by Darren Shan
“Is that what you think I am?” Larten asked.
“Aye,” she said. “But lucky for you, I like rogues.” Arra brought her club up and tapped the side of Larten’s head. “There will come a night when I’ll welcome your advances, but this isn’t it. You’ll have to show a little patience if you want to win my heart.”
“Then I will wait,” Larten answered smoothly. In a flash, he grabbed the top of the staff and thrust hard, knocking Arra over.
“Foul move!” she cried furiously.
“I know,” Larten chuckled. “Watch out for it next time. I have to go arrange for the bars to be rebuilt. I will face you on them later.”
But they didn’t fight that night or for the rest of Council, as both got involved in other challenges and kept missing one another. There were chances in future years, but in the end Larten never sparred with her on the bars. It wasn’t that he was afraid of being beaten by a woman — there would have been no shame in losing to a warrior of her calibre. Events just kept getting in their way. It ultimately became a standing joke between them. Arra would claim that destiny was working against the pair, that they were fated never to duel.
Decades later, when Arra was felled in her prime, Larten would spend many nights wishing that he had made more of an effort to face her at least once on her beloved bars. He regretted all of the chances he’d spurned, the way he’d avoided her to prolong the joke, only realising how limited the opportunities had been once they were gone – like Arra – forever.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Arra remained at Vampire Mountain with Mika for a few years, then moved on with him when he departed. Larten made a variety of approaches to her while she was there, but she turned him down every time. He was almost glad when she left — at least he couldn’t go on making a fool of himself if she wasn’t around for him to moon over.
Shortly after Mika and Arra had taken their leave, a troubled Vancha March invited Larten to come and see him in the Hall of Princes. The scruffy Prince had been left in charge of the throne room again, but Paris was due to return from a short trip, so he wouldn’t have to suffer for long. Vancha was slouched on his throne, picking a toenail, but he didn’t look as carefree as normal. “Do you remember Arrow?” he asked.
“Of course.” Larten had been impressed by the muscular, bald vampire with the tattooed arrows on his scalp, and admired him for having the courage to withdraw from the affairs of the clan and settle down with a human wife.
“I spoke with Patrick Goulder earlier tonight,” Vancha said. “He’s just returned from a mission. He spotted Arrow in the course of his travels.” Vancha scratched the back of his neck. “Arrow’s wife, Sarah, was killed by a vampaneze.”
“When?” Larten asked, recalling the quiet, pleasant woman who had welcomed them to her house and served up a fine dinner.
“I don’t know. But Arrow took it badly. He’s been tracking down every vampaneze he can find, challenging and killing them. Patrick said it’s like he wants to work his way through the entire clan.”
“Wester will be happy if he does,” Larten remarked humourlessly.
“Arrow’s done nothing wrong,” Vancha said. “He’s free to challenge as many vampaneze as he likes. He fights fairly and kills them cleanly.”
“But you want to stop him regardless,” Larten guessed.
Vancha sighed. “He’s on a suicide mission. Arrow’s a first-rate warrior, but you can’t stumble from one challenge to another and last very long. Patrick said he’s killed five or six vampaneze, so he’s already pushed his luck to its limits. He might well be dead before I reach him, but I want to try and reason with him if it’s not too late. He could still be of service to the clan.”
“You think he might return to the fold?” Larten was doubtful.
“Why not?” Vancha shrugged. “You did.”
Larten now understood why he’d been summoned. “You want me to come with you. You think I can help him, having been through something like this myself.”
“That’s about the measure of it,” Vancha agreed. “You haven’t done much as a General. It’s time you proved yourself worthy of your appointment.”
“When do we leave?” Larten asked simply.
“As soon as Paris returns, which should be within the next couple of nights.”
“I will go and prepare immediately.”
“Larten,” Vancha stopped him. He was leaning forward intently. “You never say much about her, but you loved a human too, didn’t you?”
“Aye,” Larten said, thinking of Alicia and feeling his insides tighten as they always did when he recalled her expression that last day outside the shed.
“If she’d been murdered, could it have driven you mad, even knowing she was only human and that she would die long before you anyway?” Larten nodded roughly. “Could you have been persuaded by someone like me to abandon your quest for revenge?” Vancha asked.
“I do not know,” Larten said honestly. “Even if I could answer that, I am not Arrow. Loss affects each of us differently. You think we will have trouble trying to reason with him?”
“I wish I knew,” Vancha said. “I’ve only ever truly loved the clan. I find it hard to put myself in his position.”
“You should consider that a blessing, Sire,” Larten said softly, then went to tell Seba and Wester of his impending departure.
Seba was delighted that Larten was getting a chance to test himself beyond the confines of Vampire Mountain, but Wester was downcast. Larten tried to cheer him up with a few mugs of ale in the Hall of Khledon Lurt, but the guard’s mood wouldn’t lighten. Finally he confessed what was bothering him.
“I need to get out. I’ve been here a long time and I’m starting to feel caged in. I’ve no doubt that this is what I want from life – I’m absolutely committed to the clan – but I need a break, like you did when you left.”
“That is natural,” Larten said.
“I was thinking… would Vancha mind if I asked to accompany you?”
“Possibly,” Larten said. “This is a delicate business.”
“I know that,” Wester snapped. “I’m not expecting sport and excitement.”
“Guards do well here in Vampire Mountain,” Larten went on, “but they often struggle in the field. You might be a hindrance to us.”
Wester’s face dropped. “You’re right,” he mumbled. “Forget about it. I’m–”
“–a gullible fool,” Larten interrupted, then laughed at Wester’s expression. “Of course you can come. You will have to clear it with Vancha first, but I am sure he will be as pleased as I am to include you. It will be the old Crepsley and Flack team again — we cannot fail.”
“You really want me to come along?” Wester asked.
“Do not fish for compliments,” Larten growled, then sent Wester off to the Hall of Princes to seek Vancha’s permission.
Seba was waiting for Larten when he returned to the small cell that he and Wester shared. The quartermaster was sitting on the lid of Larten’s coffin — he had finally got into the habit of sleeping in one and couldn’t remember what he had ever disliked about them in the first place. Seba beamed when he saw his ex-assistant and said, “Has Wester gone to ask Vancha’s permission to join you on your trip?”
“You do not miss much,” Larten chuckled.
“I might not be your master any longer,” Seba said, “but I keep a close eye on the pair of you. I could tell that Wester was anxious to leave. It will be good for him to get out into the world again. At least it will prise him away from his vampaneze-hating allies for a time.”
“You worry about that too?” Larten asked, sitting on the coffin beside his old mentor.
“Wester is heading for trouble,” Seba said darkly. “But we must all make our own mistakes in life. I hope his do not prove too costly, and that he learns from them and grows, as you grew from yours.”
Larten smiled at the kind words, then said softly, “You are wrong.”
“About w
hat?” Seba frowned.
“Not being our master. I will always think of you as my master. And as my father.”
Seba stared at the younger vampire, then turned aside and coughed. Larten thought he saw the older vampire wiping a few tears from his eyes, but he said nothing.
“Damn dust,” Seba growled. He considered telling Larten that he had always thought of him as a son, but figured there was no need to get overly sentimental or they might both end up blubbing like babies. Instead he sniffed and reached behind the coffin. “I meant to give these to you when you became a General. I had been keeping them for years. Moths got at the originals and they fell apart when I took them out of their box. I replaced all of the items later, but I was waiting for the right moment to present you with them. This seems as good a time as any.”
Larten smiled uncertainly as he took a wrapped packet from Seba. His ancient friend had never given him a gift before and he had no idea what it might be. He tore away the paper and went very still when he saw what lay inside.
“You might not like them,” Seba said. “Do not feel that you have to wear them to please me. I just thought they might be to your taste.”
“Thank you,” Larten said, and now it was his turn to blink away tears.
“Try them on,” Seba said. “If they need to be adjusted, let me know. I have become something of an expert tailor over the centuries.”
As Seba left, Larten undressed. He cast away his dark trousers, the grey jumper that he’d worn for some years, the dirty undershirt. Then he carefully pulled on a pair of sharp red trousers, a stiff crimson shirt, and last of all a blood-red cloak. There was no mirror in his cell, but Larten could picture how he looked. He twirled and let the cloak sweep through the air around him. He took the end of one hem, pressed it to the scar on his cheek, then let it drop. He wasn’t sure why he had done that – it just seemed appropriate – but he was certain of one thing. These clothes were a sign that he had come of age, and he would wear them, or replacements like them, for the rest of his life. Only death would part him from this covering of beloved red.
PART FOUR
“your soul will surely find Paradise”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Vancha used the Stone of Blood to pinpoint Arrow’s position. A vampire trained in the ways of the Stone could search for anyone who had touched it and let it absorb some of their blood. It only took him a minute to locate Arrow. Paris would guide them later, when they drew close to their destination — he had a telepathic link to both Vancha and Larten, and could direct them to Arrow’s exact location.
The three vampires left shortly after dusk and set a fast pace. They couldn’t flit – it wasn’t allowed on the way to or from the mountain – but they proceeded as quickly as the ancient laws permitted.
Wester felt awkward to begin with. He was rusty after his years inside, lagged behind when they hunted, found it hard to relate when they were talking about matters to do with the outside world. But as the nights slipped away behind them, he settled into his stride and became more like he had been in his youth. He would never be as expert a hunter as Larten or Vancha, and he sometimes struggled to match their pace, but he was no burden.
Larten missed his coffin – he had grown fond of it after his initial doubts – but soon adjusted to sleeping rough again. Vancha was delighted to bed down on hard, cold ground. He wanted nothing to do with the comforts that many vampire indulged in, like coffins, hot meals and ale. Give him a rocky floor, raw meat, fresh blood and a running stream, and he was happy.
After a while Larten noticed a red sheen to Vancha’s skin. He thought the Prince had a rash and mentioned it to him, but Vancha said (rather gruffly) that he was fine. Larten said no more about it, but paid close attention to Vancha for the next few nights. He soon learnt that the Prince rose an hour before sunset every evening and walked around unprotected, letting the rays of the sun scald him. This fascinated Larten. He couldn’t understand why the Prince should put himself through such torment. He discussed it with Wester, but the guard could offer no explanation either. They both wanted to ask, but Princes weren’t accountable to lesser vampires. If Vancha wished to tell them, he would. Otherwise they would have to go on guessing.
The trio avoided contact with humans, only slipping into towns and villages in the dead of night to feed quietly, then moving on unseen. Larten felt no pangs of regret when they occasionally heard the laughter and singing of people having a good time, or glimpsed them through frost-speckled windows. He had found his true family and was content at last to be only a vampire and nothing more.
The world was at war again, and this battle was more widespread and bloodier than any Larten had seen. Weapons had advanced significantly since he’d last taken to a battlefield, and the cunning, bloodthirsty marshals of the mayhem had managed to cram more of their companions into the firing line than ever before. The slaughter of thousands was no longer enough to satisfy the vicious beast of war. It required hundreds of thousands of victims now, even millions.
Larten wondered where it would end. How much further could people go in their quest for the perfect weapon, the ultimate annihilation, the kill to end all kills? Winning didn’t seem to be an issue any more. With losses on this scale, there could be no real victor. Success appeared to be calculated in the number of dead enemies, not in material gains.
Vancha and Wester were equally horrified by this new war of trenches, machine guns, poison gas and tanks. They had seen mankind at what they’d thought was its worst. As Cubs, Wester and Larten had feasted in war zones and merrily watched soldiers killing each other. Vampires were coarse creatures, lovers of battle, connoisseurs of combat. But there was no pleasure to be wrung from this wretched, pointless butchery. No young vampires cheered on these warring sides or gambled on their fortunes. There was nothing noble or exciting about this massacre. It was simply a sickening waste of life.
Progress across the war zone was difficult. Vampires were tougher than humans, but they could be killed the same way — they weren’t immune to bullets, bombs or gas. Arrow was somewhere in the middle of the madness, so they had to advance carefully, skirting the trenches of doomed soldiers, slipping through fields of corpses in the darkest hours of the night, seeking shelter in craters during the day. All three saw horrors that they hadn’t witnessed before, things they’d never speak of later and would try in vain to forget.
One cold, wet night as shells rained around them, Larten heard a noise close by. They were in the middle of what the humans called no-man’s-land, a zone of barbed wire, bomb craters and scraps of the dead. Soldiers sometimes made dashes across this expanse of wasteland in the day, to be mown down by the ravenous fire of machine guns, but even their harshest officers weren’t heartless enough to send them out here at night.
Larten rolled on to his side, wriggled to the top of the hole in which they were pinned, and peered into the smoke-obscured darkness. For a while he saw nothing and began to think that he had imagined the sound. But as the missiles temporarily ceased, he spotted a group of nine soldiers adrift in the open. Nobody else had seen them yet, but once someone sighted them, they would be exposed to fire from all sides.
The soldiers must have been separated from their regiment, or were survivors of a damned dash across no-man’s-land. Most were bleeding from poorly bandaged injuries as they crawled or were dragged by their companions. They didn’t seem to have any idea where they were going. They were arguing – quietly, so as not to draw attention – and drifting vaguely. It was only a matter of time before they were pinpointed and killed.
Larten recalled something that Vancha had said, that destiny would probably place him in a situation where he could partly atone for the humans he had killed on the ship. Larten knew in his heart that this was such a moment. “I am going out,” he whispered.
“What are you talking about?” Wester frowned.
“There are soldiers… they have been cut off… they are trying to make their way back to their ar
my.”
“So?” Wester shrugged. “Thousands are sacrificed every day. Why risk your life for these few?”
“I can do nothing about the thousands,” Larten said softly. “But I can maybe help this group.” He stared at Vancha, hoping the Prince would know why he had to try.
“You must follow your instincts,” Vancha said. “If helping them will ease your conscience, then do it.”
“Nothing will ever ease my conscience,” Larten said sadly. “But it is the right thing to do, and I have done the wrong thing too often in the past.”
Wester was bewildered — Larten had never told him about the ship and the people he’d murdered. The guard started to quiz his old friend, but there was no time for explanations. As Vancha made the death’s touch sign, Larten slid over the top of the crater and hurried towards the stranded soldiers.
They didn’t see him until he was almost upon them. A couple spotted him at the last second and hastily raised their bayonets. He stopped and showed his palms, letting them know that he meant no harm. One snapped a question at him, but Larten only shook his head — if he spoke, they’d know by his accent that he wasn’t one of them and that might cause them to panic.
It took him a few seconds to determine the colour of their uniforms – it was dark and they were dusty and bloodied – but when he figured out which side they belonged to, he pointed towards the nearest safe trench. The solider in charge – he looked too young to be an officer – shook his head and pointed in a different direction. That would lead them to safety too, but it was a longer route and they’d pass close to their enemies.
Larten hesitated, then stood and let his cloak billow behind him, ignoring the fact that he would be an easy target if any snipers caught sight of him. In his red suit and flapping cloak, with his orange hair and scar, he looked like some sort of warped angel. The soldiers knew instantly that he wasn’t one of them. They had heard tales of spirits on the battlefield, kindly ghosts who led stray soldiers back to their ranks, wicked demons who misguided them into a shower of bullets. Most hadn’t believed the tales… until now.
