Birth of a Killer

Chapter Ten

It was time for another Council at Vampire Mountain. Vampires traveled from all over the world to meet old friends, challenge one another, debate laws, tell tall tales and have a grand time. Larten and Wester were kept busy in advance, helping out in the gaming halls, preparing the rooms for the chaos of the Festival of the Undead.

The pair had been permanent fixtures in the mountain for the past few years. Both had passed their Trials of Initiation — five perilous tasks that all vampires had to overcome — not long after they’d returned with Seba. Larten took his Trials several months before Wester and sailed through, but Wester almost failed. In his second trial he’d faced two wild boars that had been driven insane with vampire blood. He managed to kill them, but one speared him with its tusks before it died and he had struggled to complete his last three trials.

Seba had visited Wester before his third trial and asked if he’d made peace with the vampire gods. Death was nothing to be afraid of as long as one was ready for it. Wester had nodded soberly and said he could die with no regrets if that was his fate.

Wester had summoned Larten a while later and told him what their master had said. Then, in a soft voice, he’d said, “I lied. I want you to make me a promise. It’s a lot to ask, and I’ll understand if you refuse, but if I die, I want you to track down and kill Murlough for me.”

Larten had almost made the promise — even though the vampaneze had spared their lives when they were his to take — but something in Wester’s expression stopped him. The Trials of Initiation were as much a mental as a physical obstacle. If you lost belief in yourself, it could prove as fatal as losing an arm or leg.

“Murlough is your nemesis, not mine,” Larten had said icily. “If you die, I will not pursue him on your behalf. I would not ask you to take my enemies as your own, and you should not ask it of me.”

Wester had been surprised and hurt, but he’d accepted Larten’s decision and grimly battled through the rest of his Trials, spurred on by his desire to survive and gain revenge for the slaughter of his family.

The pair had been studying hard under Seba and others since then, taking the first steps on the long road to becoming vampire Generals. Much of their time was spent learning the intricacies of combat. They would often pass entire nights in a gaming hall, sparring with each other, overseen by a tutor.

One of their tutors now bellowed at them to empty a chest full of axes. ‘What are you waiting for? The last vampire arrived three hours ago. The Festival starts at sunset. Perhaps you want them to hunt for the axes, to make a game of it?”

“Sorry, Vanez!” they roared, speeding up even though they had been working fast already.

Vanez Blane glared at the assistants, then moved on. He was in a foul mood. This was his first time working in the gaming Halls ahead of Council. The guards normally took care of such matters, but they’d been understaffed this year and he had volunteered to help. He regretted his offer now. So much to think about and take care of. He was determined not to fall into this trap again. As soon as Council finished he’d be off, and he would make sure he never got caught for duty like this a second time. He belonged in the wilds, not cooped up inside a mountain!

As busy and stressed as he was, Larten was looking forward to Council. The last few years had been dull and strenuous. While he didn’t regret his choice to join Seba again and devote himself to his studies, he missed the outside world, the travel, the nights spent drinking, gambling and flattering ladies, the thrill of warfare.

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 honorthe 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 atthe 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 Hall 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 tall 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 Hall 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 hairstruck 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 atthe 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 Hall of Oceen Pird.

Chapter Eleven

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 Hall 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.

A huge cheer went up and Mika was engulfed by Generals eager to toast his name and be the first to challenge him to a fight. Larten bumped into him later that night and hailed him as Mika of the Howl.

“It sounds strange,” Mika said, managing a rare, thin smile.

‘Were you surprised to win?” Larten asked.

“No,” Mika said. “I practiced for the last decade. I took singing lessons from a human tenor and he taught me howto extend a note.”

Larten frowned. “Why? It surely cannot mean that much to you.”

“It means respect,” Mika said seriously. “I hope to be a Prince one night and I want to be invested sooner rather than later. As trivial as this contest was, it got me noticed, and that’s important.”

Larten was amused by the ambitious General. Most vampires weren’t political — they didn’t care about power games and moving up the ranks. Mika was more like a human in that respect. But the clan was changing. The world was becoming hostile as mankind bred in ever greater numbers and claimed more territory. Vampires would have to keep an even lower profile than before if they were to survive. That meant taking the clan in a new direction. They would need youthful, imaginative leaders. A hundred years ago Mika wouldn’t have gotten far in his quest to be a Prince, but Larten believed he might prosper in the current climate. He wished Mika luck in his princely pursuit, even though it wasn’t a goal he personally aspired to.

But Mika wasn’t the only one earning respect at that Council. Although he was unaware of it, Larten had caught the eyes of many of his peers and was beginning to make a name for himself. The clan approved of the way he had faced the one-armed General, and although he’d lost that challenge, he had won most of his subsequent contests, defeating a host of older, more experienced vampires.

Paris Skyle heard of the youngster’s success and sought out his friend Seba to congratulate him.

“The credit is not mine,” Seba said with a smile, watching from the sides as Wester struggled with a vampire who had only been blooded within the last couple of years. “Larten is driven by an inner passion. I have helped him, I hope, but he cannot be molded, merely guided.” “He could go far, according to the rumors,” Paris murmured.

Seba sighed. “Is that so important? If he lives a good life and is true to himself, should that not be enough?”

“My words stung you,” Paris said, surprised. “Forgive me.”

‘You do not need to apologize, Sire,” Seba said. “I have heard others talk highly of Larten, but they have noticed no merits that I had not already seen many years ago, even when I first met him as a child. I have always known that he will climb high, if he chooses to climb.”

Paris frowned. “You hope that he won’t.”

Seba pulled a face. “Larten could be a great General, maybe even a Prince. I will be delighted if that is his aim and he achieves it. But I will be just as pleased if he merely wants to lead a clean, honest life.

I have no desire to be a mentor of Princes. I simply hope that those I care about are content.”

“Do you worry about what power will do to him?” Paris asked, recalling a time when he had offered Seba the chance to become a Prince. “Do you think he is not suited to a position of authority?”

Seba shrugged. “Think it? No. Fear it? Aye. Whether my fears are well founded or not, I cannot say. He is much like I was at that age. Perhaps I see flaws that are not there, reflections of my own weaknesses. Only time will tell. Either way, there is no point worrying about the future. He could break his back tonight and that would be the end of the matter.”

“The gods give and the gods take away,” Paris agreed.

Across from them, Wester finally got the better of his opponent and the pair went to drink to each other’s health. Wester was beaming — he didn’t enjoy many victories. Seba was pleased for him. He worried about Wester too, but felt his weaker assistant might find his path sooner than Larten, and take to it with more ease. He suspected Larten didn’t yet understand his true desires, and there was nothing harder than chasing a dream if you didn’t know what it was.

As if reading his friend’s thoughts, Paris said, “Have you told them your good news?”

“No. I will wait until after the Ceremony of Conclusion.”

“Do you think that they will stay with you?”

‘Wester, aye. Larten… I do not know.” Quietly he added, “I hope not.”

“Come!” Paris boomed, taking his friend’s arm. “I’ve darkened your mood. Let me lighten it again with a glass ofwine.”

‘Wine?” Seba smiled. “I thought we only drank ale at Council.”

Paris winked. “Ale is fine for younger, less sophisticated palates, but it’s the juice of the grape for veterans like us, aye?”

“Aye,” Seba chuckled and went to try to drown his worries with the Prince.

The children of the clan began departing Vampire Mountain a few nights after the Ceremony of Conclusion, once their heads had cleared and they could stand without wobbling. It was an undramatic exodus. Most didn’t even bother to bid their friends farewell, especially the older vampires, since that wasn’t their custom. They simply slipped away, some heading off in specific directions, others wandering wherever their feet took them.

Larten and Wester helped clear up inside the Halls and tunnels. It was a mammoth task, even more involved than the preparations beforehand. But it was a calmer time and they went about their work in a merry mood. Even Vanez Blane was relaxed now, often stopping to joke with the pair and tell them not to work too hard. He had already forgotten the stressful lead-up to Council and was thinking about offering his services again in the future.

Seba let the dust settle before summoning his assistants to a meeting in the Hall of Khledon Lurt. Over a bowl of bat broth he told them of his exciting offer.

“The Princes have asked me to become the quartermaster of Vampire Mountain. I have accepted.”

Wester had expected the announcement — he had heard rumors during the Festival — but Larten was taken by complete surprise.

“Quartermaster?” he frowned, pushing his bowl aside. “I thought you did not yearn for power.”

“I do not want to become a Prince,” Seba corrected him. “Quartermaster is a very different proposition. I will wield no actual authority. In theory I will be responsible only for taking care of supplies and keeping the Halls tidy. But as you know, in reality the quartermaster has a huge say on everything that happens in Vampire Mountain, not just at Council but the rest of the time. Princes and Generals come and go as needs dictate, but the quartermaster is ever present. I will have the task of approving tutors and guards, determining how and what students are taught. I will have the ears of the Princes — the ear in Paris Skyle’s case — and they will listen carefully to my opinions.”

“They do that anyway,” Larten said.

“Perhaps,” Seba smiled. “But it is a different situation now. I cannot command as I could if I became a Prince. But if I live a long time — and the gods seem unwilling to take my soul, even though I am old and weary — I will be able to exert a strong influence for many decades to come. I can be a link between the old ways and the new. I think the clan needs someone like that right now.”

Seba studied his assistants, awaiting their reactions. As he had suspected, Wester responded enthusiastically. “Congratulations, master. You deserve this and I know you’ll be a credit to the clan.”

Larten wasn’t sure what to say. He already had an idea what this would mean for him and he was struggling with which path to take now that he had come to an unexpected fork in the road.

“Aye,” Larten muttered. “Congratulations. May the luck of the vampires be with you.”

Seba nodded, then said as lightly as he could, “What will the pair of you do now? I do not expect you to stay. I imagine you will want to leave and

“No!” Wester exclaimed. “I’ll stay. I still have much to learn and nobody can teach me better than you.”

“Are you certain?” Seba asked, ignoring the flattery. “It will be twenty orthirty years before you can become a General. That is a long time for a young vampire to spend caged inside a mountain.”

“I don’t care,” Wester said stubbornly. “I’m staying. You will too, won’t you, Larten?” There was a faint, desperate edge to Wester’s voice. He was trying to sound casual, but he knew Larten was eager to leave. He didn’t want to be forced to choose between his best friend and his mentor.

Larten didn’t reply immediately. His brow furrowed as he considered his options. Seba longed to advise Larten to leave, but thought it would be wrong of him to try to influence his uncertain assistant, so he held his tongue.

“Stay,” Wester hissed. “This place isn’t so bad. You’d have to look for a new master if you left.”

“There are many who would accept you,” Seba murmured, interceding only to counter the pressure that Wester was exerting. “You made a fine impression at Council and would have your choice of

tutors, perhaps even Paris Skyle or another Prince.”

Larten’s eyes narrowed. The Princes trained only those with great potential, the vampires who might become powerful Generals and replace them further down the line. This was the first indication he’d had that the path to the Hall of Princes might open up to him in the future. Mika Ver Leth would have jumped at such an opportunity, but Larten wasn’t Mika and he didn’t hunger for power. Yet it was tempting….

Larten glanced at Wester and saw both hope and fear in his blood brother’s eyes. It was ridiculous. The pair were in their sixties. They would have been greatgrandfathers with at least one foot in the grave if they hadn’t been blooded. Men of their age should have long outgrown the need fora best friend.

But they were young as vampires measured such things, and hadn’t been apart since facing Murlough in the ruins of the old house. The pair had gone through much together, blooding, training, running with war packs. Larten would be lonely if they parted, but it would be harder on Wester. In the long run it might be better for him — Westerthought of himself too much as a lesser brother and maybe he needed some time apart from Larten to grow. But in the short term it would hurt.

Larten tried to distance himself from Wester’s feelings, to decide what he wanted. But it was difficult. He felt-wrongly-that Seba would be disappointed if he left. The old vampire might think that Larten hoped to leam more from another master. He should have known better — Seba had made it clear on many occasions that the time would come when his assistants would need to establish their own lives — but his thoughts were jumbled up.

Finally Larten sighed and went with the easiest option. “I will stay,” he said glumly.

Wester cheered and hugged him. Seba smiled, but inside he was troubled. When he retired to his coffin the following morning he lay awake for a long time,

plagued by an uneasy feeling, wondering if he should have spoken up rather than let Larten make what he believed to be a potentially damaging call.

Chapter Twelve

The next few years were difficult for Larten. Training to be a General was a hard time for any vampire. To start with, he had to master a variety of weapons, even though he would never use most of them. Larten looked forward to his knife and ax lessons but there were others — like the throwing stars Vancha favored, and a spiked, four-headed club — that he loathed. There was no such thing as an easy lesson. He was thrown in at the deep end every time and forced to defend himself in the face of a very real attack by his tutor. Larten spent many weeks nursing broken bones, and was concussed so often that he regularly couldn’t get to sleep because of the ringing in his ears.

What particularly depressed him was that Wester was making relatively smooth progress. His younger friend suffered a vast array of injuries, the same as every trainee, but nowhere near anything like Larten’s. And it didn’t seem to matter how hard the orangehaired assistant worked — he always came to more grief in his lessons than Wester or the others in their group.

What Larten didn’t know was that his tutors were working him harder than the rest. It wasn’t a conspiracy but simply the way they operated. When the taskmasters of Vampire Mountain trained someone with above-average ability, they gave him especially grueling tasks.

Vampires were ruthless. They had no time for weakness and weeded out those who would be of no benefit to the clan. This was widely known. But many of the trainees were unaware that their masters were as harsh with those who had the potential to become leaders. If a tutor thought a student had talent, he pushed the youth to his limit, to either exploit or exhaust his potential. If Larten stayed the course and proved himself worthy of the challenges he was given, he would find himself on the road to success. But if his tutors broke his spirit and he failed, they’d consider the clan well rid of him. More was always asked of those with more to offer.

Seba had no time to comfort or reassure his struggling assistant. The job of quartermaster was more demanding than he had imagined and his first few years were a hectic period of adjustment. There were so many details he had to stay on top of, from cultivating luminous lichen in tunnels where the glowing moss had died out, to maintaining the stocks of live animals, to ensuring coffins were kept clean for visitors, to dealing with the eerie Guardians of the Blood.

When Larten was injured and unable to train, he sometimes assisted Seba. It was while helping his master that he came to learn about the Guardians. He had always assumed that the blood in Vampire Mountain was shipped in and stored in vats, but now he found that most of it came from a tribe of humans living in the bowels of the mountain.

The Guardians were pale, strange creatures. In exchange for their blood, they took care of certain burial details when a vampire died, extracting each corpse’s inner organs and brains, draining its body dry. Many vampires chose to be sent down a mountain stream when they died. If their corpses weren’t fully cleaned out in advance, animals would feast on their poisonous organs and go insane.

Larten didn’t like the Guardians — they had an aloof air and seldom answered if spoken to — but he wanted to learn as much as he could about the clan and its workings, so he studied them as dispassionately as possible.

Memorizing facts about the clan was also part of his training. Vampires were expected to familiarize themselves with their history, leam the names of their past leaders, be able to recite the many legends of their gods. Most vampires were illiterate. Books were for humans, not children of the night. Their history was recorded in tales and legends, passed on by word of mouth, and all had to help sustain it. If a disease or war ever wiped out the majority of the clan, the few who were left could at least keep their origins, achievements and myths alive.

Larten learned much about his race. Those were the nights he looked forward to most, when he and the other trainees sat around and listened to their elders wax lyrical about the past or chant ancient songs. He had a keen memory and was able to recount most of what he heard. Wester was even smarter and stored away details that Larten couldn’t retain, but his friend had always been mentally sharper, so Larten didn’t mind lagging behind in that department.

Wester was most interested in stories about the vampaneze. Many Generals would have happily made no mention of the breakaway group, but the war that had erupted subsequently was a crucial part of their heritage, so they reluctantly discussed the reasons behind the split and what the other night creatures had been doing since then.

Wester wanted to find out everything he could about the vampaneze, and he never seemed satisfied with what the Generals told him. He began sidetracking vampires in the Halls and tunnels, asking questions and learning more about their foes. He fell in with a group of vampaneze haters. Each of them thought that the purple-skinned traitors should be hunted to extinction. They respected the rule of the Princes — that went without question — but schemed on the sly, keeping abreast of vampaneze movements and activities, in case their leaders ever decided to sanction another war.

Wester tried to involve Larten with his new network of friends. He invited Larten to meetings and urged him to listen to their tales of vampaneze atrocities. Because Larten thought of Wester as a brother, he met with the disgruntled vampires and listened quietly as they spun wild stories of vampaneze drinking the blood of babies and targeting royals and politicians in human society. According to the rumors, they were establishing contacts around the globe, gathering an army of humans to support them in a strike on Vampire Mountain.

“They’ll kill us all if we don’t hit them first!” was the common rallying cry.

Larten dismissed the speculation and urged Wester to do the same. “They are mad, the lot of them,” he argued. Then, before Wester could refute that, he said, “No, not all. Some speak truly, those who simply report on what the vampaneze do and where they travel. But these tales of armies and master plans…” He snorted. “The vampaneze have nothing but scorn for humans. They see mankind as cattle to drain and discard. One of the reasons they broke away from us was because of our leniency. They mock us for not killing when we feed. To suggest that they are working in league with humans is a lie and one that can easily be exposed. Question the conspirators. Vampaneze always tell the truth. Ask them if they plot against us. They will answer honestly — and answer nay.”

“Don’t tell me you believe that old tale,” Wester sneered. “Of course they lie. They just want us to think that they don’t.”

Larten realized he and Wester would never see eye to eye on this matter. To avoid arguments — and maybe a fight, since Wester felt that strongly about it-he stopped mingling with the dissidents. Whenever Wester invited him to a meeting, Larten made an excuse not to go. Wester soon acknowledged his friend’s wishes and cut Larten out of that part of his life. He cut out his master too, knowing in his heart that although Seba disliked those who had split from the clan, he would never urge war against them. The old vampire might welcome a war if it came to pass, but he would n’t try to provoke one or approve of those who did.

Seba would have been worried if he’d seen the vampires Wester was involved with. Maybe he would have urged his hotheaded ward to stay out of such complex, dangerous affairs. But the quartermaster was still adjusting to his new position and had little time to focus on his assistants. He kept up with reports of their development, but other than that he trusted them to the guiding hands of their tutors. By the time Seba settled into his job and was able to pay closer attention to his charges, Wester had learned not to discuss his feelings except with those who felt the same way he did.

Larten could have told Seba what was happening, but he didn’t think it was important. Wester and his allies respected the rule of the Princes, there was no doubt about that, so he saw no real threat in their angry mutterings. As long as the vampire leaders maintained the truce, dissenters like Wester could do nothing to cause trouble. They were bound by their sense of duty, the way every vampire was. At worst they could march off to perish in the wilderness, as Perta Vin-Grahl and his supporters once had.

But Larten was sure it wouldn’t come to that. They were just letting off steam, all talk and bluster. Nothing would come of their scaremongering. They’d need the backing of a Prince to move forward with their plans of war, but what vampire of high standing would ever support a crazy, bloodthirsty cause like theirs?

Chapter Thirteen

Larten’s mood had darkened steadily. He was growing more disillusioned with every passing night and had come to hate his training, Vampire Mountain, the hierarchy of Generals and Princes. It all seemed pointless. What could they achieve, cut off from the world, never interfering in the ways of humans, settling for the shadows instead of controlling the night?

He had been looking forward to Council — he’d spent long hours practicing one-armed combat in the months leading up to it, anticipating his rematch with the broken-nosed General — but even that proved disappointing. He enjoyed the fighting and games, but every vampire seemed full of disquieting tales. Mankind was making massive industrial advances. Cities were growing at a dizzying rate. Men were dominating the planet more than ever before. Vampires were having to withdraw deep into the wilds to roam freely.

There was an air of crisis about that Council. Two new Princes had been elected, but the clan felt as if they were at a crossroads and didn’t know which way to turn. There was no sense of direction from their leaders — the Princes were divided on the issue of howto respond to the changing world. Seba had seen indecision like this before, so he took little notice of the alarm, confident that time would iron out the creases, that vampires would adapt as they always had. But to Larten it seemed like the clan was unraveling, that he was wasting his time training to be a member of an outdated order.

While Larten flailed, Wester had found a new calling and was fully focused on it. After a long talk with Seba, he had realized the life of a General wasn’t for him. What he relished was life in Vampire Mountain. Abandoning his training, he instead started studying to become a guard. While they weren’t as highly respected as Generals — no guard had ever become a Prince — it was an important position and

Larten was happy for his friend. He suspected Wester would make a fine guard and might one night replace Seba as quartermaster. He was pleased that Wester had chosen a suitable path and was forging ahead.

But it also made him more unsure of his own route. He couldn’t say with all honesty that he still wanted to be a General. He’d had doubts before Council, and they increased afterwards. Was he pursuing this course simply because it would make Seba happy? He had no idea what he would do if he quit — was uncertainty about his future the only reason he continued to study?

In the months and years after Council his unhappiness festered. Joy seeped from his life and he went about his training halfheartedly, taking no joy from his successes, learning nothing from his failures. Seba saw the gloom that the young vampire had succumbed to. He had more time for his assistants now, but Larten was distant around his master. Seba tried getting him to talk about his depression but Larten rebuffed all advances.

Seba desperately wanted to help his troubled charge. He would have done anything to bring a smile to Larten’s face. But he was helpless. Larten had to make the first move. Change was essential, but only the trainee General had the power to take his life by the scruff of the neck and shake it up.

Then, one night, thanks to a cluster of dead vampires, he did.

The Guardians of the Blood informed Seba of the problem, sending one of their pale members to track him down. Seba had been aware of the stench — most of the vampires in the mountain had caught a whiff of it — but there had been similar cases in the past and each time the issue had resolved itself. But the Guardian said that this was different. They needed to sort it out.

Seba summoned a team and had them meet him in the Hall of Final Voyage, a small cave with a stream flowing through it. This was where many vampires over the centuries had chosen to be cast off when they died. The stream would carry their bodies down through the hidden tunnels of the mountain, then wash them out into the world and far away. The custom was dying out — cremation was the current popular trend — but some of the elder vampires still preferred the more traditional method.

“I trust you can all smell that,” Seba said cheerfully once his crew was in place. He took a deep breath of the putrid air and smiled as if sniffing perfume.

“I thought it was Goulder,” someone laughed.

“Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you,” a vampire named Patrick Goulder snapped. Larten and the others covered their smiles. Patrick did have a problem with his odor, but it was nowhere near as bad as this.

“Bodies are stuck in the tunnel,” Seba said. “This is not the first time it has happened. Usually, when the water rises in winter, it washes them away. But the Guardians have told me that will not happen on this occasion. We have to go down there and free them.”

The vampires frowned, then a few looked to Larten with their eyebrows raised. Since he was Seba’s assistant, it was his place to ask the question going through all of their minds.

“Surely this is a job for the Guardians,” Larten muttered. “They are in charge of burials.”

“No,” Seba said. "We are in charge. We let them take control of certain details because it suits our needs. But this is our problem, not theirs.

“Come now,” he chortled, trying to raise their spirits. “It is not that bad. I have brought pegs for your noses and you will be tied to one another with ropes to ensure that none of you gets washed away. The water is no colder than in the Hall of Perta Vin-Grahl. Our chefs have prepared a fine broth for when you return. It will be an adventure!”

“Are you going down the tunnel, Seba?” one of the team asked.

“I would love to,” Seba sighed. “But my back…” He winced and held his sides like an old woman.

The vampires laughed and started roping themselves together. Some would stay with Seba, to hold the ropes and pull back the others if the current proved too strong. But Larten was one of those charged with wading down the tunnel.

Larten shivered as he lowered himself into the fast-flowing water. Partly it was the chill, but mostly it was the eerie feeling of staring directly into the mouth of the funereal tunnel. Larten had never expected to pass through this opening alive. It was a journey only the dead were meant to take. It felt wrong, as if he and the others were trespassing, going where the living weren’t welcome.

“I know this is difficult,” Seba said seriously, “but you have nothing to fear. There are no ghosts. All of the vampires who passed through here were of good standing. Their souls flew directly to Paradise when they died.”

The team in the water hesitated despite Seba’s reassurances, staring down that awful hole at the blackness. Then Larten, since he knew that Seba would expect it of him, clapped loudly. “Move on, there!” he shouted atthe vampires ahead of him. “The sooner we finish this, the sooner we can be back in the Hall of Khledon Lurt, warming up with a bowl of broth and a mug of ale.”

Cheers greeted that and the vampires in the lead — there were two teams, set side by side — released their grip on the bank and let the current carry them out of the cave and into darkness.

Each team had a torch-carrier, but they came at the rear. So, when Larten entered the tunnel, he had to endure a minute of near-total gloom. He imagined lonely spirits drifting around him and was almost afraid of what the light of the torches would reveal. But, as Seba had said, there were no ghosts here. When the torch-bearers finally lit up the area, Larten saw nothing except rock and water. Offering up a quick prayer to the gods, he moved on in search of the blockage.

The stench worsened as they advanced and the pegs on their noses didn’t help much. It seemed to thicken in the air around them and soak into their pores. A couple of the vampires choked and were sick. The teams paused to let the vomit float ahead of them. Larten could feel his own insides rumbling, but he managed to keep his food down.

They inched their way along the tunnel, the team in the cave keeping a tight rein on them. Nobody knew what lay ahead. If the floor suddenly dropped into an underground waterfall, those on the ropes didn’t want the others being swept away. As impatient as the vampires in the tunnel were, Seba made sure that the team in the cave kept a firm grip on the rope and fed it out at a slow, steady rate. Larten had no idea if he’d been in the water ten minutes or an hour. All he knew was that it seemed like an age.

Eventually they came to where the bodies had stacked up, and it was far worse than anyone had imagined. Larten tried to count the corpses, but it was impossible. They were rammed tight, a wall of bones and rotting flesh. Some were skeletons — this had been building for a number of years — but most were dotted with scraps of skin and hair. Larten could probably have recognized some of the dead if he’d looked closely.

He didn’t.

Gagging and pale-faced, they closed in on the wall of the dead. One of the vampires near the front screamed and had to be released. Clinging to the rope, he scuttled back to the safety of the cave. Larten should have felt contempt, but all he could muster was envy. He wanted to follow the coward and it took all of

his willpower not to.

Larten watched sickly as the two vampires at the head of the team reached out and tugged at the obstruction. If luck was with the group, the pair at the front would shake the corpses free and the rest of them need never touch the remains of the dead.

But the luck of the vampires was in scarce supply that night. The wall of bones rattled but didn’t give. Sighing, Larten and the others edged forward until all were within touching distance ofthe stinking corpses.

Patrick Goulder raised a fist and threw a punch at the bones nearest him, trying to smash a way through.

“Stop!” Larten roared. When Patrick looked at him, Larten growled, “They might be dead, but they are still children ofthe clan, Generals who fought bravely and deserve our respect. We will not shatter their bones unless all else fails. We will try to pry them apart gently, to keep each corpse intact.”

Patrick snorted. “Do you think it makes a difference? They’ll be torn to pieces by animals on the outside anyway.”

‘What happens outside is not our business,” Larten said. “What happens within this mountain is.”

Patrick rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Since Larten had spoken up and taken charge, it fell on him to make the first stab at the mound of bodies. Gulping, he reached up, ran his fingers over a few of the skeletons, located the shoulders of one and pulled softly. When nothing happened, he tugged harder. Finally the upper half came free, but so did a mess of rotting bat corpses that had lodged in the network of bones. They shot out of a hole that Larten hadn’t seen, propelled by a snapping bone, and splattered his face.

Larten shrieked, fell backwards and went under, pulling the skeleton with him. For a moment of pure panic he thrashed beneath the water, the bones ofthe dead pushing him down. In his fear he thought the vampire had come back to life and was trying to kill him. He lashed out at the skeleton, tasting the foul guts of the dead bats. He tried to spit them out, but water drove bits of disgusting organs down his throat. As Larten retched, hands gripped his arms and pulled him up.

He cried out as he broke the surface, eyes wild. The peg had been knocked from his nose and the stench hit him harder than ever. He retched again, vomiting up the contents of his stomach.

“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.

Chapter Fourteen

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.”

“But…” Wester stared at his master. “What if I went

with him?”

‘You have the same right to leave as he has,” Seba said stiffly. Then he smiled. “But you will not. Your place is here and you know it. We must let him go. If the luck of the vampires is with him, he will return when he is ready. But for now he must walk his own path, or at least try to find it.”

Wester nodded slowly, then looked at the gaping space ofthe doorway. “I fear for him. He doesn’t know what he wants. He’ll run into trouble.”

“Probably,” Seba said glumly. “But he is strong and I believe that he will find his way in the end. If I am wrong…” Seba sighed and pressed the middle finger of his left hand to his forehead. Keeping his eyes open, he covered them with his second and fourth fingers, spreading his thumb and smallest finger wide. “Even in death may he be triumphant.”

Then Seba put all thoughts of his departing assistant from his mind and focused on his duties, leaving Larten Crepsley to the unknowable workings of whatever destiny held in store for him.