“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 wouldn’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 how to 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 at the 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 of the 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 of the 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 of the 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 of the 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 of the 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 of the 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 of the pil