by Darren Shan
Wester was with their master, discussing some matter to do with his training. Larten was relieved—it meant he’d just have to go through this once. It was only years later that he wondered if Seba had read the intention in his eyes when he was pulled out of the tunnel, even before he knew of it himself, and summoned Wester on a pretext to make things easier for Larten.
If Seba did know what Larten was going to say, he hid the knowledge well. There was nothing in his expression but mild curiosity when Larten entered. “Can I help you?” he asked politely.
“I am leaving,” Larten said.
Wester stared at him oddly. He knew nothing of the pileup in the tunnel or what Larten had been through. But Seba knew what his assistant meant and he nodded softly. “Very well.”
Larten frowned. “You do not understand. I am quitting my studies. I do not want to be a General. I am sick of this place. I am leaving.”
“No!” Wester gasped. “You can’t mean it. What’s happened? Why are you –”
“I understand perfectly,” Seba interrupted. “I never asked you to stay and I do not hold you against your will. You are no longer a Cub. You are a man of wisdom and experience. I am honored that you and Wester still call me master, but in truth no one is your master now or ever will be again. If you wish to go, you can go with my blessings.”
Larten hadn’t expected this. In a strange way he felt cheated. He wanted Seba to be hurt, to try to convince him to stay. It was childish – human – but in his heart he craved attention. This was a momentous decision and he needed an argument to mark it.
Wester unwittingly gave Larten what he required.
“You can’t leave,” he huffed. “This is madness. Seba told me you’ve nearly completed your training.”
“I also asked you to keep that information to yourself,” Seba snapped, his eyes flashing with a rare spike of anger.
“Is that true?” Larten asked, momentarily flustered. He had thought he was five or ten years away from becoming a General, assuming he passed his tests at all.
“You have impressed some of your peers,” Seba sniffed, still glaring at Wester. “There was talk of passing you in the near future. But after this display, I doubt it. A General must know his mind completely. On this evidence, you do not.”
“I damn well do,” Larten growled, finding his fury again. “I want out. I do not want to be a General. You are all old-fashioned and backwards.”
“Larten!” Wester cried, alarmed by this vicious, uncharacteristic attack.
Larten laughed bitterly. “Every vampire should pursue his dreams, live life to its maximum, chase a glorious, savage death. We should not be imprisoned here, training. Are we students or men? Humans or vampires?”
Before Wester could answer, Larten pressed on. “I say to hell with Generals, Princes and the rest. Life is too short. I want to live, fight, love, die. Not waste my time studying.”
“Who is stopping you?” Seba thundered. He had been sitting, but now he rose and faced Larten on his feet. His cheeks were flushed. “If we disgust you, leave immediately. Do not even pause to pack your belongings—you can do without them. I never intended to come between you and your dreams.” He invested the word with as much sarcasm as he could.
“Very well,” Larten snarled. “I will.”
And with that he stormed out of the room. Wester gave a cry and darted after Larten, but Seba grabbed him as he tried to pass.
“No,” Seba said quietly. “Leave him be.”
“But we can’t let him run off like that!” Wester exclaimed. “He wasn’t thinking clearly. He’ll be sorry when he calms down. He’ll want to apologize. We have to let him know –”
“He was more himself in that outburst than he has been for many years,” Seba said, then chuckled. Wester was astonished to see his master smiling.
“Larten needs to go,” Seba said, sitting again and narrowing his eyes. He was imagining the path the young vampire would take, the tunnels he’d hurry through, the thoughts that might be crashing around inside his head. He hoped Larten would stay true to his convictions—it would be disastrous if he turned back now.
“Master… I don’t understand… don’t you like Larten anymore?”
“Like him?” Seba’s features softened. “I love him, you idiot, as I love you. You are sons to me, as I have told you before. But every son must put considerations of his father aside eventually. You did that when you chose to train to be a guard—you made a choice and became your own man. Larten is doing the same.”
“But he left in such a foul temper. Perhaps I should call him back and –”
“By the gods, no!” Seba shouted. “You are wiser than that, Wester Flack, so do not act like a fool. I know you will miss Larten – I will too – but it is time for him to seek his own way. If you interfere now, you might destroy him. This has been a difficult decision for him to make. If he relented, returned and had to make the choice again later, I do not think that he could.”
“But…” Wester stared at his master. “What if I went with him?”
“You have the same right to leave as he has,” Seba said stiffly. Then he smiled. “But you will not. Your place is here and you know it. We must let him go. If the luck of the vampires is with him, he will return when he is ready. But for now he must walk his own path, or at least try to find it.”
Wester nodded slowly, then looked at the gaping space of the doorway. “I fear for him. He doesn’t know what he wants. He’ll run into trouble.”
“Probably,” Seba said glumly. “But he is strong and I believe that he will find his way in the end. If I am wrong…” Seba sighed and pressed the middle finger of his left hand to his forehead. Keeping his eyes open, he covered them with his second and fourth fingers, spreading his thumb and smallest finger wide. “Even in death may he be triumphant.”
Then Seba put all thoughts of his departing assistant from his mind and focused on his duties, leaving Larten Crepsley to the unknowable workings of whatever destiny held in store for him.
Part Four
“I can stitch you up if you wish.”
Chapter Fifteen
The next few years of Larten Crepsley’s life were his wildest and most carefree. Larten flitted to get away swiftly from all that he had come to loathe, even though vampires were not supposed to flit on the path to or from the mountain. The rebellious act was his way of showing how little he cared for the rules of the clan. He knew it was a petty gesture, but that didn’t stop him.
He cut through the world at a frenetic pace, traveling freely, spending much of his time on boats, carriages, even trains. It was his first time trying one of the iron horses. The rocking motion made him feel sick to begin with, but he adjusted to it after a while, even though he never wavered from his opinion that it went far faster than any land vehicle had a need to.
For years he avoided contact with other vampires, moving from one town and city to another, mixing mostly with men of lax principles and ladies of easy virtue, since they were the ones who came out at night. He stole vast amounts of money and spent it lavishly. He gambled heavily, backed many foolish, high-risk ventures for sport, and at one stage ran his own stable of boxers and fighting cockerels.
Larten tried things he’d avoided even as a Cub, things no sane person should try. He treated his body with disrespect, interested only in how far he could push it. There were many nights when he couldn’t rise, only lie in a dark room, shaking like a rabid rat, waiting for death to put him out of his misery.
If he had been a lesser vampire, he would have surely died. But his years of harsh lessons had toughened him. He could take more punishment than most, go further, last longer. No matter how many mad nights he subjected himself to, he always struggled back.
In time he calmed down and put the worst of the craziness behind him. He had tasted almost all the dark pleasures of the human world and was bored of them. He made no friends in those seedy years, but many cronies flocked to his side, men and women
all too eager to spend the money he never seemed to run out of, to go on wild sprees with him and try to match his wild appetites. They praised Larten and spoke of their love and respect for him, but he knew they were lost, base creatures, wringing what profit they could from one in an even worse state than themselves.
One night he simply walked out on the hangers-on, the same way he had walked out on the clan. They were much easier to leave behind than Seba or Wester. These people didn’t truly care for him, only for the wicked pleasures he brought into their lives. They were vermin and vultures. He didn’t think he was any better than them, but he hoped that he could be. Out of pity, he threw what cash he had at them and left while they squabbled over it.
He tried running with the Cubs again. There was a gaping hole in his life that needed to be filled. He craved company and excitement. He didn’t want to wake every evening by himself, bored, lonely, desperate to kill time. He yearned to find a purpose and he thought the Cubs might give him that, at least for a time.
But going back to the war packs was a mistake. All of the vampires he’d known had moved on or died. Their replacements welcomed Larten into the fold, but he felt awkward around them. He couldn’t work up the same enthusiasm for drink, war, women and gambling. He found the young Cubs loud, ignorant and dull. He didn’t like to believe he’d ever been so shallow, but was sure he must have been.
He fed with war packs a couple of times, then no more. Bidding the Cubs a not-so-fond farewell, he wandered again, keeping to himself, avoiding the larger towns and crowds. He spent many lonely nights in graveyards or caves, brooding, feeling as if he would never find his place in the world.
Returning to the Cirque Du Freak, he asked Mr. Tall if he could help out as he had before. Hibernius Tall wasn’t one to turn away an old friend, but Larten soon realized this wasn’t the life for him, certainly not in his current state. He loved the circus and would have been happy at another time to settle down there. But he was restless, so he moved on with no more idea of what he wanted than he had when he left Vampire Mountain.
A few years after that, Larten was hunting deer. He had been tracking a herd for hours. He could have moved in for the kill sooner, but he was in no rush. His clothes were filthy rags. He’d grown a beard – a light brown color, which must have been the original shade of his hair – and his nails were long and ragged. There were bloodstains around his mouth from previous feasts, and dried-in smears across his cheeks.
“Charna’s guts! You look even rougher than me,” someone laughed behind him, startling the vampire. He twirled so fast that he lost his balance and fell. As he landed on his backside, his gaze settled on a grinning Vancha March.
“What are you doing here?” Larten barked.
“Just happened to be passing,” Vancha sniffed. “I caught your smell – couldn’t really miss it – and thought I’d come see what you were up to.”
Vancha spent the next couple of nights roaming with Larten, letting him tell his sorry story. The General made no comment, just listened quietly. When Larten finally ran out of words to express his miserable state, Vancha said that the younger vampire could travel with him if he wished.
“I’m going through a bit of an aimless period myself,” he said. “I went on a quest to find the palace of Perta Vin-Grahl a few years ago.” Vin-Grahl had led a group of vampires off into a frozen wilderness to die not long after the war with the vampaneze. According to legends, they’d built a castle of ice and turned it into a mass burial tomb. Many vampires had searched for the last resting place of the doomed group over the centuries.
“Any luck?” Larten asked.
“No,” Vancha sighed. “I really thought I’d find it, but all I got in the end was frostbite. Almost lost a few toes. I’ve been too ashamed to report back to the clan. I can’t avoid them indefinitely, but I’d like to wait a bit longer before subjecting myself to their laughter. Paris will be especially tickled—he bet me my favorite shuriken that I wouldn’t find the palace.”
The pair wandered purposelessly but pleasantly for the next year. They hunted and told each other stories. They regularly sparred to pass the time and Larten unwittingly found himself completing many of the tasks he would have had to pass to become a General. Vancha would always swear over the decades to come that he hadn’t meant to play the part of a mentor, but Larten had his doubts. Like Seba, Vancha could be a sly operator when slyness was called for.
Most nights they slept beneath a tree or a bush. Vancha didn’t believe in creature comforts like coffins. He was never happier than when sleeping on a cold, rocky floor, covered in nothing more than his purple animal hides. Larten didn’t enjoy such lean living, but he got used to it. In any case, it was better to sleep rough with a friend than in the lap of luxury by himself.
One night, while resting, Vancha decided to show off his spitting prowess. He spat high into the air, kept his mouth open and caught the spit as it dropped back down. Gulping, he chortled and said, “I bet you can’t do that.”
“Why in the name of all the gods would I want to?” Larten muttered.
“It’s a talent,” Vancha said.
“So is picking your nose with your tongue.”
“Can you?” Vancha asked eagerly.
“I have never tried and I do not intend to,” Larten said.
Vancha stuck out his tongue and explored, but although he could touch the tip of his nose if he pushed it down with a finger, his tongue wouldn’t reach as far as his nostril of its own accord. In the end he grunted and settled for spitting high and catching it again.
“Come on,” he urged Larten. “Try it. It’s fun.”
“I have no intention of spitting on myself,” Larten said stiffly, smothering a smile. “Now leave me alone or you will be swallowing one of your shurikens instead of a gobful of spit.”
“Leave my shurikens alone,” Vancha growled, caressing the throwing stars that were attached to belts looped around his body. Vancha preferred to fight with his hands – he believed weapons were a sign of weakness – but the shurikens were an exception. “Some of these are hundreds of years old. They’re historical.”
Larten frowned. “I thought you made them yourself.”
“Most of them, aye. But I’ve got a few from the Edo period, even one that I think goes back to the Kamakuras.”
“What are you talking about?” Larten asked.
“The great Japanese dynasties. Don’t you know anything of history?”
“Not a lot,” Larten said. “I spent the last thirty or so years trying to memorize all of the vampire milestones. I had no time to research human history too.”
“You should have made time,” Vancha tutted. “Only a fool forgets where he comes from. I don’t have much to do with the human world, but we all started off there and we can learn much about ourselves by studying the highs and lows of mankind over the centuries.”
“Then tell me, good master,” Larten simpered. Although he was being sarcastic, Vancha took the request seriously. For the next few nights Larten was treated to a full rundown of the Japanese dynasties from the Asuka up to the Edo, with special emphasis on the weapons each favored, particularly those of the small, pointed, throwing kind. By the end of his lessons, he almost wished he had followed through on his threat and rammed a shuriken down Vancha’s throat. The shabby, smelly General was a fine friend but a truly boring historian!
Chapter Sixteen
Eventually Vancha had to resume his duties. As a General he had to sit in on various meetings, keep an eye on the Cubs, monitor the movements of the vampaneze, investigate rogue vampires. He invited Larten to join him on a few assignments. Since he had nothing better to do, Larten accepted.
Having checked on a few of the rowdier Cubs and admonished them – even the tearaway youngsters were expected to obey certain rules – Vancha and Larten set off in pursuit of a vampire called Arrow who had severed contact with the clan. The Princes wanted to know why he had cut himself off.
Vanch
a found their target by a process known as triangulation. Like almost every vampire, Arrow had placed his hands on the Stone of Blood in Vampire Mountain when he’d pledged himself to the clan, allowing it to draw blood from him. One of the Princes in the mountain checked with the magical Stone and located Arrow’s position. The Prince then communicated telepathically with Vancha and directed him.
Vancha followed his directions until they came to a house in a forest. They arrived late at night and made camp without approaching the house. After a short sleep, they lurked behind a couple of trees and kept watch throughout the day. They saw a red-haired woman at work within and around the house over the course of the day, but there was no sign of Arrow.
He appeared as the sun was setting. He came out, squinted at the sky, kissed the woman, then went to get water as she slipped inside the house. Arrow was a large, bald, thickly built man. There were tattoos of arrows on both sides of his head and down his forearms. He didn’t look like someone who would walk away the worse for wear from most fights. His scowl as he drew a bucket of water from a well to the side of the house did nothing to soften his tough impression.
Arrow set the full bucket on the ground beside the well, then growled without looking up. “Come forward if you’re coming. I don’t like peeping Thomases.”
“Apologies,” Vancha said airily, stepping out into sight. “I wasn’t sure what the state of play was. Didn’t want to barge in and create any difficulties.”
Arrow nodded gruffly at Vancha, ran a cold eye over Larten, then sniffed. “Sarah will have dinner ready soon. You’re welcome to share it with us.”
Larten and Vancha exchanged a glance, then moved forward. Vancha looked relaxed, but Larten noted the way his fingers stayed by his shurikens. He made sure his knives were within easy reach and kept close to Vancha, ready to back him up if they were attacked.
The woman inside the house – Sarah – looked up with surprise when Arrow stomped in and said, “We have visitors.” She started to smile curiously when the odd pair entered. Then Arrow said, “They’re vampires.” Her smile vanished in an instant and she set the table in silence.
