Darren Shan - Vampire War Trilogy

“Don’t move!” he shouted as I lurched towards him. He half-pressed down on the detonator with his thumb. “If this goes off, it takes you with me!”

“Easy,” I sighed, backing off slightly, gazing fearfully at the primed grenade.

“I’ll take it easy in hell,” he chuckled sadistically. He’d shaved his head bald and there was a dark ‘V’ tattooed into either side of his skull, just above his ears. “Now, tell your foul vampire partner and that grey-skinned monster to let my companion go, or I’ll – ”

There was a sharp whistling sound from the trees to my left. Something struck the grenade and sent it flying from the human’s hand. He yelled and grabbed for another grenade (he had a string of them strapped around his chest). There was a second whistling sound and a glinting, multi-pointed object buried itself in the middle of the man’s head.

The man-slumped backwards with a grunt, shook crazily, then lay still. I stared at him, bewildered, automatically bending closer for a clearer look. The object in his head was a gold throwing star. Neither Mr Crepsley nor Harkat carried such a weapon – so who’d thrown it?

In answer to my unvoiced question, someone jumped from a nearby tree and strode towards me. “Only ever turn your back on a corpse!” the stranger snapped as I whirled towards him. “Didn’t Vanez Blane teach you that?”

“I … forgot,” I wheezed, too taken aback to say anything else. The vampire – he had to be one of us – was a burly man of medium height, with reddish skin and dyed green hair, dressed in purple animal hides which had been stitched together crudely. He had huge eyes – almost as large as Harkat’s – and a surprisingly small mouth. Unlike Mr Crepsley, his eyes were uncovered, though he was squinting painfully in the sunlight. He wore no shoes and carried no weapons other than dozens of throwing stars strapped to several belts looped around his torso.

“I’ll have my shuriken back, thank you,” the vampire said to the dead human, prying the throwing star loose, wiping it clean of blood, and reattaching it to one of the belts. He turned the man’s head left and right, taking in the shaved skull, tattoos and red circles around the eyes. “A vampet!” he snorted. “I’ve clashed with them before. Miserable curs.” He spat on the dead man, then used his bare foot to roll him over, so he was lying face down.

When the vampire turned to address me, I knew who he was – I’d heard him described many times – and greeted him with the respect he deserved. “Vancha March,” I said, bowing my head. “It’s an honour to meet you, Sire.”

“Likewise,” he replied blithely.

Vancha March was the Vampire Prince I’d never met, the wildest and most traditional of all the Princes.

“Vancha!” Mr Crepsley boomed, tearing the cloth away from around his eyes, crossing the space between us and clasping the Prince’s shoulders. “What are you doing here, Sire? I thought you were further north.”

“I was,” Vancha sniffed, freeing his hands and wiping the knuckles of his left hand across his nose, then flicking something green and slimy away. “But there was nothing happening, so I cut south. I’m heading for Lady Evanna’s.”

“We are too,” I said.

“I figured as much. I’ve been trailing you for the last couple of nights.”

“You should have introduced yourself sooner, Sire,” Mr Crepsley said.

“This is the first time I’ve seen the new Prince,” Vancha replied. “I wanted to observe him from afar for a while.” He studied me sternly. “On the basis of this fight, I have to say I’m not overly impressed!”

“I erred, Sire,” I said stiffly. “I was worried about my friends and I made the mistake of pausing when I should have pushed ahead. I accept full responsibility, and I apologize most humbly.”

“At least he knows how to make a good apology,” Vancha laughed, clapping me on the back.

Vancha March was covered in grime and dirt and smelt like a wolf. It was his standard appearance. Vancha was a true being of the wilds. Even among vampires, he was considered an extremist. He only wore clothes that he’d made himself from wild animal skins, and he never ate cooked meat or drank anything other than fresh water, milk and blood.

As Harkat limped towards us – having finished off his attacker – Vancha sat and crossed his legs. Lifting his left foot, he lowered his head to it and started biting the nails!

“So this is the Little Person who talks,” Vancha mumbled, eyeing Harkat over the nail of his left big toe. “Harkat Mulds, isn’t it?”

“It is, Sire,” Harkat replied, lowering his mask.

“I might as well tell you straight up, Mulds – I don’t trust Desmond Tiny or any of his stumpy disciples.”

“And I don’t trust vampires who … chew their toenails,” Harkat threw back at him, then paused and added slyly, “ Sire .”

Vancha laughed at that and spat out a chunk of nail. “I think we’re going to get along fine, Mulds!”

“Hard trek, Sire?” Mr Crepsley asked, sitting down beside the Prince, covering his eyes with cloth again.

“Not bad,” Vancha grunted, uncrossing his legs. He then started in on his right toenails. “Yourselves?”

“The travelling has been good.”

“Any news from Vampire Mountain?” Vancha asked.

“Lots,” Mr Crepsley said.

“Save it for tonight.” Vancha let go of his foot and lay back. He took off his purple cloak and draped it over himself. “Wake me when it’s dusk,” he yawned, rolled over, fell straight asleep and started to snore.

I stared, goggle-eyed, at the sleeping Prince, then at the nails he’d chewed off and spat out, then at his ragged clothes and dirty green hair, then at Harkat and Mr Crepsley. “ He’s a Vampire Prince?” I whispered.

“He is,” Mr Crepsley smiled.

“But he looks like…” Harkat muttered uncertainly. “He acts like…”

“Do not be fooled by appearances,” Mr Crepsley said. “Vancha chooses to live roughly, but he is the finest of vampires.”

“If you say so,” I responded dubiously, and spent most of the day lying on my back, staring up at the cloudy sky, kept awake by the loud snoring of Vancha March.’

WE LEFT the vampets lying where we’d killed them (Vancha said they weren’t worthy of burial) and set off at dusk. As we marched, Mr Crepsley told the Prince of Mr Tiny’s visit to Vampire Mountain, and what he’d predicted. Vancha said little while Mr Crepsley was talking, and brooded upon his words in silence for a long time after he finished.

“I don’t think it takes a genius to surmise that I’m the third hunter,” he said in the end.

“I would be most surprised if you were not,” Mr Crepsley agreed.

Vancha had been picking between his teeth with the tip of a sharp twig. Now he tossed it aside and spat into the dust of the trail. Vancha was a master spitter – his spit was thick, globular and green, and he could hit an ant at twenty paces. “I don’t trust that evil meddler, Tiny,” he snapped. “I’ve run into him a couple of times, and I’ve made a habit of doing the opposite of anything he says.”

Mr Crepsley nodded. “Generally speaking, I would agree with you. But these are dangerous times, Sire, and–”

“Larten!” the Prince interrupted. “It’s ‘Vancha’, ‘March’ or ‘Hey, ugly!’ while we’re on the trail. I won’t have you kowtowing to me.”

“Very well – ” Mr Crepsley grinned “ – ugly .” He grew serious again. “These are dangerous times, Vancha. The future of our race is at stake. Dare we ignore Mr Tiny’s prophecy? If there is hope, we must seize it.”