He was almost five feet tall, with curved ram horns that jutted from his forehead. His armored scales were deep red and covered his entire torso and forehead. Very impressive, and of course difficult to penetrate. You could bash away with an ax all day at Abbot’s chest and get nowhere. Indeed, one of his party tricks was to challenge anyone in the room to hurt him.
Abbot threw back his rawhide cloak and slapped his chest. “Right, who wants to have a go?”
Several imps nearly warped right then and there.
“Make a line, ladies,” said Rawley, as if he were still in control.
The imps piled to the head of the class and hammered Abbot with fist, foot, and forehead. They bounced off, every one. Much to Abbot’s amusement.
Idiots, thought No1. As if they could possibly succeed.
Actually, No1 had a theory about armored scales. A few years ago he had been toying with a discarded baby armored scale, and he’d noticed that they were made of dozens of layers, which made them almost impossible to breach head-on, whereas if you went at them at an angle with something hot . . .
“What about you, Runt?”
The raucous laughter of his classmates stomped all over No1’s thoughts.
No1 physically twitched with shock as he realized that not only had Leon Abbot spoken to him, he had actually used his dormitory nickname.
“Yessir, pardon me? What?”
Abbot thumped his own chest. “You think you can get through the thickest plates on Hybras?”
“I doubt they’re the thickest,” said N°1’s mouth before his brain had a chance to catch up.
“Raahhr! Are you insulting me, impling?”
Being called impling was even worse than being called Runt. The term impling was generally reserved for the recently hatched.
“No, no, of course not, Master Abbot. I just thought that, naturally, some of the older demons would have more layers on their scales. But yours are probably tougher—no dead layers on the inside.”
Abbot’s slitted eyes squinted at No1. “You seem to know a lot about scales. Why don’t you try to get through these.”
No1 tried to laugh it off. “Oh, I really don’t think—”
But Abbot wasn’t smiling. “I really do think, Runt. Get your stumpy tail up here before I give Master Rawley license to do what he has wanted to do for a long time.”
Rawley pulled his blade from the bench and winked at No1. This was not a friendly you-and-I-share-a-secret wink; it was a let’s-see-what-color-your-insides-are wink.
No1 sloped reluctantly to the head of the class, passing the smoldering embers of last night’s fire. Wooden meat skewers jutted from the coals. No1 paused for a beat, gazing at the sharp skewers and thinking that if he had the guts, one of those would probably do the trick.
Abbot followed his gaze. “What? You think a meat skewer is going to help you?” The demon snorted. “I was buried in molten lava once, Runt, and I’m still here. Bring one up. Do your worst.”
“Do your worst,” echoed several of No1’s classmates, their loyalties obvious.
No1 reluctantly selected a wooden needle from the fire. The handle was solid enough, but the tip was black and flaky. No1 tapped the skewer against his leg to dislodge loose ash.
Abbot grabbed the meat skewer from No1’s hand and held it aloft.
“This is your chosen weapon,” he said mockingly. “The Runt thinks he’s hunting rabbits.”
The jeers and hoots broke over No1’s furrowed brow like a wave. He could feel one of his headaches coming on. He could always count on one to show up just when it was least wanted.
“This is probably a bad idea,” he admitted. “I should just pound on your armored plates like those other morons . . . I mean my classmates.”
“No, no,” said Abbot, handing back the skewer. “You go ahead, little bee, prick me with your sting.”
Prick me with your sting, warbled No1 in a highly insulting imitation of the pride leader. Of course he didn’t warble this aloud. No1 was rarely confrontational outside his head.
Aloud he said, “I’ll do my best, Master Abbot.”
“I’ll do my best, Master Abbot,” warbled Abbot in a highly insulting imitation of imp No1, as loudly as he could.
No1 felt beads of sweat spiral down his stumpy tail. There really was no good way out of this situation. If he failed, then he was in for another bout of jeering and mild personal injury. But if he won, then he really lost.
Abbot knocked on the crown of his head. “Hello, Runt. Let’s get moving. There are imps here waiting to warp.”
No1 stared at the tip of the skewer and allowed the problem to take over. He placed the flat of his right hand on Abbot’s chest. Then, wrapping his fingers tightly around the thick end, he twisted the skewer upward into one of Abbot’s armored scales.
He twisted slowly, concentrating on the point of contact. The scale grayed slightly with ash, but no penetration. Acrid smoke twirled around the skewer.
Abbot chuckled, delighted. “Trying to start a fire there, Runt? Should I summon the water brigade?”
One of the imps threw his lunch at No1. It slid down the back of his head. A lump of fat, bone, and gristle.
No1 persisted, rolling the skewer between thumb and forefinger. He rolled faster now, feeling the skewer take hold, burning a slight indent.
No1 felt an excitement build in him. He tried to contain it, to think about consequences, but he couldn’t. He was on the point of success, here. He was just about to accomplish with brains something all these other idiots couldn’t do with brawn. Of course they would pummel him, and Abbot would invent some excuse to undermine his achievement, but No1 would know. And so would Abbot.
The skewer penetrated just a fraction. No1 felt the plate give way, perhaps a single layer. The little imp felt something he had never felt before. Triumph. The feeling built inside him, irresistible, unquenchable. It became more than a feeling. It transformed into a force, rebuilding some forgotten neural pathways, releasing an ancient energy inside No1.
What’s happening? wondered No1. Should I stop? Can I stop?
Yes and no were the answers to those questions. Yes, he should stop, but no, he couldn’t. The force flowed through his limbs, raising his temperature. He heard voices chanting inside his mind. No1 realized that he was chanting with them. Chanting what? He had no idea, but somehow his memory knew.
The strange force throbbed in No1’s fingers in time with his heartbeat, then pulsed out of his body into the skewer. The pin turned to stone. Wood morphed to granite before his eyes. The rock virus spread along the shaft, rippling like water. In the flash of a spark, the skewer was completely made of stone. It expanded slightly into the breach in Abbot’s armored plate.
The expansion cracked the plate open half an inch.
Abbot heard the noise, so did everybody else. The demon pride leader flicked his eyes downward and realized instantly what was going on.
“Magic,” he hissed. The word was out before h
e could stop it. With a vicious swipe, he swatted the skewer away from his torso into the fire.
No1 stared at his throbbing hand. Power still shimmered around his fingertips, a tiny heat haze.
“Magic?” he repeated. “That means I must be a—”
“Shut your stupid mouth,” snapped Abbot, covering the cracked scale with his cloak. “Obviously I don’t mean actual magic. I mean trickery. You twist the handle on that skewer to make it crack, then you ooh and aah as though you have actually achieved something.”
No1 pulled at Abbot’s cloak. “But your scale?”
Abbot drew the cloak tighter. “What about my scale? There’s not a mark on it. Not so much as a smear. You believe me, don’t you?”
No1 sighed. This was Leon Abbot; the truth meant nothing. “Yes, Master Abbot. I believe you.”
“I can tell by your insolent tone that you do not. Very well, proof, then.” Abbot whipped back his cloak, revealing an unblemished scale. For a moment, No1 thought he saw a blue spark playing about where the mark had definitely been, but then the spark winked itself out. Blue sparks. Could it be magic?
Abbot jabbed the imp’s chest with a rigid finger. “We’ve talked about this, No1. I know you think you’re a warlock. But there are no warlocks; there haven’t been since we lifted out of time. You are not a warlock. Forget that idiotic notion and concentrate on warping. You’re a disgrace to your race.”
No1 was about to risk a protest when he was grabbed roughly by the arm.
“You slippery little snail,” shouted Rawley, spittle spattering No1’s face. “Trying to trick the pride leader. Get back to your place. I’ll deal with you later.”