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, No.1 was the last to school. The other dozen or so imps were already in the hall, revelling in the thoughts of another day spent hunting, skinning, butchering and possibly even warping. No.1 wasn't feeling particularly hopeful. Maybe today would be his day, but he doubted it. The warp spasm was brought on by bloodlust, and No.1 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's 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.
No.1 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 No.1 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. No.1 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 No.1.
'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 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 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 class, hammering Abbot with fist, foot and forehead. They bounced off, every one. Much to Abbot's amusement.
Idiots, thought No.1. As if they could possibly succeed.
Actually, No.1 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 classmates stomped all over No.1's thoughts.
No.1 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 No.1 '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 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 No.1. 'You seem to know a lot about scales. Why don't you try to get through these?'
No.1 tried to laugh it off. 'Oh, I really don't think. .'
But Abbot wasn't even smiling. 'I really 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.'
Rawley pulled his blade from the bench and winked at No.1.This was not a friendly you-and-I-share-a-secret wink, it was a let's-see-what-colour-your-insides-are wink.
No.1 sloped reluctantly to the head of the class, passing the smouldering embers of last night's fire. Wooden meat skewers jutted from the coals.
No.1 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 No.1's classmates, their loyalties obvious.
N°l reluctantly selected a wooden needle from the fire. The handle was solid enough, but the tip was black and flaky. No.1 tapped the skewer against his leg to dislodge loose ash.
Abbot grabbed the meat skewer from No.1 '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 No.1'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. T should just pound on your armoured 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 No.1 in a highly insulting imitation of the pride leader. Of course he didn't warble this aloud. No.1 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 No.1, as loudly as he could.
No.1 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.'
No.1 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 No.1. It slid down the back of his head. A lump of fat, bone and gristle.
No.1 persisted, rolling the skewer between thumb and forefinger. He rolled faster now, feeling the skewer take hold, burning a slight indent.
No.1 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 No.1 would know. And so would Abbot.
The skewer penetrated, just a fraction. No.1 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 No.1.
What's happening? wondered No.1. 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. No.1 realized that he was chanting with them. Chanting what? He had no idea, but somehow his memory knew.
The strange force throbbed in No.1'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.
No.1 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.'
No.1 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?'
No.1 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, No.1 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.'
No.1 was about to risk a protest, when he was grabbed roughly by the arm.
'You slippery little snail,' shouted Rawley, spittle spattering No.1's face.
'Trying to trick the pride leader. Get back to your place. I'll deal with you later.'
No.1 could do nothing but return to the bench and bear the insults of his classmates. And there were plenty of those, usually accompanied by a missile or blow. But somehow No.1 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. No.1 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.
No.1 found this story highly unlikely. It took hours to warp fully, sometimes days, but Abbot expected them to believe that his 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 atTaillte,' droned Abbot, in what he probably thought was a good voice for history lessons, but in what No.1 thought was a boring enough voice to turn soft cheese hard.
'I, Leon Abbot, am the last.'
Convenient, thought No.1. Nobody left around to argue. He also thought:
You look your age, Leon. Too many barrels of pork fat.
No.1 was an uncharitable imp when in a bad mood.
It is the nature of 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.
'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.'
