Darren Shan – The Saga of Larten Crepsley 1-4 (страница 21)

“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!”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

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.

“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.