The Saga of Larten Crepsley 1-4

PART THREE

“How many losses must I endure?”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Larten sat in the Hall of Khledon Lurt, sipping from a mug of ale, studying the red drapes hanging from the walls and ceiling, the statue of Khledon Lurt at the centre of the room, and of course the vampires. He had been here almost a week, but still felt out of place among the hardened creatures of the night. This was his first time at Council and it was hard to shake the feeling that he didn’t belong.

He put his mug down and rubbed the scars on his fingertips, remembering the night when Seba drove his nails into the soft flesh. Larten had welcomed the pain because it meant he was leaving behind the human world, taking a step into the night from which there could be no return. He was proud of his ten scars, still shiny after all this time, but they didn’t mean much here. There was a lot more to becoming a vampire of good standing than being able to show that you had been blooded, and Larten was afraid he might not have what it required.

He was nearly thirty, so as a human he would have been in his prime. If he had battled his way up in the world of man, respect and security would probably have been his by now.

But he had been blooded as a half-vampire when he was eighteen, and as a full-vampire five years ago, so he looked like someone in his late teens. And all of his travel and experience paled into insignificance when compared with the adventures of vampires who had circled the globe countless times. Among these centuries-old beings, he felt like a child.

“There you are,” Wester said, flopping down beside him and half draining a mug of ale. “Charna’s guts! I needed that.” The ancient curse sounded amusing coming from Wester, but Larten hid his smile, not wanting to hurt his friend’s feelings.

“This place is amazing,” Wester beamed. “So many tunnels and Halls. Have you been to the Hall of Perta Vin-Grahl yet? No, wait, never mind.” He sniffed the air. “I can tell that you haven’t.”

“By implying that I stink, I assume you mean that the Hall of Perta Vin-Grahl is a bathing room,” Larten said drily.

“Of a kind,” Wester chuckled. “Make sure you bring heavy clothes to wrap up in once you’re done. They don’t believe in pampering themselves here with towels or robes.”

Wester drank more of his ale and looked around the cave, eyes sparkling. Wester and Larten had been blooded at the same time, but Wester hadn’t become a full-vampire until two years ago. Larten had always been a faster learner, a few steps ahead at every stage of their training, but in spite of that Wester had adapted more swiftly to the world of Vampire Mountain. He had been mixing freely with other vampires since he arrived, learning about their history, exploring the maze within the mountain, making himself at home.

Larten had stayed close to Seba most of the time, saying little, not sure how to behave. Their master hadn’t wanted to bring them to Council. They were young and he thought it would be better if they waited another twelve years. But they had argued fiercely with him and in the end he’d relented. At the time Larten thought Seba was worried about Wester, afraid that his slightly younger assistant wasn’t up to the physical strain of the bare-footed trek through lands cold and hard. But now Larten had started to think that his master had actually seen a weakness in him.

Larten listened quietly as Wester told him of his recent meetings, his new friends, what he’d learnt about life in the clan. After a while he lowered his voice and said, “I found out more about the vampaneze.”

Both were intrigued by the mysterious, purple-skinned renegades – Seba had told them precious little of the other night clan – but Wester had more of a vested interest than Larten.

“A group of seventy broke away about five hundred years ago. There was a war. It lasted decades, vampires against vampaneze — they hated each other. In the end a peace treaty was agreed and there’s been an uneasy truce ever since.”

“I wonder why they sought peace?” Larten mused. “Why didn’t they see the war through to its end and kill all of the traitors?”

“I haven’t found out yet,” Wester said. “But you know what this means?” Larten stared at him uncertainly. “Seba was alive then. He probably fought in the war.”

“Perhaps that is why he never speaks of the vampaneze,” Larten muttered.

“Aye. And maybe that has something to do with him not wanting to be a Prince.” Larten had let that slip several years ago. He’d regretted it immediately and made Wester promise never to mention it to their master, but the pair had often discussed it in private, trying to figure out the secrets of Seba’s past.

“Have you ever heard of Desmond Tiny?” Wester asked.

“No. Why?”

“A General mentioned him in passing when he was telling me about the war and its conclusion. I asked a couple of others about him. They got an edgy look when I mentioned his name, but they wouldn’t tell me why.”

“You think he was a traitor?” Wester had learnt that the names of traitors were never uttered by those of the clan.

“Maybe,” Wester said, but he sounded unsure.

Further debate was ended when Seba entered the Hall and hailed them. Their master was with another vampire, a scruffy man clad in purple hides and no shoes. He was about Wester’s height, but much broader than either of Seba’s assistants. He had green hair, huge eyes and a small mouth. There were belts strapped around his torso and strange metal stars were attached to them.

“Larten, Wester, this is Vancha March,” Seba introduced them, sitting down at the table.

Vancha nodded at the youthful vampires and called for a mug of milk. As one of the servants of the Hall handed it to him, he downed it with a deep gulp, then belched loudly and ordered another. Wiping his mouth with the back of a dirty hand, he smiled at Larten and Wester. “Seba’s been telling me about you two. New-bloods, aye?”

“It has been more than five years since I was blooded,” Larten corrected him.

Vancha laughed. “That’s as good as new the way we measure time. Welcome to the clan.” He pressed the middle finger of his right hand to his forehead, placed the fingers next to that over his eyes, and spread his thumb and little finger wide. It was the death’s touch sign, something Larten had seen several times since coming to the mountain. As Vancha made the sign, he said solemnly, “Even in death may you be triumphant.” Then he burped, called for a slab of raw meat and bit into it with relish. Larten frowned. He didn’t approve of the older vampire’s crude manner.

“Vancha is something of a traditionalist,” Seba murmured as blood oozed down Vancha’s chin.

“How old are you?” Wester asked, then raised a hand quickly. “No, let me guess, I’m trying to get used to this.”

“Good luck,” Vancha snorted. “I still can’t tell how old most of these wrinkled prunes are. It depends on what age they were when they were blooded.”

“I know, but it’s possible to make an estimate…” Wester studied Vancha – pale like most vampires, with a scattering of small scars and wounds – and said, “Just over a hundred. Am I right?”

“Aye.” Vancha was impressed. “I was delighted when I hit three figures. I don’t think you can be considered a true vampire until you break the hundred mark. I’ve only recently started to feel like I’m a full member of the clan.”

Larten smiled. It was the first time he had heard another vampire admit to feeling out of place. Despite his first impression, he found himself warming to the dirty, smelly Vancha March.

“What did Seba mean when he said that you’re a traditionalist?” Larten asked.

“I don’t hold with human comforts,” Vancha sniffed. “Like vampires of the past, I have as little to do with mankind as possible. I eat my food raw, only drink water or milk – blood goes without saying – make my own clothes and never sleep in a coffin.”

“Why not?”

“Too soft,” Vancha said and laughed at the younger vampire’s expression.

“Vancha is a throwback to a simpler breed of vampire,” Seba said approvingly. “There were many like him when I was a child of the night. Most have died or adapted. Few have the strength or will to live as Vancha does.”

“I’m not sure I’d call it strength,” Vancha chuckled. “More like madness.”

“Perhaps it has to do with your mother,” Seba murmured wickedly and Larten was surprised to see Vancha blush.

Before he could ask any more questions, a vampire who didn’t look much older than Larten or Wester approached their table. He had black hair and sharp eyes, and wore very dark clothes. If a raven took human form, Larten imagined it would look like this.

“Apologies, Master Nile, but my master would have a word with you.”

“Of course, Mika,” Seba said. “I will come to him shortly.”

The vampire in black bowed, looked curiously at Vancha, then withdrew.

Seba sighed. “I knew that Lare would have a few chores set aside for me.” Lare was one of the Vampire Princes. Larten hadn’t seen any of them yet — they kept to the Hall of Princes most of the time. He wasn’t even sure if Paris Skyle – the only other vampire he’d met before coming to the mountain – was at the Council. One Prince always stayed away, in case an accident befell the others.

Seba rose and groaned, rubbing the small of his back. “Vampires were not meant to live this long,” he grumbled. “I should have gone to a glorious death at least a hundred years ago.”

“Two hundred,” Vancha said seriously, then winked.

“Prepare yourselves, gentlemen,” Seba said to Larten and Wester. “The Festival of the Undead will soon commence. It is always an interesting time, especially for new-bloods.”

“What does that mean?” Larten asked Vancha as Seba left.

“It means everyone will be looking to tackle you, to test what you’re made of. It’s a real baptism by fire — many newcomers never make it through the first night of the Festival.” Vancha raised his mug of milk and smirked at the worried pair. “You’d better hope that the luck of the vampires is with you tonight, or I might be drinking a toast to your corpses in the morning!”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Festival of the Undead started at sunset in the Hall of Stahrvos Glen, more commonly known as the Hall of Gathering. Several hundred vampires were packed inside the cavern, dressed in their finest costumes. Even Vancha had washed and cleaned his hides. They were almost all men. Larten only saw a handful of women, and each of those looked as tough as any man.

There was an air of excitement in the Hall, but Larten and Wester were nervous. They sensed or imagined other vampires eyeing them up like a pack of wolves targeting a pair of lambs.

“Let’s stick together when hell breaks loose,” Wester muttered.

“Aye,” Larten agreed. “We’ll watch each other’s back.”

A gong rang loudly and all talk ceased. Larten stared with fascination as four Princes entered the Hall and mounted a rough platform. He was pleased to see Paris Skyle among the royal quartet.

The other Princes were even older than Paris – one looked like he might be a thousand, though Larten knew that even vampires didn’t live that long – but they moved easily and carried themselves proudly. Each would have to fight like any ordinary vampire this night, and if one was found wanting, he would not hold his post for long. Vampires had great respect for the elderly, but only if they could account for themselves in battle. The weak or infirm were expected to seek death as soon as possible.

“Welcome, children of the clan, and our thanks for travelling so far to be with us,” the eldest-looking vampire, Lare Shment, said.

“The gods are surely proud of you all,” the second, Azis Bendetta, smiled.

“As are we,” Paris added.

“We hope you have concluded any pressing business,” said the fourth and youngest of the Princes, Chok Yamada. “It’s going to be challenges, tales of glory and mammoth drinking sessions for the next three nights!”

A huge cheer greeted that announcement.

“But before we run riot,” Sire Yamada continued, “let us hear the names of those who have passed on to Paradise since we last met for Council.”

Each Prince took it in turn to mention a selection of the many who had died during the past twelve years. As each name was spoken, the vampires made the death’s touch sign and murmured, “Even in death may he be triumphant.” Lare concluded with the name of Osca Velm and a sad sigh swept through the Hall.

“Who was Osca Velm?” Larten whispered to Vancha.

“A Prince,” Vancha said glumly. “I hadn’t heard that we’d lost him. He must have fallen recently.”

“We know Sire Velm’s death is news to many of you,” Paris said. “We held no ceremony for him because he didn’t wish for one. He never believed that a fuss should be made over a bony old carcass.”

Many laughed at that, but Vancha nodded gruffly. “I knew Osca. He would have hated a fancy funeral. He was a fine vampire. He knocked me flat once and broke three of my ribs.”

As the sighs and muttering died away, Lare Shment clapped and said, “Let that be the end of our official business. We shall have no more until the Ceremony of Conclusion. Luck to you, my children.”

“Luck!” the vampires bellowed with delight. And even before the roars died away, mayhem erupted and spread through the Halls of Vampire Mountain.

Larten and Wester were swept along in a crush of crazed vampires. Their plan to help each other quickly evaporated as they were separated and left to fend for themselves as best they could.

The vampires were supposed to challenge one another in the gaming Halls, but several fights broke out in the tunnels on the way. For many of the clan, this was what they lived for, a celebration of brawn and bravery that came once every twelve years. It had been a long wait since the last Council and their lust for battle got the better of them. Nobody objected — such premature scraps were common. Their friends simply pushed them along or left them to wrestle in the dirt.

There were three gaming Halls. Several mats and roped-off rings catered for those who preferred hand-to-hand combat. In other areas you could fight with swords, spears, knives or any of a wide variety of weapons. There were wooden bars to balance on and rounded staffs to spar with, or ropes you could cling to while your foe tried to knock you loose.

Barrels of ale were in ready supply, as well as vats of blood. Larten hadn’t thought to ask where the fresh blood came from. It had crossed Wester’s mind a few nights earlier, but Seba had told him it wasn’t the time to discuss such things. He’d said he would explain later.

Larten seriously thought that he was going to die. No vampire challenged him at first, but he received many wayward punches and kicks. One over-eager individual threw an axe. It missed its target and went swishing by Larten’s head, skimming past his skull by only a couple of inches. He turned to swear at the clumsy oaf, then saw that it was Chok Yamada. Larten was new to many of the vampire ways, but he wasn’t so naive as to openly curse a Prince!

As Larten raised a hand to salute the laughing Prince, a vampire slammed into him. Larten yelled with shock and spun to face a tall, ugly General with a nose that had been broken many times.

“First to three,” the General grunted. Before Larten could ask what sort of a contest he was being challenged to, the General grabbed him by the neck, felled him and pinned his arms. “One to me,” the General laughed, letting Larten rise.

Larten was prepared when the General attacked again. He tried to slip out of the bigger man’s way and grab his arms, but the General read Larten’s intentions. He slapped the young vampire’s hands apart, wrapped his arms around Larten’s waist, picked him off the ground, then smashed him flat and pinned him again.

“Try and make it interesting for me,” the General sneered as a shaken Larten picked himself up and gasped for breath.

Larten swore and swung at the General’s nose. The General twitched his head aside, caught Larten’s arm and twisted it up behind his back. As Larten screamed, the General forced him to his knees.

“Beg for mercy,” he growled.

Larten told him where he could stick his demand.

The General roared with laughter, then flipped the youth over and pinned him for the third and final time. He walked off without any parting comment, leaving a dusty, dazed Larten to stagger to his feet and glare at the floor with red-faced embarrassment. Around him, several young vampires jeered and applauded slowly, sarcastically.

Before the furious Larten could challenge those who were jeering, another vampire hailed him. “New-blood — come face Staffen Irve if you dare. Let’s see what you be made of.”

Staffen Irve wasn’t much older than Larten. He was holding a club with a large, knobbly, metal ball hanging from a short chain at one end. He tossed a similar weapon to Larten and said, “Have you used these before?”

“No,” Larten said, testing the club’s weight and the swing of the ball.

“Then you better be a quick learner, boy,” Staffen chuckled and took a swipe at Larten’s face. If it had hit cleanly, Larten would have lost several teeth. But he was able to duck and the ball struck his shoulder instead.

Larten grimaced and lashed out. His ball bounced harmlessly off Staffen Irve’s ribs. Staffen grunted and whacked Larten’s shoulder again.

Larten lasted less than a minute. He fended off a few of the blows and managed to land a couple of his own, but when the ball smashed into his right leg just below his knee, he went down hard and was finished. Staffen pounded Larten’s back a few times, hoping to goad him back to his feet, but when he realised the duel was over, he stopped and offered Larten a hand up.

“Not bad,” Staffen said as Larten stood on one foot and squeezed back tears of pain. “You ain’t the worst new-blood I’ve seen, but you’ll need to put in a lot of work before the next Council.”

The vampires who had been watching him laughed at that. To Larten they sounded like a pack of crows. He would have liked to wade into them and tear their heads off, but the fight had been knocked out of him. Turning his back on those who had borne witness to his shame, Larten hopped away, trying hard to drown out their catcalls.

Staffen Irve’s mild compliment should have given him hope, but Larten didn’t think any amount of work would prepare him for the next Council or any after that. In his own eyes he was a failure. On the trek to the mountain, he had dreamt of winning every challenge and becoming an instant hero. While he knew that wasn’t realistic, he was sure he would at least hold his own and not be disgraced. Now he knew better. He imagined more vampires laughing at him, the laughter following him as he limped away, and his head dropped ever lower.

One of the female vampires shouted at Larten and held out a long staff, asking him to duel with her. But the thought of being laid low by a woman was too much for him. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t meant to deny a challenge during the Festival of the Undead. He wanted out. Blushing furiously, Larten hurried to the exit and slipped out of the Hall, feeling smaller and more alone than he had at any time since he’d fled from the factory of silk worms as a scared young boy.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The tunnels were littered with wounded or resting vampires. Larten didn’t see any fatalities, but he was sure there would be several by the end of the Festival. No vampire would feel pity for those who fell. Humans might consider it a waste of life, but for vampires death in combat was the noblest way to die.

Larten didn’t quite wish for death, but at least it would have spared him this indignity. He knew he was making things worse by hopping away – he’d now be seen not just as a weak new-blood, but one who ran when the going got tough – but he didn’t care. All he wanted was to find a quiet spot for himself, so he could hide and nurse his injured leg and wounded pride.