“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.”