Darren Shan - 02 Ocean of Blood

Larten was pleased with how he was developing.

He learned swiftly and improved quickly. He wasn’t the biggest of vampires, but his speed and skills helped him get the better of most opponents. The nights of Larten being a punching bag for others were long gone.

Yet he wasn’t truly happy. He couldn’t put his finger on the reason for his discontent. He just felt as if he’d come here before he was finished with the world. He had no desire to be a Cub again or to run with a war pack, but he felt like he was missing out on something.

He often thought about Vur Horston and the plans they had made as children to explore every last inch of the world. Even though Larten had traveled the globe widely, he wanted to see more of it, to honor the memory of his lost cousin. Of course he would be able to do that once he became a General — he could spend the rest of his life roaming if he wished — but Larten was impatient. He wanted to do it all and see it all now.

Still, he wouldn’t have to endure life inside the mountain much longer. Every vampire was forced to undergo a degree of training here if they wished to become a General, but the majority of their lessons could be learned on the road. Seba would take Larten and Wester away from here soon, perhaps at the end of Council, and they could study at a more relaxed pace while traveling far and wide as they had in the past.

When they’d finished setting out the axes, Larten and Wester reported to Vanez for further instructions. He kept them darting around the Halls and tunnels for the next few hours, yelling at them even when they worked speedily and efficiently. Larten was on the point of snapping back when Vanez suddenly smiled at the pair.

“You’ve done well,” he said. “Go get ready for the Festival. And please forgive me if I vented my frustrations on you.”

“Nothing to forgive,” Larten grinned, then shared an excited look with Wester. They hurried down to the Hal of Perta Vin-Grahl for a quick wash, then to the cave they shared with Seba and five others, to pull on their finest clothes and make sure they looked their best for the opening ceremony.

The first few hours of the Festival were crazy as usual, vampires fighting as if the clan was on the point of extinction and there would be nobody left for them to battle the following night. Bones were shattered, limbs were severed and four vampires made a premature journey to Paradise, their friends cheering them on — dying in combat was a noble way to perish.

Larten let himself be washed along with the tide of warring vampires — there was no point trying to fight it — but as soon as things calmed down a little he went in search of a particular opponent. He didn’t know the vampire’s name, only that he was tal and burly, with a nose that had been broken many times. The General had mocked Larten when easily defeating him in a challenge the first time he’d come to Council. Larten had been looking forward to facing him again ever since.

Larten was challenged a few times while searching for the General and he had to respond to each — you weren’t supposed to avoid a contest during the Festival — but finally he found his man standing by the bars in the Hal of Oceen Pird, watching two vampires with round-ended staffs trying to knock each other flying.

“You!” Larten shouted, pounding the vampire’s back.

The General looked around and scowled. He didn’t remember this young pup, but something about the orange hair struck a chord.

“Wrestle with me,” Larten growled.

The vampire smiled bitterly and turned. Larten’s heart sank — the General’s right arm was missing from just beneath the shoulder.

“Why the long face?” the General snapped, then glanced at the space where his arm should be.

“Surely this won’t deter you? It’s just a flesh wound.”

“I…” Larten hesitated.

“… don’t want to fight a cripple?” the General asked softly, fire burning in his eyes.

Larten stiffened. “I have no intention of offending you with pity. I was merely going to say that I did not want to have an unfair advantage. So…” He pulled his right arm inside his shirt, tucking it in tight.

The General gaped at Larten, then laughed. “That’s a first! Have at me, then, youngster, and may the luck of the vampires be with you.”

Larten moved in on the General and tried to get a grip with his left arm. But he wasn’t used to fighting one-handed. The General, who’d had years to adapt, threw the younger vampire to the floor and pinned him with his legs.

“One to me,” he grinned as Larten rose and dusted himself off, then went on to throw his challenger two more times in quick succession.

Larten hadn’t imagined the fight going this way, but then again he’d planned to use both arms. As he picked himself up for a third time, all he could do was laugh at the unexpected direction the bout had taken.

Many years ago the General had mocked Larten and walked off contemptuously after defeating him. But this time he helped the orange-haired vampire to his feet and embraced him warmly.

“I might have beaten you with ease, but you’ve earned my respect, young one. It’s not easy fighting one-handed. You didn’t have to challenge me on my own terms. By doing so, you proved you have courage and dignity, as well as something even more elusive — style! We’ll fight again sometime, when you’ve had more practice with a single arm, aye?”

“Aye,” Larten chuckled.

They drank much and spoke of many things that night. The General told Larten about some of the times his nose had been broken and the great vampires he had faced in challenges over the years. But he never mentioned his name, or if he did, Larten failed to note it.

Over the coming years Larten often trained with an arm tied behind his back. But he never got to test himself against the broken-nosed General again, for he died soon after Council in a fight with a panther. He was alone and his passage went unmarked, but if anyone had been present, they would have seen him smile just before his throat was ripped open. They wouldn’t have known what he was grinning about, but he was fondly remembering the night when a young orange-haired assistant had challenged him to a one-armed wrestling match in the Hal of Oceen Pird.

Night gave way to day and most of the vampires went to rest for a few hours, or tend to their injuries. At sunset they gathered in the huge Hal of Stahrvos Glen for the traditional howling contest. At the signal, every vampire howled loudly and tried to sustain it. The one who held his howl the longest would be afforded the title “of the Howl” for the next twelve years.

Larten didn’t have a particularly impressive howl and faded from the contest early. But two vampires he knew well were among the last three. One was his old Cub ally, Yebba, who seemed to have grown even larger since Larten last saw him. The other was a less familiar acquaintance, Mika Ver Leth.

Larten was surprised to see Mika — dressed in black, as always — among the final trio. Normally the successful howlers were bulky and large-lunged, like Yebba, but Mika was of average height, and slender. Yet he was holding his own against the others. Larten cheered on Yebba because of their friendship, but secretly he hoped Mika would take the honors — he had always had a soft spot for an underdog.

Yebba came to a sudden, choking stop and scowled, disgusted with himself. Mika and the other General carried on for another minute, the cords in their throats strained to the breaking point, tears coursing from their eyes. Mika was in trouble — his voice was wavering — but then the other vampire fainted without warning and it was over.