Darren Shan - The Saga of Larten Crepsley 1-4

“Who was Osca Velm?” Larten whispered to Vancha.

“A Prince,” Vancha said glumly. “I hadn’t heard that we’d lost him. He must have fallen recently.”

“We know Sire Velm’s death is news to many of you,” Paris said. “We held no ceremony for him because he didn’t wish for one. He never believed that a fuss should be made over a bony old carcass.”

Many laughed at that, but Vancha nodded gruffly. “I knew Osca. He would have hated a fancy funeral. He was a fine vampire. He knocked me flat once and broke three of my ribs.”

As the sighs and muttering died away, Lare Shment clapped and said, “Let that be the end of our official business. We shall have no more until the Ceremony of Conclusion. Luck to you, my children.”

“Luck!” the vampires bellowed with delight. And even before the roars died away, mayhem erupted and spread through the Halls of Vampire Mountain.

Larten and Wester were swept along in a crush of crazed vampires. Their plan to help each other quickly evaporated as they were separated and left to fend for themselves as best they could.

The vampires were supposed to challenge one another in the gaming Halls, but several fights broke out in the tunnels on the way. For many of the clan, this was what they lived for, a celebration of brawn and bravery that came once every twelve years. It had been a long wait since the last Council and their lust for battle got the better of them. Nobody objected — such premature scraps were common. Their friends simply pushed them along or left them to wrestle in the dirt.

There were three gaming Halls. Several mats and roped-off rings catered for those who preferred hand-to-hand combat. In other areas you could fight with swords, spears, knives or any of a wide variety of weapons. There were wooden bars to balance on and rounded staffs to spar with, or ropes you could cling to while your foe tried to knock you loose.

Barrels of ale were in ready supply, as well as vats of blood. Larten hadn’t thought to ask where the fresh blood came from. It had crossed Wester’s mind a few nights earlier, but Seba had told him it wasn’t the time to discuss such things. He’d said he would explain later.

Larten seriously thought that he was going to die. No vampire challenged him at first, but he received many wayward punches and kicks. One over-eager individual threw an axe. It missed its target and went swishing by Larten’s head, skimming past his skull by only a couple of inches. He turned to swear at the clumsy oaf, then saw that it was Chok Yamada. Larten was new to many of the vampire ways, but he wasn’t so naive as to openly curse a Prince!

As Larten raised a hand to salute the laughing Prince, a vampire slammed into him. Larten yelled with shock and spun to face a tall, ugly General with a nose that had been broken many times.

“First to three,” the General grunted. Before Larten could ask what sort of a contest he was being challenged to, the General grabbed him by the neck, felled him and pinned his arms. “One to me,” the General laughed, letting Larten rise.

Larten was prepared when the General attacked again. He tried to slip out of the bigger man’s way and grab his arms, but the General read Larten’s intentions. He slapped the young vampire’s hands apart, wrapped his arms around Larten’s waist, picked him off the ground, then smashed him flat and pinned him again.

“Try and make it interesting for me,” the General sneered as a shaken Larten picked himself up and gasped for breath.

Larten swore and swung at the General’s nose. The General twitched his head aside, caught Larten’s arm and twisted it up behind his back. As Larten screamed, the General forced him to his knees.

“Beg for mercy,” he growled.

Larten told him where he could stick his demand.

The General roared with laughter, then flipped the youth over and pinned him for the third and final time. He walked off without any parting comment, leaving a dusty, dazed Larten to stagger to his feet and glare at the floor with red-faced embarrassment. Around him, several young vampires jeered and applauded slowly, sarcastically.

Before the furious Larten could challenge those who were jeering, another vampire hailed him. “New-blood — come face Staffen Irve if you dare. Let’s see what you be made of.”

Staffen Irve wasn’t much older than Larten. He was holding a club with a large, knobbly, metal ball hanging from a short chain at one end. He tossed a similar weapon to Larten and said, “Have you used these before?”

“No,” Larten said, testing the club’s weight and the swing of the ball.

“Then you better be a quick learner, boy,” Staffen chuckled and took a swipe at Larten’s face. If it had hit cleanly, Larten would have lost several teeth. But he was able to duck and the ball struck his shoulder instead.

Larten grimaced and lashed out. His ball bounced harmlessly off Staffen Irve’s ribs. Staffen grunted and whacked Larten’s shoulder again.

Larten lasted less than a minute. He fended off a few of the blows and managed to land a couple of his own, but when the ball smashed into his right leg just below his knee, he went down hard and was finished. Staffen pounded Larten’s back a few times, hoping to goad him back to his feet, but when he realised the duel was over, he stopped and offered Larten a hand up.

“Not bad,” Staffen said as Larten stood on one foot and squeezed back tears of pain. “You ain’t the worst new-blood I’ve seen, but you’ll need to put in a lot of work before the next Council.”

The vampires who had been watching him laughed at that. To Larten they sounded like a pack of crows. He would have liked to wade into them and tear their heads off, but the fight had been knocked out of him. Turning his back on those who had borne witness to his shame, Larten hopped away, trying hard to drown out their catcalls.

Staffen Irve’s mild compliment should have given him hope, but Larten didn’t think any amount of work would prepare him for the next Council or any after that. In his own eyes he was a failure. On the trek to the mountain, he had dreamt of winning every challenge and becoming an instant hero. While he knew that wasn’t realistic, he was sure he would at least hold his own and not be disgraced. Now he knew better. He imagined more vampires laughing at him, the laughter following him as he limped away, and his head dropped ever lower.

One of the female vampires shouted at Larten and held out a long staff, asking him to duel with her. But the thought of being laid low by a woman was too much for him. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t meant to deny a challenge during the Festival of the Undead. He wanted out. Blushing furiously, Larten hurried to the exit and slipped out of the Hall, feeling smaller and more alone than he had at any time since he’d fled from the factory of silk worms as a scared young boy.

The tunnels were littered with wounded or resting vampires. Larten didn’t see any fatalities, but he was sure there would be several by the end of the Festival. No vampire would feel pity for those who fell. Humans might consider it a waste of life, but for vampires death in combat was the noblest way to die.

Larten didn’t quite wish for death, but at least it would have spared him this indignity. He knew he was making things worse by hopping away – he’d now be seen not just as a weak new-blood, but one who ran when the going got tough – but he didn’t care. All he wanted was to find a quiet spot for himself, so he could hide and nurse his injured leg and wounded pride.

“Hey!” someone called. Larten paused and looked around. Three young men were seated at a table in a niche in the tunnel, playing cards. The tallest of them was smiling invitingly. “Do you play?”