by Darren Shan
“You think the Princes were wrong,” Larten whispered, “that we should have stayed true to our original course.”
Seba nodded slowly. “It was our natural way. We were predators, but we were not vicious. We killed when we drank, but we absorbed part of the humans’ spirit, so they lived on in a fashion. We were like lions—they are not evil when they kill, merely noble creatures of the wild obeying their fierce instincts.”
Seba held up a hand as Larten tried to object. “Hold, Master Crepsley. I do not claim we should return to the old ways. We cannot. Too much has changed. I think we took the wrong turn at a key time, but now that we are on this path, we must go where it leads. I would like to make certain alterations and adjustments, but the vampaneze went too far, and I would hate to see the clan follow suit.
“All of that is beside the point. I was telling you about Perta Vin-Grahl. He fought heatedly against the vampaneze when they broke away. Before they left, he was in favor of returning to the old ways. In arguments, he took the side of those who would go on to become the vampaneze. But he believed above all else in the need to remain united. He felt that change should come from within. He savagely opposed any move to split the clan.
“Perta despised the seventy vampires who turned their backs on us to establish their own order. He led the hunt to kill them. Many wanted to debate the matter with the newly formed vampaneze. They felt it was no more than a provocative gesture, designed to spark a response. They thought that the vampaneze could be tempted back into the fold.
“Perta knew that we had passed that point. He was determined to slay them all. He said that was the only way true peace could be achieved. If we let them live, they would return to haunt us. This was even before Desmond Tiny gave us the Stone of Blood and cast his dire prophecy.”
“Who is Desmond Tiny?” Larten asked. “And what is the Stone of Blood?”
Seba waved a dismissive hand. “You will find out soon. You must go to the Hall of Princes before we leave, clasp the Stone, and add your blood to that of the clan. I will explain it to you then.
“Perta killed many vampaneze. He lost a hand and half his lower jaw in battle–he could not eat solid food afterwards–but he kept going. He was the most accomplished, determined fighter I have ever seen.
“When a truce was declared, Perta could not accept it. There were others in his position, a group of angry, hateful Generals. They had lost friends and loved ones in the battles. They wanted to wage war against the vampaneze to the very end, even if it meant our end too. It looked as if there might be another split. We thought that Perta and his followers would break from us as the vampaneze had, to create a third brand of night-walkers and further weaken our position.
“But Perta did not wish to harm the clan. When he realized that he could not convince the majority to continue our war with the vampaneze, he gathered his followers and led them away. He took them to a place of ice and savage isolation. Some say it was Greenland—others, the South Pole or somewhere equally remote. According to one of his followers who came back years later, they built a palace out of ice, dug tombs, finished off the blood they had taken with them, then lay in their frozen coffins and calmly waited to die.”
Seba fell silent, thinking of the lost vampires he had known in his youth, recalling Perta’s laugh and the flash of his blade. Once Seba had fought by Perta’s side and killed three vampaneze, including the General who had blooded him when he was a youth, the one who had taught him as he taught Larten, whom he loved and respected above all others. That was the darkest night of Seba’s life, and he would never speak of it, not even now.
“The vampire who returned was insane,” Seba sighed. “Lack of blood and the harsh elements drove him crazy. Who knows if his story of ice castles and tombs was true? Many vampires have searched for the burial place of Perta Vin-Grahl, but it has never been found and, even if it exists, I doubt it ever will be.
“But we know that Perta and his followers chose death instead of harm to the clan. Rather than lead his supporters to war with us, Perta led them away so that the clan could flourish. It was the ultimate sacrifice, made by a vampire of true greatness, one who put the wishes and needs of the clan before his own.
“There is a reason why I am telling you this,” Seba said, eyes coming back into focus. “Perta was the finest fighter I have seen, beyond compare. He set many records at Council, defeating one challenger after another at wrestling, fencing, the bars. Everyone wanted a slice of Perta Vin-Grahl, to be able to say in years to come that they had faced him in his prime. He did not win every fight–nobody does–but he won far more than any other vampire in recent centuries.
“I remember the first time Perta came to Vampire Mountain.” Seba smiled at the ancient memory. “He was skinny and dirty—Vancha March is a dandy compared to the young Perta Vin-Grahl! He had been blooded as a child but, like you, had never had much contact with other vampires until he came here. He challenged just about every General at Council that year.”
“Let me guess,” Larten sniffed. “He lost every fight, like I did.”
“No,” Seba said. “He was a tiger even then. He won most of the contests in which he took part. And those that he lost, he only lost narrowly, after a long, bloody fight.
“I mentioned that first Council to Perta many years later. I thought he would recall it with pride. But his face grew dark, and he said he wished he had been beaten to a pulp. He said triumphing in so many challenges was the worst thing that ever happened to him.”
Larten frowned. “Winning was bad?”
Seba nodded. “I was bewildered too, until he explained. A few years later, Perta was traveling with five young vampires. They looked to him as their leader and teacher, even though he had not blooded them. One of them hatched a plan to kidnap Lady Evanna and force her to bear children.” He noted Larten’s confusion and gestured impatiently. “That is a story for another time. Suffice it to say, the Lady of the Wilds is a great sorceress. You cross her at your peril.
“Perta was fearless and led his group against her. She fought back and killed all five of his companions. Perta escaped only because he was stronger and faster than the rest. She chased him for six months before one of the Princes begged for mercy on his behalf and convinced her to leave him be.
“Perta felt that he had the blood of those vampires on his hands. He had failed to consider their weaknesses. Having never tasted real defeat, he assumed nothing bad could happen to him or those who put their trust in him. That deadly encounter with Evanna taught him a costly lesson. But if he had tasted defeat earlier in his life, he would never have followed such a fatal course. Those five vampires might still be alive.
“It is good to be taught humility when we are young,” Seba said softly. “If we do not experience pain as children, we will cause pain as adults. You have to learn from your beatings. Accept your shortcomings and work on correcting them, but welcome them too. You might one night be asked to lead others. If so, you must be able to see people as they are, not as you yourself might be. A true champion must know not only his own mind and heart—he must know the minds and hearts of those weaker than himself. You can only do that if you have stood where they stand.”
Seba patted the wolves and smiled. “They are not so fast, these beasts, but they are strong. They can run for many miles and endure. We are not so different. It is hard for one so young, as you are, to peer forward and focus on the centuries ahead of us, but I ask you to accept the word of one much older than you. Your losses now will profit you in the long run, if you learn from them, if you accept them and seek to rise above them for the right reasons.”
“The right reasons?” Larten echoed.
“Come back and face Staffen Irve again,” Seba said. “Ignore the jeers of those who mocked you. Wounded as you are, weaker and slower than Staffen, you should still challenge him and be defeated again, so that you can learn and grow.”
Larten thought about that, then hobbled to his feet. “Ho
w long do you think it will take?” he asked. “How many losses must I endure before I can be a great warrior like Perta Vin-Grahl?”
Seba sighed—his assistant hadn’t understood. This wasn’t about overcoming one’s limits but acknowledging and living with them. He thought about trying again, but he felt either he lacked the right words, or else Larten was not yet ready to hear. Perhaps the young vampire had to learn his lessons the hard way, as Perta Vin-Grahl had.
“More losses than your ego can bear, fewer than your body can endure,” Seba answered. As Larten puzzled over that, the elderly vampire clapped his assistant’s back and offered his arm for support. With Larten leaning on his master, the wolves trailing close behind, the pair commenced the long climb back to the Halls of Vampire Mountain.
Part Four
“Now, there’s a man with style!”
Chapter Nineteen
“Do it again.”
Larten scowled and picked himself up off the forest floor. Flicking twigs and moss from his hair and clothes, he climbed the tall tree and edged out along a branch the width of his wrist. When he got as far as he could standing up, he bent, gripped the branch with his hands, and kicked his feet into the air. It took him a few seconds to find his balance. Once he was steady, he walked out farther on his hands.
“Stop,” Seba said as the branch creaked and bowed from the weight. He was sitting higher up in the tree, chewing a bone. Wester was at the end of another branch, balanced on his hands like Larten.
Larten stared at the ground, feeling sweat trickle along his neck. Seba watched for a while, still chewing. Then, without warning, he tossed the bone in Larten’s direction, but a couple of feet beyond the branch on which the young vampire was precariously perched.
“Catch it!” Seba barked.
Larten’s left hand shot out, and his fingers clutched for the bone. He almost made contact, but as had happened sixteen times already, his right hand shook wildly, he lost his balance, and he fell with a startled cry, hitting the earth not long after the bone.
Seba tutted, then said, “Do it again.”
As Larten muttered angrily and climbed back up the tree, Seba dug another bone out of the bag in his lap, then threw it at Wester. His other assistant enjoyed no more success than Larten had and was soon picking himself up from the ground and wincing.
“This is ridiculous,” Larten grumbled, staring at the branch with something close to hatred. “It is an impossible task.”
“Not at all,” Seba said. “Every vampire learns to do this. It is a basic test.”
Larten squinted suspiciously at his master. There had been a lot of “basic tests” in recent years, since their visit to Vampire Mountain. Larten and Wester had failed most of them. He was starting to think that Seba was playing with them, setting goals that they couldn’t possibly achieve. But why would he humiliate them in such a fashion? Maybe the tests were genuine and his assistants simply weren’t up to the standards required of trainee Generals.
“I almost caught it that time,” Wester said, joining them in the branches.
“No,” Larten grunted. “You were nowhere close.”
“Thanks for the confidence boost,” Wester pouted.
“Are you sure this is necessary?” Larten asked Seba.
The elderly vampire shrugged. “The Generals are very demanding. They will test you in many ways. You must be flexible and experienced in a variety of skills. If you cannot do this, there is no point going any further with your lessons.”
Larten sighed, shared a resigned look with Wester, then edged out along the branch for the eighteenth time.
Seba chewed a bone and watched neutrally. He waited until Larten was in position, then lobbed the bone at him, closed his eyes, and waited for the thud. When it came, his lips twitched, and he almost smiled. But when he opened his eyes again, there was no hint of a grin on his carefully composed face.
“Do it again.”
Larten was in a foul mood when they made camp for the day. It had been a long, tiring night, but there was to be no rest for him.
“I would like a loaf of bread when I wake,” Seba said as he yawned and made himself comfortable. “Will you fetch one for me, Larten?”
“We are miles from the nearest village,” Larten noted.
“I know,” Seba said.
“I will not be able to catch much sleep by the time I travel there and back.”
“You are young,” Seba said. “You do not need a lot of sleep.”
Wester wanted to volunteer to go instead, but Seba would be furious if he said anything. Assistants were never supposed to contradict their master.
“Do you want any particular type of bread?” Larten growled.
“Of course not,” Seba said, settling back and closing his eyes. “You know that I am not particular.”
“How about you?” Larten snapped at Wester.
“I’m fine,” Wester said quickly.
Larten set off through the forest, grumbling and kicking any tree stump that got in his way. The last few years had been a frustrating drag. Endless tests, most of which he’d failed. No contact with other vampires. No adventures. Not much travel, and when they did go to a new country, Seba wouldn’t let them explore. “I have already seen that,” he would say whenever they asked to go sightseeing. “It is not worth the trek.”
Wester was bored and irritable too, but he still had faith in their master. He believed Seba was doing this for a reason, that every vampire had to endure such treatment on the way to becoming a General.
Larten wasn’t convinced. He thought maybe age had caught up with Seba, that his thoughts had become muddled. Maybe these weren’t real tests at all, just ways to make his assistants look foolish. Nothing they did in recent times satisfied the grouchy old vampire. He found flaws in everything. Larten couldn’t believe that other masters were this critical of their students.
He took his time walking to the village. He kept to the gloom of the forest as best he could, avoiding the rays of the sun, which were painful for him now. But sometimes he had to pass through a clearing. When he did, he raised his cloak–a tattered gray thing he’d picked up during his travels–over his head and jogged, muttering darkly once he was safely back among the shadows.
When Larten returned with the loaf–still warm, tucked away in the folds of his cloak–Seba stirred and called to him. “Is that you, Larten?”
“Aye.”
“What took you so long?”
Larten bit down on his tongue to stop himself from cursing. “You said you were going to eat later. I did not think there was any rush.”
“I am too hungry to wait.” Seba beckoned impatiently for the bread. Larten resisted an urge to toss the loaf at his master’s head, and instead unwrapped it and handed it across. Seba’s eyebrows creased. “I wanted brown bread.”
Larten trembled. “You said you didn’t care what kind,” he snarled through gritted teeth.
“Did I?”
“Aye.”
“Oh.” Seba blinked innocently. “My apologies. I meant to ask for brown.”
He held the loaf out to Larten and nodded in the direction of the village. Larten stared at the bread, wondering if it was possible to batter a person to death with it. Then he turned abruptly and headed back the way he’d come. He passed close by Wester, but his friend kept his head down, buried beneath a blanket, afraid Larten would vent his anger on him if he caught his eye.
Several weeks later, Larten and Wester were fishing. They stood in the middle of a fast-flowing stream, thigh-deep in cold water, hunched over. The test was to spear a fish with their little finger. It should have been a simple task, except Seba had tied a strip of cloth around their eyes so that neither could see.
“Listen closely, gentlemen,” he called from the bank, where he was tucking into a pheasant that they had caught and roasted for him earlier. “No creature moves in complete silence. Focus. Train your ears. Ignore the sounds of the stream and the rumblings of your
stomachs.”
“Easy for him to say,” Larten huffed, the delicious smell of the pheasant thick in his nostrils. He hadn’t eaten since they’d arrived here four nights ago. Wester hadn’t either. Seba had told them they could eat nothing until they caught a fish.
Wester bent close to the water and strained, but he could hear nothing moving beneath the surface, even with his advanced senses. After a few minutes he stabbed directionlessly, figuring if he did that often enough, he had to catch something eventually. But he came up empty-handed.
Beside him, Larten was struggling to control his rage. He was starving, wet, and freezing. But worst of all, he felt like a fool. There was no way they could do this. If it was a still pond, perhaps, but there were limits to what even a vampire could do. Besides, when he’d studied the stream from the bank before getting in, he hadn’t seen any fish.
Something bumped lightly against Larten’s leg and he thrust at it. His nail struck true and he yelled with triumph. But when he ripped his blindfold away he saw that he’d only speared a piece of wood.
“You will not get fat on that,” Seba chuckled, juices from the pheasant dripping down his chin.
“Charna’s guts!” Larten roared and threw the stick at Seba. It struck the vampire’s shoulder and bounced harmlessly to the ground. Seba stared at it, then at Larten, his expression unreadable.
“Apologize!” Wester hissed. He’d removed his blindfold and was trembling.
“For what?” Larten shouted. “He’s treating us worse than animals. There’s no way we can—”
“He is,” Seba calmly corrected him. “There is.”
“How about this?” Larten sneered. “You are a stupid, cruel, decrepit sham of a vampire!”
“Larten!” Wester gasped.
“You have lost your senses,” Larten pressed on. He waded out of the stream and stood dripping before his master. “You do not deserve the title of General. You are giving us tasks that no vampire could complete, just to watch us fail. You should go and…”
