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.
