HUNTERS OF THE DUSK

THE SAGA OF DARREN SHAN

BOOK 7

HUNTERS OF THE DUSK

THE SAGA OF DARREN SHAN

BOOK 7

Hunt for Darren Shan

on the web at

www.darrenshan.com

For:

Shirley & Derek – “Beauty and the Beast”

Sparring Partners:

Gillie Russell & Zoë Clarke

Ringside crew:

The Christopher Little clan

OBEs (Order of the Bloody Entrails) to:

Kerri “carve yer guts up” Goddard-Kinch

“la femme fatale” Christine Colinet

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Other Books in the Series The Saga of Darren Shan

Copyright

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

IT WAS an age of tragic mistakes. For me, the tragedy began fourteen years earlier when, mesmerized by a vampire’s amazing performing tarantula, I stole it from him. After an initially successful theft, everything went to hell, and I paid for my crime with my humanity. Faking my own death, I left my family and home, and travelled the world with the Cirque Du Freak, as the assistant to a blood-drinking creature of the night.

My name’s Darren Shan. I’m a half-vampire.

I’m also – through a series of events so astounding I still have trouble believing they really happened – a Vampire Prince. The Princes are the leaders of the vampire clan, respected and obeyed by all. There are only five of them — the others are Paris Skyle, Mika Ver Leth, Arrow and Vancha March.

I’d been a Prince for six years, living within the Halls of Vampire Mountain (the stronghold of the clan), learning the customs and traditions of my people, and how to be a vampire of good standing. I’d also been learning the ways of warfare, and how to use weapons. The rules of battle were essential components of any vampire’s education, but now more so than ever — because we were at war.

Our opponents were the vampaneze, our purple-skinned blood-cousins. They’re a lot like vampires in many ways, but alien to us in one key area — they kill whenever they drink blood. Vampires don’t harm those they feed from – we simply take a small amount of blood from each human we target – but vampaneze believe it’s shameful to feed without draining their victims dry.

Though there was no love lost between the vampires and vampaneze, for hundreds of years an uneasy truce had existed between the two clans. That changed six years ago when a group of vampaneze – aided by a vampire traitor called Kurda Smahlt – stormed Vampire Mountain in an attempt to seize control of the Hall of Princes. We defeated them (thanks largely to my discovery of the plot prior to their assault), then interrogated the survivors, baffled by why they should choose to attack.

Unlike vampires, vampaneze had no leaders – they were entirely democratic – but when they split from the vampires six hundred years ago, a mysterious, powerful magician known as Mr Tiny paid them a visit and placed the Coffin of Fire in their possession. This coffin burnt alive anyone who lay within it — but Mr Tiny said that one night a man would lie down in it and step out unharmed, and that man would lead them into a victorious war with the vampires, establishing the vampaneze as the unopposed rulers of the night.

During the interrogation, we learnt to our horror that the Lord of the Vampaneze had finally arisen, and vampaneze across the world were preparing for the violent, bloody war to come.

Once our assailants had been put to a painful death, word spread from Vampire Mountain like wildfire: “We’re at war with the vampaneze!” And we’d been locked in combat with them ever since, fighting grimly, desperate to disprove Mr Tiny’s dark prophecy — that we were destined to lose the war and be wiped from the face of the earth…

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS another long, tiring night in the Hall of Princes. A Vampire General called Staffen Irve was reporting to me and Paris Skyle. Paris was the oldest living vampire, with more than eight hundred years under his belt. He had flowing white hair, a long, grey beard, and had lost his right ear in a fight many decades ago.

Staffen Irve had been active in the field for three years, and had been giving us a quick rundown of his experiences in the War of the Scars, as it had come to be known (a reference to the scars on our fingertips, the common mark of a vampire or vampaneze). It was a strange war. There were no big battles and neither side used missile-firing weapons — vampires and vampaneze fight only with hand to hand weapons like swords, clubs and spears. The war was a series of isolated skirmishes, three or four vampires at a time pitting themselves against a similar number of vampaneze, fighting to the death.

“There was four of us ’gainst three of them,” Staffen Irve said, telling us about one of his more recent encounters. “But my lads was dry behind the tonsils, while the vampaneze was battle-hardy. I killed one of ’em but the others got away, leaving two of my lads dead and the third with a useless arm.”

“Have any of the vampaneze spoken of their Lord?” Paris asked.

“No, Sire. Those I take alive only laugh at my questions, even under torture.”

In the six years that we’d been hunting for their Lord, there’d been no sign of him. We knew he hadn’t been blooded – various vampaneze had told us that he was learning their ways before becoming one of them – and the general opinion was that if we were to have any chance of thwarting Mr Tiny’s predictions, we had to find and kill their Lord before he assumed full control of the clan.

A cluster of Generals was waiting to speak with Paris. They moved forward as Staffen Irve departed, but I signalled them back. Picking up a mug of warm blood, I passed it to the one-eared Prince. He smiled and drank deeply, then wiped red stains from around his mouth with the back of a trembling hand — the responsibility of running the war council was taking its toll on the ancient vampire.

“Do you want to call it a night?” I asked, worried about Paris’s health.

He shook his head. “The night is young,” he muttered.

“But you are not,” said a familiar voice behind me — Mr Crepsley. The vampire in the red cloak spent most of his time by my side, advising and encouraging me. He was in a peculiar position. As an ordinary vampire, he held no recognizable rank, and could be commanded by the lowliest of Generals. Yet as my guardian he wielded the unofficial powers of a Prince (since I followed his advice practically all the time). The reality was that Mr Crepsley was second in charge only to Paris Skyle, yet nobody openly acknowledged this. Vampire protocol — go figure!

“You should rest,” Mr Crepsley said to Paris, laying a hand on the Prince’s shoulder. “This war will run a long time. You must not exhaust yourself too early. We will have need of you later.”

“Rot!” Paris laughed. “You and Darren are the future. I am the past, Larten. I will not live to see the end of this war if it drags on as long as we fear. If I do not make my mark now, I never will.”

Mr Crepsley started to object, but Paris silenced him with the crooking of a finger. “An old owl hates to be told how young and virile he is. I am on my last legs, and anyone who says otherwise is a fool, a liar, or both.”

Mr Crepsley tilted his head obediently. “Very well. I will not argue with you.”

“I should hope not,” Paris sniffed, then shifted tiredly on his throne. “But this has been a taxing night. I will talk with these Generals, then crawl off to my coffin to sleep. Will Darren be able to manage without me?”

“Darren will manage,” Mr Crepsley said confidently, and stood slightly behind me as the Generals advanced, ready to advise when required.

Paris didn’t make his coffin by dawn. The Generals had much to argue about – by studying reports on the movements of the vampaneze they were trying to pinpoint the possible hiding place of their Lord – and it was close to midday before the ancient Prince slipped away.

I treated myself to a short break, grabbed some food, then heard from three of the Mountain’s fighting tutors, who were training the latest batch of Generals. After that I had to send two new Generals out into the field for their first taste of combat. I quickly went through the small ceremony – I had to daub their foreheads with vampire blood and mutter an ancient war prayer over them – then wished them luck and sent them off to kill vampaneze — or die.

Then it was time for vampires to approach me with a wide range of problems and queries. As a Prince I was expected to deal with every sort of subject under the moon. I was only a young, inexperienced half-vampire, who’d become a Prince more by default than merit, but the members of the clan placed their trust completely in their Princes, and I was afforded the same degree of respect as Paris or any of the others.

When the last vampire had departed, I snatched about three hours of sleep, in a hammock which I’d strung up at the rear of the Hall. When I woke, I ate some half-cooked, salted boar meat, washed down with water and followed by a small mug of blood. Then it was back to my throne for more planning, plotting and reports.

CHAPTER TWO

I SNAPPED out of sleep to the sound of screaming.

Jerking awake, I fell out of my hammock, on to the hard, cold floor of my rocky cell. My hand automatically darted for the short sword which I kept strapped by my side at all times. Then the fog of sleep cleared and I realized it was only Harkat, having a nightmare.

Harkat Mulds was a Little Person, a short creature who wore blue robes and worked for Mr Tiny. He’d been human once, though he didn’t remember who he used to be, or when or where he lived. When he died, his soul remained trapped on Earth, until Mr Tiny brought him back to life in a new, stunted body.

“Harkat,” I mumbled, shaking him roughly. “Wake up. You’re dreaming again.”

Harkat had no eyelids, but his large green eyes dimmed when he was asleep. Now the light in them flared and he moaned loudly, rolling out of his hammock, as I had moments before. “Dragons!” he screamed, voice muffled by the mask he always wore — he wasn’t able to breathe normal air for more than ten or twelve hours, and without the mask he’d die. “Dragons!”

“No,” I sighed. “You’ve been dreaming.”

Harkat stared at me with his unnatural green eyes, then relaxed and tugged his mask down, revealing a wide, grey, jagged gash of a mouth. “Sorry, Darren. Did I wake … you?”

“No,” I lied. “I was up already.”

I swung back on to my hammock and sat gazing at Harkat. There was no denying he was an ugly build of a creature. Short and squat, with dead, grey skin, no visible ears or a nose — he had ears stitched beneath the skin of his scalp, but was without a sense of smell or taste. He’d no hair, round, green eyes, sharp little teeth and a dark grey tongue. His face had been stitched together, like Frankenstein’s monster.

Of course, I was no model myself — few vampires were! My face, body and limbs were laced with scars and burn marks, many picked up during my Trials of Initiation (which I’d passed at my second attempt, two years ago). I was also as bald as a baby, as a result of my first set of Trials, when I’d been badly burnt.

Harkat was one of my closest friends. He’d saved my life twice, when I was attacked by a wild bear on the trail to Vampire Mountain, then in a fight with savage boars during my first, failed Trials of Initiation. It bothered me to see him so disturbed by the nightmares which had been plaguing him for the last few years.

“Was this nightmare the same as the others?” I asked.

“Yes,” he nodded. “I was wandering in a vast wasteland. The sky was red. I was searching for something but I didn’t … know what. There were pits full of stakes. A dragon attacked. I fought it off but … another appeared. Then another. Then…” He sighed miserably.

Harkat’s speech had improved greatly since he’d first started speaking. In the beginning he’d had to pause for breath after every two or three words, but he’d learnt to control his breathing technique and now only stalled during long sentences.

“Were the shadow men there?” I asked. Sometimes he dreamt of shadowy figures who chased and tormented him.

“Not this time,” he said, “though I think they’d have appeared if you … hadn’t woken me up.” Harkat was sweating – his sweat was a pale green colour – and his shoulders shook slightly. He suffered greatly in his sleep, and stayed awake as long as he could, only sleeping four or five hours out of every seventy-two.

“Want something to eat or drink?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Not hungry.” He stood and stretched his burly arms. He was only wearing a cloth around his waist, so I could see his smooth stomach and chest — Harkat had no nipples or belly button.

“It’s good to see you,” he said, pulling on his blue robes, which he’d never grown out of the habit of wearing. “It’s been ages since … we got together.”

“I know,” I groaned. “This war business is killing me, but I can’t leave Paris to deal with it alone. He needs me.”

“How is Sire Skyle?” Harkat asked.

“Bearing up. But it’s hard. So many decisions to make, so many troops to organize, so many vampires to send to their death.”

We were silent a while, thinking about the War of the Scars and the vampires – including some very good friends of ours – who’d perished in it.

“How’ve you been?” I asked Harkat, shrugging off the morbid thoughts.

“Busy,” he said. “Seba’s working me harder all the time.” After a few months of milling around Vampire Mountain, Harkat had gone to work for the quartermaster – Seba Nile – who was in charge of stocking and maintaining the Mountain’s stores of food, clothes and weapons. Harkat started out moving crates and sacks around, but he’d learnt quickly about supplies and how to keep up with the needs of the vampires, and now served as Seba’s senior assistant.

“Do you have to return to the Hall of Princes soon?” Harkat asked. “Seba would like to see you. He wants to show you … some spiders.” The mountain was home to thousands of arachnids, known as Ba’Halen’s spiders.

“I have to go back,” I said regretfully, “but I’ll try to drop by soon.”

“Do,” Harkat said seriously. “You look exhausted. Paris is not the only one who … needs rest.”

Harkat had to leave shortly afterwards to prepare for the arrival of a group of Generals. I lay in my hammock and stared at the dark rock ceiling, unable to get back to sleep. This was the cell Harkat and me had first shared when we came to Vampire Mountain. I liked this tiny cubbyhole – it was the closest thing I had to a bedroom – but rarely got to see much of it. Most of my nights were spent in the Hall of Princes, and the few free hours I had by day were normally passed eating or exercising.

I ran a hand over my bald head while I was resting and thought back over my Trials of Initiation. I’d sailed through them the second time. I didn’t have to take them – as a Prince, I was under no obligation – but I wouldn’t have felt right if I hadn’t. By passing the Trials, I’d proved myself worthy of being a vampire.

Apart from the scars and burns, I hadn’t changed much in the last six years. As a half-vampire, I only aged one year for every five that passed. I was a bit taller than when I left the Cirque Du Freak with Mr Crepsley, and my features had thickened and matured slightly. But I wasn’t a full-vampire and wouldn’t change vastly until I became one. As a full-vampire I’d be much stronger. I’d also be able to heal cuts with my spit, breathe out a gas which could knock people unconscious, and communicate telepathically with other vampires. Plus I’d be able to flit, which is a super-fast speed vampires can attain. On the down side, I’d be vulnerable to sunlight and couldn’t move about during the day.

But all that lay far ahead. Mr Crepsley hadn’t said anything about when I’d be fully blooded, but I gathered it wouldn’t happen until I was an adult. That was ten or fifteen years away – my body was still that of a teenager – so I had loads of time to enjoy (or endure) my extended childhood.

I lay relaxing for another half hour, then got up and dressed. I’d taken to wearing light blue clothes, trousers and a tunic, covered by a long, regal-looking robe. My right thumb snagged on the arm of the tunic as I was pulling it on, as it often did — I’d broken the thumb six years ago and it still stuck out at an awkward angle.

Taking care not to rip the fabric on my extra tough nails – which could gouge holes in soft rock – I freed my thumb and finished dressing. I pulled on a pair of light shoes and ran a hand over my head to make sure I hadn’t been bitten by ticks. They’d popped up all over the mountain recently, annoying everyone. Then I made my way back to the Hall of Princes for another long night of tactics and debate.

CHAPTER THREE

THE DOORS to the Hall of Princes could only be opened by a Prince, by laying a hand on the doors or touching a panel on the thrones inside the Hall. Nothing could breach the walls of the Hall, which had been built by Mr Tiny and his Little People centuries before.

The Stone of Blood was housed in the Hall, and was of vital importance. It was a magical artefact. Any vampire who came to the mountain (most of the three thousand vampires in the world had made the trek at least once) laid their hands on the Stone and let it absorb some of their blood. The Stone could then be used to track that vampire down. So, if Mr Crepsley wanted to know where Arrow was, he had only to lay his hands on the Stone and think about him, and within seconds he’d have a fix on the Prince. Or, if he thought of an area, the Stone would tell him how many vampires were there.

I couldn’t use the Stone of Blood to search for others – only full-vampires were able to do that – but I could be traced through it, since it had taken blood from me when I became a Prince.

If the Stone ever fell into the hands of the vampaneze, they could use it to track down all the vampires who’d bonded with it. Hiding from them would be impossible. They’d annihilate us. Because of this danger, some vampires wanted to destroy the Stone of Blood — but there was a legend that it could save us in our hour of greatest need.

I was thinking about all this while Paris used the Stone of Blood to manoeuvre troops in the field. As reports reached us of vampaneze positions, Paris used the Stone to check where his Generals were, then communicated telepathically with them, giving them orders to move from place to place. It was this which drained him so deeply. Others could have used the Stone, but as a Prince, Paris’s word was law, and it was quicker for him to deliver the orders himself.

While Paris focused on the Stone, Mr Crepsley and me spent much of our time putting field reports together and building up a clear picture of the movements of the vampaneze. Many other Generals were also doing this, but it was our job to take their findings, sort through them, pick out the more important nuggets, and make suggestions to Paris. We had loads of maps, with pins stuck in to mark the positions of vampires and vampaneze.

Mr Crepsley had been intently studying a map for ten minutes, and he looked worried. “Have you seen this?” he asked eventually, summoning me over.

I stared at the map. There were three yellow flags and two red flags stuck close together around a city. We used five main colours to keep track of things. Blue flags for vampires. Yellow for vampaneze. Green for vampaneze strongholds — cities and towns which they defended like bases. White flags were stuck in places where we’d won fights. Red flags where we’d lost.

“What am I looking for?” I asked, staring at the yellow and red flags. My eyes were bleary from lack of sleep and too much concentrating on maps and poorly scrawled reports.

“The name of the city,” Mr Crepsley said, running a fingernail over it.

The name meant nothing to me at first. Then my head cleared. “That’s your original home,” I muttered. It was the city where Mr Crepsley had lived when he was human. Twelve years ago, he’d returned, taking me and Evra Von – a snake-boy from the Cirque Du Freak – with him, to stop a mad vampaneze called Murlough, who’d gone on a killing spree.

“Find the reports,” Mr Crepsley said. There was a number on each flag, linking it to reports in our files, so we knew exactly what each flag represented. After a few minutes, I found the relevant sheets of paper and quickly scanned them.

“Of the vampaneze seen there,” I muttered, “two were heading into the city. The other was leaving. The first red flag’s from a year ago — four Generals were killed in a large clash with several vampaneze.”

“And the second red flag marks the spot where Staffen Irve lost two of his men,” Mr Crepsley said. “It was when I was adding this flag to the map that I noticed the degree of activity around the city.”

“Do you think it means anything?” I asked. It was unusual for so many vampaneze to be sighted in one location.

“I am not sure,” he said. “The vampaneze may have made a base there, but I do not see why — it is out of the way of their other strongholds.”

“We could send someone to check,” I suggested.

He considered that, then shook his head. “We have already lost too many Generals there. It is not a strategically important site. Best to leave it alone.”

Mr Crepsley rubbed the long scar which divided the flesh on the left side of his face and went on staring at the map. He’d cut his orange crop of hair tighter than usual – most vampires were cutting their hair short, because of the ticks – and he looked almost bald in the strong light of the Hall.

“It bothers you, doesn’t it?” I noted.

He nodded. “If they have set up a base, they must be feeding on the humans. I still consider it home, and I do not like to think of my spiritual neighbours and relations suffering at the hands of the vampaneze.”

“We could send in a team to flush them out.”

He sighed. “That would not be fitting. I would be putting personal considerations before the welfare of the clan. If I ever get out in the field, I shall check on the situation myself, but there is no need to send others.”

“What are the odds on you and me ever getting out of here?” I asked wryly. I didn’t enjoy fighting, but after six years cooped up inside the mountain, I’d have given my fingernails for a few nights out in the open, even if it meant taking on a dozen vampaneze single-handed.

“The way things stand — poor,” Mr Crepsley admitted. “I think we will be stuck here until the end of the war. If one of the other Princes suffers a serious injury and withdraws from battle, we might have to replace him. Otherwise…” He drummed his fingers on the map and grimaced.

“You don’t have to stay,” I said quietly. “There are plenty of others who could guide me.”

He barked a laugh. “There are plenty who would steer you,” he agreed, “but how many would clip you around the ear if you made an error?”

“Not many,” I chuckled.

“They think of you as a Prince,” he said, “whereas I still think of you first and foremost as a meddlesome little brat with a penchant for stealing spiders.”

“Charming!” I huffed. I knew he was kidding – Mr Crepsley always treated me with the respect my position deserved – but there was some truth to his teasing. There was a special bond between Mr Crepsley and me, like between a father and son. He could say things to me that no other vampire would dare. I’d be lost without him.

Placing the map of Mr Crepsley’s former home to one side, we returned to the more important business of the night, little dreaming of the events which would eventually lead us back to the city of Mr Crepsley’s youth, or the awful confrontation with evil that awaited us there.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE HALLS and tunnels of Vampire Mountain were buzzing with excitement — Mika Ver Leth had returned after an absence of five years, and the rumour was that he had news of the Vampaneze Lord! I was in my cell, resting, when word broke. Wasting no time, I pulled on my clothes and hurried to the Hall of Princes at the top of the mountain, to check if the stories were true.

Mika was talking with Paris and Mr Crepsley when I arrived, surrounded by a pack of Generals eager for news. He was clad entirely in black, as was his custom, and his hawk-like eyes seemed darker and grimmer than ever. He raised one gloved hand in salute when he saw me pushing my way forward. I stood to attention and saluted back. “How’s the cub Prince?” he asked with a quick, tight grin.

“Not bad,” I replied, studying him for signs of injury — many who returned to Vampire Mountain carried the scars of battle. But although Mika looked tired, he hadn’t been visibly wounded. “What about the Vampaneze Lord?” I asked directly. “According to the gossip, you know where he is.”

Mika grimaced. “If only!” Looking around, he said, “Shall we assemble? I have news, but I’d rather announce it to the Hall in general.” Everyone present made straight for their seats. Mika settled on his throne and sighed contentedly. “It’s good to be back,” he said, patting the arms of the hard chair. “Has Seba been taking good care of my coffin?”

“To the vampaneze with your coffin!” a General shouted, momentarily forgetting his place. “What news of the Vampaneze Lord?”

Mika ran a hand through his jet-black hair. “First, let’s make it clear — I don’t know where he is.” A groan spread through the Hall. “But I’ve had word of him,” Mika added, and all ears pricked up at that.

“Before I begin,” Mika said, “do you know about the latest vampaneze recruits?” Everybody looked blank. “The vampaneze have been adding to their ranks since the start of the war, blooding more humans than usual, to drive their numbers up.”

“This is old news,” Paris murmured. “There are far fewer vampaneze than vampires in the world. We expected them to blood recklessly. It is nothing to worry about — we still outnumber them greatly.”

“Yes,” Mika said. “But now they’re also using unblooded humans. They call them ‘vampets’. Apparently the Vampaneze Lord himself came up with the name. Like him, they’re learning the rules of vampaneze life and warfare as humans, before being blooded. He plans to build an army of human helpers.”

“We can deal with humans,” a General snarled, and there were shouts of agreement.

“Normally,” Mika agreed. “But we must be wary of these vampets. While they lack the powers of the vampaneze, they’re learning to fight like them. Also, since they aren’t blooded, they don’t have to abide by the more restrictive vampaneze laws. They aren’t honour bound to tell the truth, they don’t have to follow ancient customs — and they don’t have to limit themselves to hand to hand weapons.”

Angry mutters swept through the Hall.

“The vampaneze are using guns?” Paris asked, shocked. The vampaneze were even stricter than vampires where weapons were involved. We could use boomerangs and spears, but most vampaneze wouldn’t touch them.

“The vampets aren’t vampaneze,” Mika grunted. “There’s no reason why a non-blooded vampet shouldn’t use a gun. I don’t think all their masters approve, but under orders from their Lord, they allow it.

“But the vampets are a problem for another night,” Mika continued. “I only mention them now because it’s relevant to how I found out about their Lord. A vampaneze would die screaming before betraying his clan, but the vampets aren’t so hardened. I captured one a few months ago and squeezed some interesting details out of him. Foremost of which is — the Vampaneze Lord doesn’t have a base. He’s travelling the world with a small band of guards, moving among the various fighting units, keeping up morale.”

The Generals received the news with great excitement — if the Vampaneze Lord was mobile and lightly protected, he was more vulnerable to attack.

“Did this vampet know where the Vampaneze Lord was?” Mr Crepsley asked.

“No,” Mika said. “He’d seen him, but that had been more than a year ago. Only those who accompany him know of his travel patterns.”

“What else did he tell you?” Paris enquired.

“That their Lord still hasn’t been blooded. And that despite his efforts, morale is low. Vampaneze losses are high, and many don’t believe they can win the war. There has been talk of a peace treaty — even outright surrender.”

Loud cheering broke out. Some Generals were so elated by Mika’s words that a group swept forward, picked him up, and carried him from the Hall. They could be heard singing and shouting as they headed for the crates of ale and wine stored below. The other, more sober-headed Generals looked to Paris for guidance.

“Go on,” the elderly Prince smiled. “It would be impolite to let Mika and his over-eager companions drink alone.”

The remaining Generals applauded the announcement and hurried away, leaving only a few Hall attendants, myself, Mr Crepsley and Paris behind.

“This is foolish,” Mr Crepsley grumbled. “If the vampaneze are truly considering surrender, we should push hard after them, not waste time–”

“Larten,” Paris interrupted. “Follow the others, find the largest barrel of ale you can, and get good and steaming drunk.”

Mr Crepsley stared at the Prince, his mouth wide open. “Paris!” he gasped.

“You have been caged in here too long,” Paris said. “Go and unwind, and do not return without a hangover.”

“But–” Mr Crepsley began.

“That is an order, Larten,” Paris growled.

Mr Crepsley looked as though he’d swallowed a live eel, but he was never one to disobey an order from a superior, so he clicked his heels together, muttered, “Aye, Sire,” and stormed off to the store-rooms in a huff.

“I’ve never seen Mr Crepsley with a hangover,” I laughed. “What’s he like?”

“Like a … what do the humans say? A gorilla with a sore head?” Paris coughed into a fist – he’d been coughing a lot lately – then smiled. “But it will do him good. Larten takes life too seriously sometimes.”

“What about you?” I asked. “Do you want to go?”

Paris pulled a sour face. “A mug of ale would prove the end of me. I shall take advantage of the break by lying in my coffin at the back of the Hall and getting a full day’s sleep.”

“Are you sure? I can stay if you want.”

“No. Go and enjoy yourself. I will be fine.”

“OK.” I hopped off my throne and made for the door.

“Darren,” Paris called me back. “An excessive amount of alcohol is as bad for the young as for the old. If you are wise, you will drink in moderation.”

“Remember what you told me about wisdom a few years ago, Paris?” I replied.

“What?”

“You said the only way to get wise was to get experienced.” Winking, I rushed out of the Hall and was soon sharing a barrel of ale with a grumpy, orange-haired vampire. Mr Crepsley gradually cheered up as the night progressed, and was singing loudly by the time he reeled back to his coffin late the following morning.

CHAPTER FIVE

I COULDN’T understand why there were two moons in the sky when I awoke, or why they were green. Groaning, I rubbed the back of a hand over my eyes, then looked again. I realized I was lying on the floor, staring up at the green eyes of a chuckling Harkat Mulds. “Have fun last night?” he asked.

“I’ve been poisoned,” I moaned, rolling over on to my stomach, feeling as though I was on the deck of a ship during a fierce storm.

“You won’t be wanting boar guts and … bat broth then?”

“Don’t!” I winced, weak at the very thought of food.

“You and the others must have drained … half the mountain’s supply of ale last night,” Harkat remarked, helping me to my feet.

“Is there an earthquake?” I asked as he let go of me.

“No,” he said, puzzled.

“Then why’s the floor shaking?”

He laughed and steered me to my hammock. I’d been sleeping inside the door of our cell. I had vague memories of falling off the hammock every time I tried to get on. “I’ll just sit on the floor a while,” I said.

“As you wish,” Harkat chortled. “Would you like some ale?”

“Go away or I’ll hit you,” I growled.

“Is ale no longer to your liking?”

“No!”

“That’s funny. You were singing about how much you … loved it earlier. ‘Ale, ale, I drink like a whale, I am the … Prince, the Prince of ale’.”

“I could have you tortured,” I warned him.

“Never mind,” Harkat said. “The whole clan went crazy … last night. It takes a lot to get a vampire drunk, but … most managed. I’ve seen some wandering the tunnels, looking lik–”

“Please,” I begged, “don’t describe them.” Harkat laughed again, pulled me to my feet and led me out of the cell, into the maze of tunnels. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“The Hall of Perta Vin Grahl. I asked Seba about cures … for hangovers – I had a feeling you’d have one – and he said … a shower usually did the trick.”

“No!” I moaned. “Not the showers! Have mercy!”

Harkat took no notice of my pleas, and soon he was shoving me under the icy cold waters of the internal waterfalls in the Hall of Perta Vin Grahl. I thought my head was going to explode when the water first struck, but after a few minutes the worst of my headache had passed and my stomach had settled. By the time I was towelling myself dry, I felt a hundred times better.

We passed a green-faced Mr Crepsley on our way back to our cell. I bid him a good evening, but he only snarled in reply.

“I’ll never understand the appeal of … alcohol,” Harkat said as I was dressing.

“Haven’t you ever got drunk?” I replied.

“Perhaps in my past life, but not since … becoming a Little Person. I don’t have taste buds, and alcohol doesn’t … affect me.”

“Lucky you,” I muttered sourly.

Once I’d dressed, we strolled up to the Hall of Princes to see if Paris needed me, but it was largely deserted and Paris was still in his coffin.

“Let’s go on a tour of the tunnels … beneath the Halls,” Harkat suggested. We’d done a lot of exploring when we first came to the mountain, but it had been two or three years since we’d last gone off on an adventure.

“Don’t you have work to do?” I asked.

“Yes, but…” He frowned. It took a while to get used to Harkat’s expressions – it was hard to know whether someone without eyelids and a nose was frowning or grinning – but I’d learnt to read them. “It will hold. I feel strange. I need to be on the move.”

“OK,” I said. “Let’s go walkabout.”

We started in the Hall of Corza Jarn, where trainee Generals were taught how to fight. I’d spent many hours here, mastering the use of swords, knives, axes and spears. Most of the weapons were designed for adults, and were too large and cumbersome for me to master, but I’d picked up the basics.

The highest ranking tutor was a blind vampire called Vanez Blane. He’d been my Trials Master during both my Trials of Initiation. He’d lost his left eye in a fight with a lion many decades before, and lost the second six years ago in a fight with the vampaneze.

Vanez was wrestling with three young Generals. Though he was blind, he’d lost none of his sharpness, and the trio ended up flat on their backs in short order at the hands of the ginger-haired games master. “You’ll have to learn to do better than that,” he told them. Then, with his back to us, he said, “Hello, Darren. Greetings, Harkat Mulds.”

“Hi, Vanez,” we replied, not surprised that he knew who we were — vampires have very keen senses of smell and hearing.

“I heard you singing last night, Darren,” Vanez said, leaving his three students to recover and regroup.

“No!” I gasped, crestfallen. I’d thought Harkat was joking about that.

“Very enlightening,” Vanez smiled.

“I didn’t!” I groaned. “Tell me I didn’t!”

Vanez’s smile spread. “I shouldn’t worry. Plenty of others made asses of themselves too.”

“Ale should be banned,” I growled.

“Nothing wrong with ale,” Vanez disagreed. “It’s the ale-drinkers who need to be controlled.”

We told Vanez we were going on a tour of the lower tunnels and asked if he’d like to tag along. “Not much point,” he said. “I can’t see anything. Besides…” Lowering his voice, he told us the three Generals he was training were due to be sent into action soon. “Between ourselves, they’re as poor a trio as I’ve ever passed fit for duty,” he sighed. Many vampires were being rushed into the field, to replace casualties in the War of the Scars. It was a contentious point among the clan – it usually took a minimum of twenty years to be declared a General of good standing – but Paris said that desperate times called for desperate measures.

Leaving Vanez, we made for the store-rooms to see Mr Crepsley’s old mentor, Seba Nile. At seven hundred, Seba was the second oldest vampire. He dressed in red like Mr Crepsley, and spoke in the same precise way. He was wrinkled and shrunken with age, and limped badly – like Harkat – from a wound to his left leg gained in the same fight that had claimed Vanez’s eye.

Seba was delighted to see us. When he heard we were going exploring, he insisted on coming with us. “There is something I wish to show you,” he said.

As we left the Halls and entered the vast warren of lower connecting tunnels, I scratched my bald head with my fingernails.

“Ticks?” Seba asked.

“No,” I said. “My head’s been itching like mad lately. My arms and legs too, and my armpits. I think I have an allergy.”

“Allergies are rare among vampires,” Seba said. “Let me examine you.” Luminous lichen grew along many of the walls and he was able to study me by the light of a thick patch. “Hmmm.” He smiled briefly, then released me.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You are coming of age, Master Shan.”

“What’s that got to do with itching?”

“You will find out,” he said mysteriously.

Seba kept stopping at webs to check on spiders. The old quartermaster was uncommonly fond of the eight-legged predators. He didn’t keep them as pets, but he spent a lot of time studying their habits and patterns. He was able to communicate with them using his thoughts. Mr Crepsley could too, and so could I.

“Ah!” he said eventually, stopping at a large cobweb. “Here we are.” Putting his lips together, he whistled softly, and moments later a big grey spider with curious green spots scuttled down the cobweb and on to Seba’s upturned hand.

“Where did that come from?” I asked, stepping forward for a closer look. It was larger than the normal mountain spiders, and different in colour.

“Do you like it?” Seba asked. “I call them Ba’Shan’s spiders. I hope you do not object — the name seemed appropriate.”

“Ba’Shan’s spiders?” I repeated. “Why would–”

I stopped. Fourteen years ago, I’d stolen a poisonous spider from Mr Crepsley — Madam Octa. Eight years later, I’d released her – on Seba’s advice – to make a new home with the mountain spiders. Seba said she wouldn’t be able to mate with the others. I hadn’t seen her since I set her free, and had almost forgotten about her. But now the memory snapped into place, and I knew where this new spider had come from.

“It’s one of Madam Octa’s, isn’t it?” I groaned.

“Yes,” Seba said. “She mated with Ba’Halen’s spiders. I noticed this new strain three years ago, although it is only this last year that they have multiplied. They are taking over. I think they will become the dominant mountain spider, perhaps within ten or fifteen years.”

“Seba!” I snapped. “I only released Madam Octa because you told me she couldn’t have offspring. Are they poisonous?”

The quartermaster shrugged. “Yes, but not as deadly as their mother. If four or five attacked together, they could kill, but not one by itself.”

“What if they go on a rampage?” I yelled.

“They will not,” Seba said stiffly.

“How do you know?”

“I have asked them not to. They are incredibly intelligent, like Madam Octa. They have almost the same mental abilities as rats. I am thinking of training them.”

“To do what?” I laughed.

“Fight,” he said darkly. “Imagine if we could send armies of trained spiders out into the world, with orders to find vampaneze and kill them.”

I turned appealingly to Harkat. “Tell him he’s crazy. Make him see sense.”

Harkat smiled. “It sounds like a good idea … to me,” he said.

“Ridiculous!” I snorted. “I’ll tell Mika. He hates spiders. He’ll send troops down here to stamp them out.”

“Please do not,” Seba said quietly. “Even if they cannot be trained, I enjoy watching them develop. Please do not rid me of one of my few remaining pleasures.”

I sighed and cast my eyes to the ceiling. “OK. I won’t tell Mika.”

“Nor the others,” he pressed. “I would be highly unpopular if word leaked.”

“What do you mean?”

Seba cleared his throat guiltily. “The ticks,” he muttered. “The new spiders have been feeding on ticks, so they have moved upwards to escape.”

“Oh,” I said, thinking of all the vampires who’d had to cut their hair and beards and shave under their arms because of the deluge of ticks. I grinned.

“Eventually the spiders will pursue the ticks to the top of the mountain and the epidemic will pass,” Seba continued, “but until then I would rather nobody knew what was causing it.”

I laughed. “You’d be strung up if this got out!”

“I know,” he grimaced.

I promised to keep word of the spiders to myself. Then Seba headed back for the Halls – the short trip had tired him – and Harkat and me continued down the tunnels. The further we progressed, the quieter Harkat got. He seemed uneasy, but when I asked him what was wrong, he said he didn’t know.

Eventually we found a tunnel which led outside. We followed it to where it opened on to the steep mountain face, and sat staring up at the evening sky. It had been months since I’d stuck my head out in the open, and more than two years since I’d slept outdoors. The air tasted fresh and welcome, but strange.

“It’s cold,” I noted, rubbing my hands up and down my bare arms.

“Is it?” Harkat asked. His dead grey skin only registered extreme degrees of heat or cold.

“It must be late autumn or early winter.” It was hard keeping track of the seasons when you lived inside a mountain.

Harkat wasn’t listening. He was scanning the forests and valleys below, as if he expected to find someone there.

I walked a short bit down the mountain. Harkat followed, then overtook me and picked up speed. “Careful,” I called, but he paid no attention. Soon he was running, and I was left behind, wondering what he was playing at. “Harkat!” I yelled. “You’ll trip and crack your skull if you–”

I stopped. He hadn’t heard a word. Cursing, I slipped off my shoes, flexed my toes, then started after him. I tried to control my speed, but that wasn’t an option on such a steep decline, and soon I was hurtling down the mountain, sending pebbles and dust scattering, yelling at the top of my lungs with excitement and terror.

Somehow we kept on our feet and reached the bottom of the mountain intact. Harkat kept running until he came to a small circle of trees, where he finally stopped and stood as though frozen. I jogged after him and came to a halt. “What … was that … about?” I gasped.

Raising his left hand, Harkat pointed towards the trees.

“What?” I asked, seeing nothing but trunks, branches and leaves.

“He’s coming,” Harkat hissed.

“Who?”

“The dragon master.”

I stared at Harkat oddly. He looked as though he was awake, but perhaps he’d dozed off and was sleepwalking. “I think we should get you back inside,” I said, taking his outstretched arm. “We’ll find a fire and–”

“Hello, boys!” somebody yelled from within the circle of trees. “Are you the welcoming committee?”

Letting go of Harkat’s arm, I stood beside him – now as stiff as he was – and stared again into the cluster of trees. I thought I recognized that voice — though I hoped I was wrong!

Moments later, three figures emerged from the gloom. Two were Little People, who looked almost exactly like Harkat, except they had their hoods up and moved with a stiffness which Harkat had worked out of his system during his years among the vampires. The third was a small, smiling, white-haired man, who struck more fear in me than a band of marauding vampaneze.

Mr Tiny!

After more than six hundred years, Desmond Tiny had returned to Vampire Mountain, and I knew as he strode towards us, beaming like a rat-catcher in league with the Pied Piper of Hamlin, that his reappearance heralded nothing but trouble.

CHAPTER SIX

MR TINY paused briefly when he reached us. The short, plump man was wearing a shabby yellow suit – a thin jacket, no overcoat – with childish-looking green Wellington boots and a chunky pair of glasses. The heart-shaped watch he always carried hung by a chain from the front of his jacket. Some said Mr Tiny was an agent of fate — his first name was Desmond, and if you shortened it and put the two names together, you got Mr Destiny.

“You’ve grown, young Shan,” he said, running an eye over me. “And you, Harkat…” He smiled at the Little Person, whose green eyes seemed wider and rounder than ever. “You have changed beyond recognition. Wearing your hood down, working for vampires — and talking!”

“You knew … I could talk,” Harkat muttered, slipping back into his old broken speech habits. “You always … knew.”

Mr Tiny nodded, then started forward. “Enough of the chit-chat, boys. I have work to do and I must be quick. Time is precious. A volcano’s due to erupt on a small tropical island tomorrow. Everybody within a ten-kilometre radius will be roasted alive. I want to be there — it sounds like great fun.”

He wasn’t joking. That’s why everyone feared him — he took pleasure in tragedies which left anyone halfway human shaken to their very core.

We followed Mr Tiny up the mountain, trailed by the two Little People. Harkat looked back often at his ‘brothers’. I think he was communicating with them – the Little People can read each other’s thoughts – but he said nothing to me about it.

Mr Tiny entered the mountain by a different tunnel to the one we’d used. It was a tunnel I’d never been in, higher, wider and drier than most. There were no twists or side tunnels leading off it. It rose straight and steady up the spine of the mountain. Mr Tiny spotted me staring at the walls of the unfamiliar tunnel. “This is one of my short cuts,” he said. “I’ve short cuts all over the world, in places you wouldn’t dream of Saves time.”

As we progressed, we passed groups of very pale-skinned humans in rags, lining the sides of the tunnel, bowing low to Mr Tiny. These were the Guardians of the Blood, people who lived within Vampire Mountain and donated their blood to the vampires. In return, they were allowed to extract a vampire’s internal organs and brain when he died — which they ate at special ceremonies!

I felt nervous walking past the ranks of Guardians — I’d never seen so many of them gathered together before – but Mr Tiny only smiled and waved at them, and didn’t stop to exchange any words.

Within a quarter of an hour we were at the gate which opened on to the Halls of Vampire Mountain. The guard on duty swung the door wide open when we knocked but stopped when he saw Mr Tiny and half closed it again. “Who are you?” he snapped defensively, hand snaking to the sword on his belt.

“You know who I am, Perlat Cheil,” Mr Tiny said, brushing past the startled guard.

“How do you know my—?” Perlat Cheil began, then stopped and gazed after the departing figure. He was trembling and his hand had fallen away from his sword. “Is that who I think it is?” he asked as I passed with Harkat and the Little People.

“Yes,” I said simply.

“Charna’s guts!” he gasped, and made the death’s touch sign by pressing the middle finger of his right hand to his forehead, and the two fingers next to that over his eyelids. It was a sign vampires made when they thought death was close.

Through the tunnels we marched, silencing conversations and causing jaws to drop. Even those who’d never met Mr Tiny recognized him, stopped what they were doing and fell in behind us, following wordlessly, as though trailing a hearse.

There was only one tunnel leading to the Hall of Princes – I’d found another six years ago, but that had since been blocked off – and it was protected by the Mountain’s finest guards. They were supposed to stop and search anyone seeking entry to the Hall, but when Mr Tiny approached, they gawped at him, lowered their weapons, then let him – and the rest of the procession – pass unobstructed.

Mr Tiny finally stopped at the doors of the Hall and glanced at the domed building which he’d built six centuries earlier. “It’s stood the test of time quite well, hasn’t it?” he remarked to no one in particular. Then, laying a hand on the doors, he opened them and entered. Only Princes were supposed to be able to open the doors, but it didn’t surprise me that Mr Tiny had the power to control them too.

Mika and Paris were within the Hall, discussing the war with a gaggle of Generals. There were a lot of sore heads and bleary eyes, but everyone snapped to attention when they saw Mr Tiny striding in.

“By the teeth of the gods!” Paris gasped, his face whitening. He cringed as Mr Tiny set foot on the platform of thrones, then drew himself straight and forced a tight smile. “Desmond,” he said, “it is good to see you.”

“You too, Paris,” Mr Tiny responded.

“To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?” Paris enquired with strained politeness.

“Wait a minute and I’ll tell you,” Mr Tiny replied, then plopped himself down on a throne – mine! – crossed his legs and made himself comfortable. “Get the gang in,” he said, crooking a finger at Mika. “I’ve something to say and it’s for everybody’s ears.”

Within a few minutes, almost every vampire in the mountain had crowded into the Hall of Princes, and stood nervously by the walls – as far away from Mr Tiny as possible – waiting for the mysterious visitor to speak.

Mr Tiny had been checking his nails and rubbing them up and down the front of his jacket. The Little People were standing behind the throne. Harkat stood to their left, looking uncertain. I sensed he didn’t know whether to stand with his brothers-of-nature or with his brothers-of-choice — the vampires.

“All present and correct?” Mr Tiny asked. He got to his feet and waddled to the front of the platform. “Then I’ll come straight to the point. The Lord of the Vampaneze has been blooded.” He paused, anticipating gasps, groans and cries of terror. But we all just stared at him, too shocked to react. “Six hundred years ago,” he continued, “I told your forebears that the Vampaneze Lord would lead the vampaneze into a war against you and wipe you out. That was a truth — but not the truth. The future is both open and closed. There’s only one ‘will be’ but there are often hundreds of ‘can be’s’. Which means the Vampaneze Lord and his followers can be defeated.”

Breath caught in every vampire’s throat and you could feel hope forming in the air around us, like a cloud.

“The Vampaneze Lord is only a half-vampaneze at the moment,” Mr Tiny said. “If you find and kill him before he’s fully blooded, victory will be yours.”

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