Read Online The Lost Colony by Eoin Colfer - Free Book Online
Authors: Eoin Colfer
Tags: Fiction - Young Adult
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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, N o 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, N o 1. 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.”
N o 1 was about to risk a protest when he was grabbed roughly by the arm.
“You slippery little snail,” shouted Rawley, spittle spattering N o 1’s face. “Trying to trick the pride leader. Get back to your place. I’ll deal with you later.”
N o 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 N o 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 onto the bench. There was a sliver of gray meat stuck to the end. N o 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 8th 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.
N o 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 at Taillte,” droned Abbot in what he probably thought was a good voice for history lessons, but in what N o 1 thought was a boring enough voice to turn soft cheese hard, “I, Leon Abbot, am the last.”
Convenient, thought N o 1. Nobody left around to argue. He also thought: You look your age, Leon. Too many barrels of pork fat.
N o 1 was an uncharitable imp when in a bad mood.
It is the nature of out-of-time spells that the aging process is drastically slowed. Abbot had been a young buck when the warlocks had 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 in 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.”
More hooting,
“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, N o 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, N o 1. 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.”
N o 1 was about to risk a protest when he was grabbed roughly by the arm.
“You slippery little snail,” shouted Rawley, spittle spattering N o 1’s face. “Trying to trick the pride leader. Get back to your place. I’ll deal with you later.”
N o 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 N o 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 onto the bench. There was a sliver of gray meat stuck to the end. N o 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 8th 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.
N o 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 at Taillte,” droned Abbot in what he probably thought was a good voice for history lessons, but in what N o 1 thought was a boring enough voice to turn soft cheese hard, “I, Leon Abbot, am the last.”
Convenient, thought N o 1. Nobody left around to argue. He also thought: You look your age, Leon. Too many barrels of pork fat.
N o 1 was an uncharitable imp when in a bad mood.
It is the nature of out-of-time spells that the aging process is drastically slowed. Abbot had been a young buck when the warlocks had 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 in 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.”
More hooting,
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