Darren Shan - The Saga of Larten Crepsley 1-4

“No. Why?”

“A General mentioned him in passing when he was telling me about the war and its conclusion. I asked a couple of others about him. They got an edgy look when I mentioned his name, but they wouldn’t tell me why.”

“You think he was a traitor?” Wester had learnt that the names of traitors were never uttered by those of the clan.

“Maybe,” Wester said, but he sounded unsure.

Further debate was ended when Seba entered the Hall and hailed them. Their master was with another vampire, a scruffy man clad in purple hides and no shoes. He was about Wester’s height, but much broader than either of Seba’s assistants. He had green hair, huge eyes and a small mouth. There were belts strapped around his torso and strange metal stars were attached to them.

“Larten, Wester, this is Vancha March,” Seba introduced them, sitting down at the table.

Vancha nodded at the youthful vampires and called for a mug of milk. As one of the servants of the Hall handed it to him, he downed it with a deep gulp, then belched loudly and ordered another. Wiping his mouth with the back of a dirty hand, he smiled at Larten and Wester. “Seba’s been telling me about you two. New-bloods, aye?”

“It has been more than five years since I was blooded,” Larten corrected him.

Vancha laughed. “That’s as good as new the way we measure time. Welcome to the clan.” He pressed the middle finger of his right hand to his forehead, placed the fingers next to that over his eyes, and spread his thumb and little finger wide. It was the death’s touch sign, something Larten had seen several times since coming to the mountain. As Vancha made the sign, he said solemnly, “Even in death may you be triumphant.” Then he burped, called for a slab of raw meat and bit into it with relish. Larten frowned. He didn’t approve of the older vampire’s crude manner.

“Vancha is something of a traditionalist,” Seba murmured as blood oozed down Vancha’s chin.

“How old are you?” Wester asked, then raised a hand quickly. “No, let me guess, I’m trying to get used to this.”

“Good luck,” Vancha snorted. “I still can’t tell how old most of these wrinkled prunes are. It depends on what age they were when they were blooded.”

“I know, but it’s possible to make an estimate…” Wester studied Vancha – pale like most vampires, with a scattering of small scars and wounds – and said, “Just over a hundred. Am I right?”

“Aye.” Vancha was impressed. “I was delighted when I hit three figures. I don’t think you can be considered a true vampire until you break the hundred mark. I’ve only recently started to feel like I’m a full member of the clan.”

Larten smiled. It was the first time he had heard another vampire admit to feeling out of place. Despite his first impression, he found himself warming to the dirty, smelly Vancha March.

“What did Seba mean when he said that you’re a traditionalist?” Larten asked.

“I don’t hold with human comforts,” Vancha sniffed. “Like vampires of the past, I have as little to do with mankind as possible. I eat my food raw, only drink water or milk – blood goes without saying – make my own clothes and never sleep in a coffin.”

“Why not?”

“Too soft,” Vancha said and laughed at the younger vampire’s expression.

“Vancha is a throwback to a simpler breed of vampire,” Seba said approvingly. “There were many like him when I was a child of the night. Most have died or adapted. Few have the strength or will to live as Vancha does.”

“I’m not sure I’d call it strength,” Vancha chuckled. “More like madness.”

“Perhaps it has to do with your mother,” Seba murmured wickedly and Larten was surprised to see Vancha blush.

Before he could ask any more questions, a vampire who didn’t look much older than Larten or Wester approached their table. He had black hair and sharp eyes, and wore very dark clothes. If a raven took human form, Larten imagined it would look like this.

“Apologies, Master Nile, but my master would have a word with you.”

“Of course, Mika,” Seba said. “I will come to him shortly.”

The vampire in black bowed, looked curiously at Vancha, then withdrew.

Seba sighed. “I knew that Lare would have a few chores set aside for me.” Lare was one of the Vampire Princes. Larten hadn’t seen any of them yet — they kept to the Hall of Princes most of the time. He wasn’t even sure if Paris Skyle – the only other vampire he’d met before coming to the mountain – was at the Council. One Prince always stayed away, in case an accident befell the others.

Seba rose and groaned, rubbing the small of his back. “Vampires were not meant to live this long,” he grumbled. “I should have gone to a glorious death at least a hundred years ago.”

“Two hundred,” Vancha said seriously, then winked.

“Prepare yourselves, gentlemen,” Seba said to Larten and Wester. “The Festival of the Undead will soon commence. It is always an interesting time, especially for new-bloods.”

“What does that mean?” Larten asked Vancha as Seba left.

“It means everyone will be looking to tackle you, to test what you’re made of. It’s a real baptism by fire — many newcomers never make it through the first night of the Festival.” Vancha raised his mug of milk and smirked at the worried pair. “You’d better hope that the luck of the vampires is with you tonight, or I might be drinking a toast to your corpses in the morning!”

The Festival of the Undead started at sunset in the Hall of Stahrvos Glen, more commonly known as the Hall of Gathering. Several hundred vampires were packed inside the cavern, dressed in their finest costumes. Even Vancha had washed and cleaned his hides. They were almost all men. Larten only saw a handful of women, and each of those looked as tough as any man.

There was an air of excitement in the Hall, but Larten and Wester were nervous. They sensed or imagined other vampires eyeing them up like a pack of wolves targeting a pair of lambs.

“Let’s stick together when hell breaks loose,” Wester muttered.

“Aye,” Larten agreed. “We’ll watch each other’s back.”

A gong rang loudly and all talk ceased. Larten stared with fascination as four Princes entered the Hall and mounted a rough platform. He was pleased to see Paris Skyle among the royal quartet.

The other Princes were even older than Paris – one looked like he might be a thousand, though Larten knew that even vampires didn’t live that long – but they moved easily and carried themselves proudly. Each would have to fight like any ordinary vampire this night, and if one was found wanting, he would not hold his post for long. Vampires had great respect for the elderly, but only if they could account for themselves in battle. The weak or infirm were expected to seek death as soon as possible.

“Welcome, children of the clan, and our thanks for travelling so far to be with us,” the eldest-looking vampire, Lare Shment, said.

“The gods are surely proud of you all,” the second, Azis Bendetta, smiled.

“As are we,” Paris added.

“We hope you have concluded any pressing business,” said the fourth and youngest of the Princes, Chok Yamada. “It’s going to be challenges, tales of glory and mammoth drinking sessions for the next three nights!”

A huge cheer greeted that announcement.

“But before we run riot,” Sire Yamada continued, “let us hear the names of those who have passed on to Paradise since we last met for Council.”

Each Prince took it in turn to mention a selection of the many who had died during the past twelve years. As each name was spoken, the vampires made the death’s touch sign and murmured, “Even in death may he be triumphant.” Lare concluded with the name of Osca Velm and a sad sigh swept through the Hall.