Darren Shan - Birth of a Killer

“Do you want to go back?” Patrick Goulder asked.

Larten wanted to retreat more than anything. But it would have been a sign of weakness and he didn’t want to lose face in front ofthe others.

“Just give me a minute,” he gasped, wiping his lips clean and letting his heart settle. When the tremble in his hands subsided slightly, he joined the rest ofthe team and went to work on the bodies again.

They spent most of the next hour in the cold, wet confines of the tunnel, freeing bones and limbs, picking intertwined skeletons apart, carefully loosening the knot of bodies. It was hard, horrible work, and they did it in silence. Each of them knew that they would never discuss this afterwards. This wasn’t a dirty job that they’d make light of later. It was an awful task and it would haunt them for many weeks and months to come. No amount of ale would erode this unpleasant memory. Larten had a nasty suspicion that he might even take it with him to the grave.

When the crew in the tunnel returned solemn and grim, nobody tried to lighten the atmosphere. Seba and the vampires on the ropes could see the horror in the eyes of those they dragged back. Without saying anything they covered the sodden team in blankets and led them to where broth, bread and ale were waiting in abundance.

Larten ate mechanically, filling the emptiness of his stomach, his eyes unfocused. He was thinking about the corpses, imagining himself as one of them. Vampires could live for hundreds of years. Most rarely thought about time the way humans did, since they had so much of it to play with. Death was a far-off, distant thing for the average child of the night.

But the bodies in the tunnel had reminded Larten of his mortality. There was no guarantee that he would live to be as old as Seba. Maybe destiny would strike him down young. If it did, he wanted to be able to say that he had truly lived, that he had experienced all of the pleasures of the world, that he hadn’t just trudged along miserably like a turtle in the shell of Vampire Mountain.

Larten didn’t even touch his mug of ale. In a corner of his mind he had already made his decision, and although he hadn’t consciously realized that yet, part of him made sure that he kept a clear head. When he acted, that part wanted him to be sober, so there could be no doubt that he meant it.

He was halfway through a second bowl of broth when he stopped, pushed it aside and stood. The others glanced at him but said nothing. He wasn’t the first to depart the table abruptly. They assumed he was leaving to be sick. But they were wrong.

Larten made a beeline for Seba’s cave. The quartermaster had his own room in the mountain. He’d offered to share it with his assistants, but they had declined — Seba was now a vampire of great importance and he was entitled to his privacy.

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 ofthe 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 ofthe 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. Westerwas 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.”