The Saga of Larten Crepsley 1-4. Darren Shan
sleep by the time I travel there and back.”
“You are young,” Seba said. “You do not need a lot of sleep.”
Wester wanted to volunteer to go instead, but Seba would be furious if he said anything. Assistants were never supposed to contradict their master.
“Do you want any particular type of bread?” Larten growled.
“Of course not,” Seba said, settling back and closing his eyes. “You know that I am not particular.”
“How about you?” Larten snapped at Wester.
“I’m fine,” Wester said quickly.
Larten set off through the forest, grumbling and kicking any tree stump that got in his way. The last few years had been a frustrating drag. Endless tests, most of which he’d failed. No contact with other vampires. No adventures. Not much travel, and when they did go to a new country, Seba wouldn’t let them explore. “I have already seen that,” he would say whenever they asked to go sightseeing. “It is not worth the trek.”
Wester was bored and irritable too, but he still had faith in their master. He believed Seba was doing this for a reason, that every vampire had to endure such treatment on their way to becoming a General.
Larten wasn’t convinced. He thought maybe age had caught up with Seba, that his thoughts had become muddled. Maybe these weren’t real tests at all, just ways to make his assistants look foolish. Nothing they did in recent times satisfied the grouchy old vampire. He found flaws in everything. Larten couldn’t believe that other masters were this critical of their students.
He took his time walking to the village. He kept to the gloom of the forest as best he could, avoiding the rays of the sun, which were painful for him now. But sometimes he had to pass through a clearing. When he did, he raised his cloak – a tattered grey thing he’d picked up during his travels – over his head and jogged, muttering darkly once he was safely back among the shadows.
When Larten returned with the loaf – still warm, tucked away in the folds of his cloak – Seba stirred and called to him. “Is that you, Larten?”
“Aye.”
“What took you so long?”
Larten bit down on his tongue to stop himself cursing. “You said you were going to eat later. I did not think there was any rush.”
“I am too hungry to wait.” Seba beckoned impatiently for the bread. Larten resisted an urge to toss the loaf at his master’s head, and instead unwrapped it and handed it across. Seba’s eyebrows creased. “I wanted brown bread.”
Larten trembled. “You said you didn’t mind,” he snarled through gritted teeth.
“Did I?”
“Aye.”
“Oh.” Seba blinked innocently. “My apologies. I meant to ask for brown.”
He held the loaf out to Larten and nodded in the direction of the village. Larten stared at the bread, wondering if it was possible to batter a person to death with it. Then he turned abruptly and headed back the way he’d come. He passed close by Wester, but his friend kept his head down, buried beneath a blanket, afraid Larten would vent his anger on him if he caught his eye.
Several weeks later, Larten and Wester were fishing. They stood in the middle of a fast-flowing stream, thigh-deep in cold water, hunched over. The test was to spear a fish with their little finger. It should have been a simple task, except Seba had tied a strip of cloth around their eyes so that neither could see.
“Listen closely, gentlemen,” he called from the bank, where he was tucking into a pheasant that they had caught and roasted for him earlier. “No creature moves in complete silence. Focus. Train your ears. Ignore the sounds of the stream and the rumblings of your stomachs.”
“Easy for him to say,” Larten huffed, the delicious smell of the pheasant thick in his nostrils. He hadn’t eaten since they’d arrived here four nights ago. Wester hadn’t either. Seba had told them they could eat nothing until they caught a fish.
Wester bent close to the water and strained, but he could hear nothing moving beneath the surface, even with his advanced senses. After a few minutes he stabbed directionlessly, figuring if he did that often enough, he had to catch something eventually. But he came up empty-handed.
Beside him, Larten was struggling to control his rage. He was starving, wet and freezing. But worst of all, he felt like a fool. There was no way they could do this. If it was a still pond, perhaps, but there were limits to what even a vampire could do. Besides, when he’d studied the stream from the bank before getting in, he hadn’t seen any fish.
Something bumped lightly against Larten’s leg and he thrust at it. His nail struck true and he yelled with triumph. But when he ripped his blindfold away he saw that he’d only speared a piece of wood.
“You will not get fat on that,” Seba chuckled, juices from the pheasant dripping down his chin.
“Charna’s guts!” Larten roared and threw the stick at Seba. It struck the vampire’s shoulder and bounced harmlessly to the floor. Seba stared at it, then at Larten, his expression unreadable.
“Apologise!” Wester hissed. He’d removed his blindfold and was trembling.
“For what?” Larten shouted. “He’s treating us worse than animals. There’s no way we can–”
“He is,” Seba calmly corrected him. “There is.”
“How about this?” Larten sneered. “You are a stupid, cruel, decrepit sham of a vampire!”
“Larten!” Wester gasped.
“You have lost your senses,” Larten pressed on. He waded out of the stream and stood dripping before his master. “You do not deserve the title of General. You are setting us tasks that no vampire could complete, just to watch us fail. You should go and…”
He stopped. Seba had stood up and was heading for the stream. He got in and told Wester to tie the blindfold around his eyes. As the pair of young vampires watched in silence, he extended his arms and stuck out the index finger of both hands. Seba crouched low over the gushing water and held his position like a hovering hawk. For a long time he didn’t move and his assistants were motionless too. Then, in a flash, his left hand shot into the water. When he pulled it out again, his finger was stuck through the middle of a small, silver fish.
Seba tossed the fish on to the bank, removed his blindfold and raised an eyebrow at Larten, inviting an apology. But Larten was in no mood to beg his master’s forgiveness. With a curse, he suggested a dark, warm place where Seba could stuff the fish, then spun on his heels and stormed off.
“Larten!” Wester cried, struggling out of the stream. He wanted to go after his friend, but before he could, Seba called to him.
“Hold, Master Flack.” When Wester looked back, he was astonished to see Seba smiling. “Let him go. It will do him good to sulk for a while.”
Wester frowned, then looked for the fish. Picking it up, he sniffed carefully. “This isn’t fresh,” he whispered.
“I would be shocked if it was,” Seba chuckled. “I caught it some hours ago, while you were hunting for my pheasant. I had it concealed up my sleeve. As a trained magician, Larten really should have noticed. Perhaps he was too hungry to concentrate.”
“Larten was right,” Wester snapped. “You’re making fools of us.”
Seba’s smile faded and he shook his head. “You are like sons to me. I would never do that to you. The tasks I have set are all within the means of vampires of a certain standing. You and Larten are not yet ready to pass such tests, but they are legitimate and there is no shame in failing them.”
“I don’t understand,” Wester frowned. “Why set the tests if you know we can’t complete them?”
“To