The Saga of Larten Crepsley 1-4. Darren Shan
vampire could have knocked Larten’s head off with a single punch, so he was always wary of doing damage. He had never truly hurt the boy, merely stung him. Even Larten’s mother had hit harder than Seba Nile.
Seba was resting in what was once the main fireplace. The chimney had fallen in many years ago and created a sheltered niche. Larten had made his bed nearby, in the open, so if anyone came he could prevent them from stumbling across the sleeping vampire.
Larten hung the corpse of the Wildcat from a hook in a wall. He slit its throat and left it to bleed, then used bits of flint to start a fire. They often ate their meat raw, but a cat needed to be cooked or its blood would poison Seba.
Larten had relished the last five years, even the cold, wet nights when he’d had to bite into the horrible flesh of a live rat. He’d never once regretted his decision to become Seba’s assistant. This was a hard life, but it was all he craved. He was still human, and many of the vampire ways were a mystery to him, but there was no question in his mind that this was his fate.
Though Seba was a thoughtful master, Larten’s education was by no means easy. Vampire assistants had a much harder time than their masters. Though Seba made allowances for his human aide, he was a superior creature of the night. He was stronger, faster and more enduring than any human, and his assistant had to keep pace. If Seba marched all night, Larten wasn’t allowed to fall behind. If Seba wrestled a bear, Larten had to pitch in and help.
Many assistants perished horribly before they could be blooded. That was the vampire way — they only accepted the most resilient. If you failed, the clan was better off without you. Larten knew he could expect no sympathy if he came up short of his master’s expectations. Nor would he ask for any.
As the sun dropped, Larten slit the Wildcat down the middle, then speared it on two spits and hung the meat over the fire. The smell was delicious, but he tried not to take pleasure from the scent. If Seba caught the young man’s mouth watering, he’d probably toss the carcass aside and insist they hunt for raw meat.
As Larten tended the roasting cat, he hummed a song that Seba had taught him. It was an ancient melody, not of the vampires, but from the human world of three hundred years ago. Larten would have liked to learn a few vampire tunes, but Seba said they were best kept for the Halls of Vampire Mountain.
Larten grew wistful as he thought about the legendary home of the clan. Seba hadn’t told him much about the mountain, but Larten had heard enough to fire his dreams. In his imagination it was a majestic place full of noble vampires. Great deeds were recounted there, lavish feasts were laid on for the Princes and Generals, and vampires had the opportunity to test themselves against their fellow night-stalkers. There was little in the human world to really challenge a vampire, but in the caverns and tunnels of Vampire Mountain you could truly find out what you were made of.
Larten stopped humming and kept his gaze on the roasting cat. He appeared to be listening to the crackle of the flames, but he was actually concentrating on very soft steps behind him.
“Will you be dining with us tonight, sir?” he called without looking up from the fire or turning around.
Someone clapped. “Very good,” the stranger said, stepping forward out of the shadows. “You have a sharp ear.”
“For a human,” Larten murmured and turned to greet the visitor. He’d known by the sounds that their guest was a vampire — he moved the same quiet way Seba did when he was testing Larten’s senses. If a vampire wished to sneak up on a human, they could move so silently that detection was impossible. But this one had wanted to give Larten a chance.
The vampire was about Seba’s height but a little broader. He looked even older than Seba and had long white hair and a tight grey beard. He was missing his right ear. The flesh around the hole was a pale pink colour.
“Your name?” the vampire asked, approaching the fire and warming his hands.
“Larten Crepsley. I serve Seba Nile.”
“Aye,” the vampire said. “I gathered that much. I’m Paris Skyle. Seba has told you about me?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. I don’t like being discussed behind my back.” The vampire winked, then ran a curious eye over the young man’s face. “Have you been with Seba for long?”
“Close to five years,” Larten answered.
“Still a ways from being blooded then?”
“Seba doesn’t say so, but I suspect that I am.”
Paris sniffed the fumes from the cat. “In answer to your first question, yes, I accept your offer of dinner. But in future you should be more careful who you extend an invitation to. Never ask anyone to break bread with you unless you’re sure of their intent.”
“I knew you were a friend,” Larten said. “Seba has been waiting for you. He didn’t tell me, but I guessed.”
“He might have been waiting for an enemy,” Paris growled.
Larten shook his head. “You don’t smile when you’re waiting for an enemy.”
“Certain vampires do,” Paris disagreed, but was prevented from going any further by the appearance of a yawning Seba Nile. Paris yelled a greeting when he saw Seba drift from his sleeping quarters, and the vampires gripped each other’s forearms, grinning widely.
Larten was excited – this was the first vampire he’d met since becoming Seba’s assistant – but he fought to keep his emotions to himself. If he smiled the way the pair of old friends were smiling, he would earn a cuff from Seba. So, maintaining a neutral expression, he stayed by the fire and focused on the roasting Wildcat, acting as if that was his only concern in the world.
CHAPTER NINE
Seba and Paris ignored Larten for a long time, but he didn’t mind. He could tell they were old friends who had a lot to catch up on. He served them their meal and provided wine from a jug that he’d bought in the last town they’d visited, then settled back and listened as they swapped tales and discussed other vampires.
“I lost my ear at the last Council,” Paris told Seba. “I was surprised you were not there.”
“I broke my leg on the way,” Seba grunted, blushing slightly. “I had to hole up in a cave for five months. I fed on bats and the occasional stray goat. I thought my time had come, but I healed and was able to hobble out in the spring.”
“I thought you had a bit of a limp,” Paris laughed.
“Tell me more about your ear — you look strange without it.”
Paris shrugged. “I was wrestling. My opponent’s nails caught on my ear and rather than take the time to free them, he ripped his hand away.”
“Painful?” Seba asked.
“Aye. But I bit a chunk out of his cheek in response. We forgave each other over a mug of ale later.”
Larten knew a bit about the Council. It was held every twelve years in Vampire Mountain, and vampires from all over the world made their way to it. Laws were passed there, tournaments were held and friendships were forged or renewed.
While listening, Larten was stunned to learn that Paris Skyle was one of six Vampire Princes. There were three classes of vampire — thousands of normal bloodsuckers, hundreds of Generals, and overseeing them all, the Princes. They held complete power. Their word was law.
Larten had pictured the Princes clad in fine costumes, like royalty in the stories he’d heard about as a child. He’d assumed they travelled with servants and guards. But apart from a few extra wrinkles, Paris looked much like Seba. His clothes were worn and dusty from the road. He was barefoot. He carried no crown or sceptre. And unless his retinue was hiding somewhere nearby, he was alone.
Paris threw away a bone and nodded at Larten to serve up more of the Wildcat. He certainly had a princely appetite —