by Darren Shan
“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 saw only a handful of women, and each of them 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 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 traveling 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 in turn mentioned 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 the 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 evaporated quickly 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 to 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, and ropes to 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 overeager individual threw an ax. 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 w
as finished. Staffen pounded Larten’s back a few times, hoping to goad him back to his feet, but when he realized 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 dreamed 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 supposed 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 silkworms 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 as 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.
“Hey!” someone called. Larten paused and looked around. Three young men were seated at a table in a niche in the tunnel, playing cards. The tallest of them was smiling invitingly. “Do you play?”
Larten blinked. “Why aren’t you fighting?” he asked.
“Challenges are so eighteenth century,” the vampire laughed, then extended a hand. “I’m Tanish Eul. Come and join us. Gambling is a far more civilized way to pass the time.”
Larten stared at Tanish Eul and his companions. A bottle of wine stood on the table, and another couple of bottles rested nearby. The men were dressed in the modern human fashion, hair carefully swept back. One even sported a monocle. They looked unlike any other vampire he’d seen.
Tanish Eul wiggled his fingers. “I won’t hold out my hand forever.”
Larten felt a great urge to join them, to share their wine and show off his card skills. He had a feeling they wouldn’t care about his humiliation in the gaming Hall, that they’d laugh and make him feel it wasn’t important. He took a step towards the trio, then stopped. If Seba found him here, drinking and gambling when he should be fighting, Larten knew his master would be disappointed.
“Thank you,” Larten mumbled, “but I have to go.”
“As you wish.” Tanish lowered his hand. “But feel free to drop in on us another time. You’ll always find a welcome here.”
Larten half-waved to the strangely dressed vampires and staggered away with a frown. After a while he stopped thinking about Tanish Eul and focused again on his battered ego. He had meant to rest in one of the more remote Halls, but as he limped down the tunnels, he just kept going. His feet almost had a will of their own. He came to a gate, ignored the stares of the disgruntled vampires who had been stuck with guard duty, and carried on down the maze of lower tunnels.
There were marks on the walls to show the way. He read them by the light of the glowing lichen that grew in most places here. At a fork he paused and considered taking a turn that wasn’t marked, to lose himself and perish in a godsforsaken corner of the mountain. But as bad as he felt, he hadn’t hit that low a point, or even anywhere near.
Finally he came to an opening and crawled out onto the face of the mountain. It was a gloomy night, the moon a thin arc in the sky, only a scattering of stars on display. Snow whipped around him, and soon his orange hair was covered by a soft white cap. Ignoring the elements, he hopped down the mountain, wincing from the pain in his leg but determined not to let it slow him.
After a while, Larten sought the shelter of a small coppice of trees. He was shivering, and his clothes were soaked from the snow. Once he’d propped himself against a mossy log, he rolled up the leg of his trousers and examined the area around his knee. He thought a bone might have splintered, but he couldn’t be sure. He wished this had happened to him on the way here. He would have had to miss Council if he’d broken a leg, as Seba had twenty-four years earlier. That would have been for the best.
There was a panting noise. Larten looked up sharply, eyes narrowing. His sense of vision had improved dramatically since he was blooded, and he could see almost as clearly at night as he had in the daytime when he was human. Now he saw two wolves approaching, teeth bared, hackles raised. They looked like they might be getting ready to attack, but Larten knew it was just for show. They would bolt in a second if he made an aggressive move.
Larten whistled to the wolves. Their ears pricked and they whined softly, then came to him and lay by his side. He hugged the hairy creatures, absorbing warmth from their bodies. There was a bond between vampires and wolves–some thought that the clan had originally evolved from the beasts–but Larten felt especially close to them, and most wolves responded to him eagerly.
The wolves, like the vampires, had come for the Council. They’d learned long ago that there were rich pickings to be had–delicious scraps thrown out for them to devour–and dozens made the pilgrimage every time.
“I bet it’s easier for you,” Larten murmured. “If another wolf gets the better of you in battle, you just roll over and show your throat. He leaves you alone after that. A brief moment of humiliation, then you get on with things. You don’t have to deal with scornful looks or jeers.”
The wolves simply panted and lay at rest. Words didn’t matter to them. They were accustomed to the prattle of the two-legged beings and coolly ignored it.
Larten lay with the wolves, silently brooding. Perhaps he would stay here for the day, then set off for the human world at sunset. Never return to Vampire Mountain or the clan. He could be a highly respected man in the normal world. His strength and speed would stand him in good stead. As long as he didn’t seek too much power, the Generals would leave him alone.
As Larten considered a life of exile, the wolves raised their heads and snarled. Moments later Seba appeared, thrusting through the trees. One of the wolves rose warningly, but then Seba whistled to it and the beast relaxed. Like his assistant, Seba had a special way with animals. Wester wasn’t fond of the four-legged creatures, but Seba and Larten had often run and hunted with wolf packs.
The wolves parted to allow Seba to sit beside his student, then shuffled up to him. Seba scratched behind their ears and told them how fine they looked. They panted happily and even let him examine their teeth.
Larten sat stiffly while his mentor was playing with the wolves. He feared a tongue-lashing from his master, but when Seba finally looked up, his eyes were clear and calm.
“I have been told of your defeats and how you stormed off.”
“I didn’t—” Larten started to retort.
“Did not,” Seba stopped him.
Larten managed a weak smile. A few years ago he had told Seba that he
wished he could speak like him—the elderly vampire always sounded very authoritative when he spoke. Seba had nodded seriously and said that he would train him.
“I did not…” Larten began again, but this time stopped of his own accord. The truth was that he had stormed off in a sulk. To deny it would be foolish. “You were right,” Larten scowled. “Wester and I should not have come to Council. We were not ready.”
“Of course you were,” Seba said. “I never planned to leave you behind. I simply wanted the pair of you to think that coming here was your idea, not mine.”
Larten blinked dumbly. “Why would you do that?”
Seba chuckled. “If you ever take an assistant of your own, you will find that they need careful handling. You and Wester often make free decisions that are actually entirely of my bidding. It is good for the young to think that they are in control of their choices, even when they are not.”
Seba sighed and his smile faded. “But I am not the fine judge that I believed I was. I am to blame for your reaction tonight. I should have been harder on you in the past and made little of your successes in order to prepare you for your failures.
“I expect more of you than of Wester,” Seba said quietly. “Wester will make a fine vampire if he does not die young in his pursuit of the vampaneze, but he lacks your potential. You have the capacity to become a vampire of great standing. Or so I believe.
“I have always tried to treat you the same as Wester, but I think I failed to hide my high opinion. You read my thoughts and, being young and impressionable, assumed that you were as noble and capable as I hoped you might become.
“I have been soft on you. Instead of setting you tasks you could not complete, I played to your strengths and let you forge ahead. It is not a bad policy–most people need to build on a series of small successes, to increase their skills and give them a sense of self-belief–but it was the wrong approach in your case. You have grown headstrong and overly confident. Again,” he said as Larten tried to object, “that was my fault, not yours. I let it happen because I was proud of you.”
