Artemis Fowl - The Lost Colony Part 5

The imps screamed and stomped, bashed their desks with weapons and clattered each other on the shoulders. No1 avoided as much of the consternation 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 one more day of dishonour, 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, clamouring 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 cla.s.s, 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 armoured 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 axe 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 was still in control.

The imps piled to the head of the cla.s.s, hammering Abbot with fist, foot and forehead. They bounced off, every one. Much to Abbot's amus.e.m.e.nt.

Idiots, thought No1. As if they could possibly succeed As if they could possibly succeed.

Actually, No1 had a theory about armoured scales. A few years ago he had been toying with a discarded baby armoured 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 cla.s.smates 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 No1's mouth, before his brain had a chance to catch up.

'Raahhr!' roared Abbot, or something similar. 'Are you insulting me, impling?'

Being called impling impling was even worse than being called Runt. The term 'impling' was generally reserved for the recently hatched. 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 even smiling. 'I really do do think, Runt. Get your stumpy tail up here before I give Master Rawley licence to do what he has wanted to do for a long time.' think, Runt. Get your stumpy tail up here before I give Master Rawley licence 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-colour-your-insides-are wink.

No1 sloped reluctantly to the head of the cla.s.s, pa.s.sing the smouldering embers of last night's fire. Wooden meat skewers jutted from the coals. No1 paused for a beat, gazing at the sharp skewers. 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 cla.s.smates, 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, holding 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 armoured plates like those other morons... I mean, my cla.s.smates.'

'No, no,' said Abbot, handing back the skewer. 'You go ahead, little bee, p.r.i.c.k me with your sting.'

p.r.i.c.k 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 really lost. lost.

Abbot knocked on the crown of his head. 'h.e.l.lo, 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 round the thick end, he twisted the skewer upwards into one of Abbot's armoured scales.

He twisted slowly, concentrating on the point of contact. The scale greyed slightly with ash, but no penetration. Acrid smoke twirled round 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, 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 N wondered No1. Should I stop? Can I stop? Should I stop? Can I stop?

Yes and and no 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. N 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 armoured plate.

The expansion cracked the plate open a couple of centimetres. Abbot heard the noise; so did everybody else. The demon pride leader flicked his eyes downwards and realized instantly what was going on.

'Magic,' he hissed. The word was out before he 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 ooh and and aah aah as though you have actually achieved something.' 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, Number One. 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.'

No1 could do nothing but return to the bench and bear the insults of his cla.s.smates. And there were plenty of those, usually accompanied by a missile or blow. But somehow No1 ignored these latest humiliations, staring instead at his own hand. The one that had turned wood to stone. Could it be true? Could he actually be a warlock? And if he was, would that make him feel better, or worse?

A toothpick bounced off his forehead on to the bench. There was a sliver of grey meat stuck to the end. No1 glanced up to find Rawley grinning at him.

'Been trying to get that out for weeks. Wild boar, I think. Now, pay attention, Runt; Master Abbot is trying to educate you.'

Oh yes, the history lesson. It was amazing how much Leon Abbot managed to insert himself into demon history. To hear him tell it, you would think that he had single-handedly saved the eighth family, in spite of the meddling warlocks.

Abbot studied the hooked talons on his fingertips. Each one could gut a large pig. If Abbot's own stories were true, he had warped at age eight while wrestling one of the island's wild dogs. His fingernails had actually changed into talons during the fight, lacerating the dog's side.

No1 found this story highly unlikely. It took hours to warp fully, sometimes days, but Abbot expected them to believe that his his warp was instantaneous. Hogwash. And yet all the other imps lapped up these self-glorifying legends. warp was instantaneous. Hogwash. And yet all the other imps lapped up these self-glorifying legends.

'Of all the demons who fought in the last battle at Taillte,' droned Abbot, in what he probably thought was a good voice for history lessons, but in what No1 thought was a boring enough voice to turn soft cheese hard. 'I, Leon Abbot, am the last.'

Convenient, thought No1. n.o.body left around to argue n.o.body left around to argue. He also thought: You look your age, Leon. Too many barrels of pork fat You look your age, Leon. Too many barrels of pork fat.

No1 was an uncharitable imp when in a bad mood.

It is the nature of out of time out of time spells that the ageing process is drastically slowed. Abbot had been a young buck when the warlocks lifted Hybras out of time, and so the spell, combined with good genes, had kept him and his huge ego alive ever since. Possibly a thousand years. Of course, that was a thousand years' normal time. In Hybras time, a millennium meant very little. A couple of centuries could skip by in the blink of an eye on the island. An imp could wake up one morning to find that he'd evolved. A while back, every demon and imp in Hybras got up one morning with a stubby tail where his magnificent long one used to be. For a considerable time after that, the most common noises on the island were the sounds of demons falling down, or swearing as they got up again. spells that the ageing process is drastically slowed. Abbot had been a young buck when the warlocks lifted Hybras out of time, and so the spell, combined with good genes, had kept him and his huge ego alive ever since. Possibly a thousand years. Of course, that was a thousand years' normal time. In Hybras time, a millennium meant very little. A couple of centuries could skip by in the blink of an eye on the island. An imp could wake up one morning to find that he'd evolved. A while back, every demon and imp in Hybras got up one morning with a stubby tail where his magnificent long one used to be. For a considerable time after that, the most common noises on the island were the sounds of demons falling down, or swearing as they got up again.

'After that great battle, in which the demon battalions were the bravest and fiercest in the People's army,' continued Abbot, to hoots of approval from the imps, 'we were defeated by treachery and cowardice. The elves would not fight, and the dwarfs would not dig traps. We had no choice but to cast our spell and regroup until the time was right to return.'

More hooting, plus stamping of feet.

Every time, thought No1. Do we have to go through this every time? These imps act like they never heard this story before. When is someone going to stand up and say: 'Excuse me. Old news. Move on.' Do we have to go through this every time? These imps act like they never heard this story before. When is someone going to stand up and say: 'Excuse me. Old news. Move on.'

'And so we breed. We breed and grow strong. Now our army has over five thousand warriors surely enough to defeat the humans. I know this because I, Leon Abbot, have been to the world and returned to Hybras alive.'

This was Abbot's golden nugget. This was where anyone who stood against him withered and blew away. Abbot had not come directly to Limbo with the rest of Hybras. For some reason he had been diverted to the human future, then sucked across to Hybras. He had seen the human camps and actually brought his knowledge home. How all this happened was a bit hazy. According to Abbot there had been a great battle, he'd defeated fifty or so men, then a mysterious warlock had lifted him out of time again. But not before he'd grabbed a couple of things to bring back.

Since the warlocks had been explosively removed from the eighth family, n.o.body had much of a clue about magic any more. Normal demons had no magic of their own. It had been thought that all the warlocks had been sucked into s.p.a.ce during the transferral of Hybras from Earth to Limbo, but according to Abbot, one had survived. This warlock was in league with the humans and had only helped the demon leader under threat of grievous injury.

No1 was highly sceptical of this version of events. First of all because it came from Abbot, and secondly because warlocks were being cast, once more, in a bad light. Demons seemed to forget that if it wasn't for the warlocks, Hybras would have been overrun by humans.

On this particular day, No1 was feeling a special attachment to the warlocks, and he did not appreciate their memory being sullied by this loudmouth braggart. Hardly a day went past where No1 did not spend a moment praying for the return of the mysterious warlock who had helped Abbot. And now that he was certain of magic in his own blood, No1 would pray all the harder.

'The moon separated me from the rest of the island during the great journey,' continued Abbot, his eyes half closed as if the memory had him in a swoon. 'I was powerless to resist her charms. And so I travelled through s.p.a.ce and time until I came to rest in the new world. Which is now the world of men. The humans clamped silver on my ankles, tried to make me submit, but I would not.' Abbot hunched his ma.s.sive shoulders and roared at the roof. 'For I am demonkind! And we will never submit!'

Needless to say the imps went into overdrive. The entire room heaved with their exertions. In No1's opinion, Abbot's entire performance was wooden, to say the least. The we will never submit we will never submit speech was the oldest page in Abbot's book. N speech was the oldest page in Abbot's book. No1 rubbed his temples, trying to ease the headache. There was worse to come, he knew. First the book, then the crossbow, if Abbot didn't deviate from the script. And why would he? He hadn't in all the years since his return from the new world.

'And so I fought!' shouted Abbot. 'I kicked off their shackles and Hybras called me home; but before I took my leave of the hated humans, I fought my way to their altar and stole away with two of their blessed objects.'

'The book and the bow,' muttered No1, rolling his orange eyes.

'Tell us what you stole,' begged the others on cue, as if they didn't know.

'The book and the bow!' proclaimed Leon Abbot, pulling the objects from beneath his robe, as if by magic.

As if by magic, thought No1. But not actual magic, because then Abbot would be a warlock, and he couldn't possibly be a warlock as he had already warped and warlocks did not warp But not actual magic, because then Abbot would be a warlock, and he couldn't possibly be a warlock as he had already warped and warlocks did not warp.

'Now we know how the humans think,' said Abbot, waving the book. 'And how they fight,' he proclaimed, brandishing the crossbow.

I don't believe any of this for a minute, thought No1. Or I wouldn't, if we had 'minutes' in Limbo. Oh, how I wish I was on Earth, with the last warlock. Then there would be two of us, and I would find out what really happened when Leon Abbot came calling Or I wouldn't, if we had 'minutes' in Limbo. Oh, how I wish I was on Earth, with the last warlock. Then there would be two of us, and I would find out what really happened when Leon Abbot came calling.

'And armed with this knowledge, we can return when the time spell fades and retake the old country.'

'When?' cried the imps. 'When?'

'Soon,' replied Abbot. 'Soon. And there will be humans enough for us all. They will be crushed like the gra.s.s beneath our boots. We will tear their heads off like dandelion flowers.'

Oh, please, thought No1. Enough plant similes Enough plant similes.

It was quite possible that No1 was the only creature on Hybras who ever even thought the human word 'simile'. Saying it aloud would have certainly earned him a thrashing. If the other imps knew that his human vocabulary also included words like 'grooming' and 'decoration' they would string him up for sure. Ironically, he had learned these words from Lady Heatherington Smythe's Hedgerow Lady Heatherington Smythe's Hedgerow, which was supposed to be a school text.

'Tear their heads off,' shouted one imp, and it quickly became a chant, taken up by everyone in the room.

'Yes, tear their heads off,' said No1, trying it out, but there was no feeling in his voice.

What's my motivation? he wondered. he wondered. I've never even met a human I've never even met a human.

The imps climbed on their benches, bobbing in primal rhythm.

'Tear their heads off! Tear their heads off!'