Eoin Colfer - Artemis Fowl. The Lost Colony

Hadley snapped No.1 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.

No.1 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 can be fatal, or worse.

Painful for all eternity. This rule usually only applied by the volcano crater, but luckily Basset was too scared to remember that.

No.1 ducked back into the senior imp dorm, hoping his room-mates 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 pink 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 No.1 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 accommodation 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 No.1 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 No.1 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 families were, and therefore everyone was their family.

But still, some days, when his self-esteem had taken a bit of a pounding, No.1 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, No.1 suddenly realized. And from that day he smiled back. They could both pretend to have found each other.

No.1 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 for 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.

No.1 longed for light and fresh air. He was uniquely different, a brand-new point on the compass. Or maybe an old one. No.1 often thought that perhaps he could be a warlock. True, there hadn't been a warlock in the demon pride since they lifted out of time, but maybe he was the first, and that was why he felt so differently about almost everything. No.1 had raised his theory with Master Rawley, but the teacher had cuffed his earhole 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, 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.'