Eoin Colfer - Artemis Fowl. The Lost Colony

'And how they fight,' he proclaimed, brandishing the crossbow.

I don't believe any of this for a minute, thought No.1. 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 grass beneath our boots. We will tear their heads off like dandelion flowers.'

Oh, please, thought No.1. Enough plant similes.

It was quite possible that No.1 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, 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 No.1, trying it out, but there was no feeling in his voice.

What's my motivation? he wondered. 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!'

Abbot and Rawley urged them on. Flexing their claws and howling. A sickly sweet smell clogged the air. Warp muck. Someone was entering the warp spasm phase. The excitement was bringing on the change.

No.1 felt nothing. Not so much as a twinge. He tried his best, squeezing his eyelids together, letting the pressure build in his head, thinking bloody thoughts. But his true feelings shattered the false visions of bloodlust and carnage.

It's no use, he thought. I am not that kind of demon.

No.1 stopped chanting and sat, head in hands. No point in pretending — another change cycle was passing him by.

Not so the other imps. Abbot's theatrics had opened a natural well of testosterone, bloodlust and bodily fluid. One by one, they succumbed to the warp spasm. Green gunge flowed from their pores, slowly at first, then in bubbling gushes. They all went under, every one of them. It must be some kind of record, so many imps warping simultaneously. Of course Abbot would take the credit.

The sight of the fluid brought on fresh rounds of howling. And the more the imps howled, the faster the gunge spurted. No.1 had heard it said that humans took several years to make the transition from childhood to adulthood. Imps did it in a few hours. And a change like that is going to hurt.

The howls of exultation changed to grunts of pain, as bones stretched and horns curled, the gunge-coated limbs already lengthening. The smell was sweet enough to make N°l gag.

Imps toppled to the floor all around. They thrashed for a few seconds, then their own fluids mummified them. They were cocooned like enormous green bugs, strapped tight by the hardening gunge. The schoolroom was suddenly silent, except for the crack of drying nutrient fluid and a rustle of flames from the stone fireplace.

Abbot beamed, a toothy smile that seemed to split his head in half.

'A good morning's work, wouldn't you say, Rawley? I got them all warping.'

Rawley grunted his agreement, then noticed No.1. 'Except the Runt.'

'Well, of course not,' began Abbot, then caught himself. 'Yes. Absolutely, except the Runt.'

No.1's forehead burned under Rawley and Abbot's scrutiny.

'I want to warp,' he said, looking at his fingers. 'I really do. But it's the hating thing. I just can't manage it. And all that slime. Even the thought of that stuff all over me makes me feel a bit nauseous.'

'A bit what?' said Rawley suspiciously.

No.1 realized that he needed to dumb it down for his teacher.

'Sick. A bit sick.'

'Oh.' Rawley shook his head in disgust. 'Slime makes you sick? What kind of imp are you? The others live for slime.'

No.1 took a deep breath and said something aloud that he had known for a long time.

'I'm not like the others.' No.1's voice trembled. He was on the verge of tears.

'Are you going to cry?' asked Rawley, his eyes bugging. 'This is too much, Leon. He's going to cry now, just like a female. I give up.'

Abbot scratched his chin. 'Let me try something.'

He rummaged in a cape pocket, surreptitiously fixing something over his hand.

Oh no, thought No.1. Please no. Not Stony.

Abbot raised a forearm, his cloak draped over it. A mini-stage. A puppet human poked his head over the leather cape. The puppet's head was a grotesque ball of painted clay, with a heavy forehead and clumsy features. No.1 doubted that humans were this ugly in real life, but demons were not known for their artistic skills. Abbot often produced Stony as a visual incentive for those imps who were having difficulty warping. Needless to say, No.1 had been introduced to the puppet before.

'Grrr,' said the puppet, or rather Abbot said, as he waggled the puppet.

'Grrr, my name is Stony the Mud Man.'

'Hello, Stony,' said No.1 weakly. 'How've you been?'

The puppet held a tiny wooden sword in its hand.

'Never mind how I've been. I don't care how you've been, because I hate all fairies,' said Abbot in a squeaky voice. 'I drove them from their homes. And if they ever try to come back, I will kill them all.'

Abbot lowered the puppet. 'Now, how does that make you feel?'

It makes me feel that the wrong demon is in charge of the pride, thought No.1, but aloud he said, 'Eh, angry?'

Abbot blinked. 'Angry? Really?'

'No,' confessed No.1, wringing his hands. 'I don't feel anything. It's a puppet. I can see your fingers through the material.'

Abbot stuffed Stony back in his pocket.

'That's it. I've had it with you, Number One. You will never earn a name from the book.'

Once demons warped, they were given a human name from Lady Heatherington Smythe's Hedgerow. The logic being that learning the human language and possessing a human name would help the demon army think like humans and therefore defeat them. Abbot may have hated the Mud Men, but that wasn't to say he didn't admire them. Also, politically, it was a good idea to have every demon on Hybras calling each other by names that Leon Abbot had procured for them.

Rawley grabbed No.1's ear, dragging him from his seat to the rear of the classroom. A metal grille on the floor covered a shallow, pungent dung pit.

'Get to work, Runt,' he said gruffly. 'You know what to do.'

No.1 sighed. He knew only too well. This wasn't the first or second time he'd had to endure this odious task. He hefted a long-handled gaff from a peg on the wall, pulling the heavy grille from its groove. The smell was rank but not unbearable, as a crust had formed on the dung's surface. Beetles crawled across the craggy skin, their legs clicking like claws on wood.

No.1 uncovered the pit completely, then selected his nearest classmate.

There was no way of telling which classmate it actually was because of the slime cocoon. The only movements were small air bubbles around the mouth and nose. At least he hoped it was the mouth and nose.

No.1 bent low, rolling the cocoon along the floor and into the dung pit.

The warping imp crashed through the crust, taking a dozen beetles with him into the muck below. A gush of dung stink washed over № 1, and he knew his skin would smell for days. The others would wear their pit stink proudly, but for No.1 it was just another badge of shame.

It was arduous work. Not all the warping imps were still. Several struggled inside their cocoons, and twice demon claws punctured the green chrysalis centimetres from N°l's skin.

He persisted, groaning loudly, in the hope that Rawley or Leon Abbot would lend a hand. It was a vain hope. The two demons were huddled at the head of the classroom, poring over Lady Heatherington Smythe's Hedgerow.

Eventually, No.1 rolled his last classmate into the dung pit. They were piled in there like meat in a thick stew. The nutrient-rich dung would accelerate their warp, ensuring they reached full potential. No.1 sat on the stone floor, catching his breath.

Lucky you, thought No.1. Dunked in dung.

No.1 tried to feel envious. But even being near the pit made him gag; the thought of being immersed in it, surrounded by cocooned imps, made his stomach churn.

A shadow fell across the flagstones before him, flickering in the firelight.

'Ah, Number One,' said Abbot. 'Always an imp, never a demon, eh?

What am I going to do with you?'

No.1 stared at his own feet, clicking baby talons on the floor.

'Master Abbot, sir. Don't you think? Isn't there the tiniest chance?' He took a deep breath and raised his eyes to meet Abbot's. 'Couldn't I be a warlock? You saw what happened with the skewer. I don't want to embarrass you, but you saw it.'

Abbot's expression changed instantly. One second he was playing the genial master, the next his true colours shone through.

'I saw nothing,' he hissed, heaving No.1 to his feet. 'Nothing happened, you odious little freak of nature. The skewer was coated with ash, nothing more. There was no transformation. No magic.'

Abbot drew No.1 close enough to see the slivers of trapped meat between his yellowed teeth. The next time he spoke, his voice seemed different somehow. Layered. As though an entire choir was singing in harmony. It was a voice that could not be ignored. Magical?

'If you are a warlock, then you should really be on the other side, with your relative. Wouldn't that be for the best? One quick leap, that's all it would take. Do you understand what I am saying to you, Runt?'

No.1 nodded, dazed. What a lovely voice. Where had that come from?

The other side, of course; that's where he should go. One small step for an imp.

'I understand, sir.'

'Good. The subject is closed. As Lady Heatherington Smythe would say,

"Best foot forward, young sir, the world awaits."'

No.1 nodded, just as he knew Abbot wanted him to, but inside his brain churned along with his stomach. Was this to be the whole extent of his life? Forever mocked, forever different. Never a moment of light or hope. Unless he crossed over.

Abbot's suggestion was his only hope. Cross over. No.1 had never seen the appeal of jumping into a crater before, but now the notion seemed nigh on irresistible. He was a warlock, there couldn't be any doubt. And somewhere out there, in the human world, there was another like him.

An ancient brother who could teach him the ways of his kind.

No.1 watched Abbot stride away from him. Off to exercise his power on some other part of the island, possibly by belittling the females in the compound — another of his favourite pastimes. Then again, how bad could Abbot be? After all, he had given No.1 this wonderful idea.

I cannot stay here, thought No.1. I must go to the volcano.

The notion took firm hold of his brain. And in minutes it had drowned out all the other notions in his head.

Go to the volcano.

It pounded inside his skull, like waves breaking on the shore.

Obey Abbot. Go to the volcano.

No.1 brushed the dust from his knees.

'You know what,' he muttered to himself in case Rawley could hear, 'I think I'm going to the volcano.'

the Massimo Bellini Theater, Catania, Eastern Sicily

Artemis Fowl and his bodyguard, Butler, relaxed in a private box at the stage-left side of Sicily's world-famous Massimo Bellini Theatre.