Читать книгу The Saga of Larten Crepsley 1-4 - Darren Shan - Страница 27

Larten sat in the Hall of Khledon Lurt, sipping from a mug of ale, studying the red drapes hanging from the walls and ceiling, the statue of Khledon Lurt at the centre of the room, and of course the vampires. He had been here almost a week, but still felt out of place among the hardened creatures of the night. This was his first time at Council and it was hard to shake the feeling that he didn’t belong.

He put his mug down and rubbed the scars on his fingertips, remembering the night when Seba drove his nails into the soft flesh. Larten had welcomed the pain because it meant he was leaving behind the human world, taking a step into the night from which there could be no return. He was proud of his ten scars, still shiny after all this time, but they didn’t mean much here. There was a lot more to becoming a vampire of good standing than being able to show that you had been blooded, and Larten was afraid he might not have what it required.

He was nearly thirty, so as a human he would have been in his prime. If he had battled his way up in the world of man, respect and security would probably have been his by now.

But he had been blooded as a half-vampire when he was eighteen, and as a full-vampire five years ago, so he looked like someone in his late teens. And all of his travel and experience paled into insignificance when compared with the adventures of vampires who had circled the globe countless times. Among these centuries-old beings, he felt like a child.

“There you are,” Wester said, flopping down beside him and half draining a mug of ale. “Charna’s guts! I needed that.” The ancient curse sounded amusing coming from Wester, but Larten hid his smile, not wanting to hurt his friend’s feelings.

“This place is amazing,” Wester beamed. “So many tunnels and Halls. Have you been to the Hall of Perta Vin-Grahl yet? No, wait, never mind.” He sniffed the air. “I can tell that you haven’t.”

“By implying that I stink, I assume you mean that the Hall of Perta Vin-Grahl is a bathing room,” Larten said drily.

“Of a kind,” Wester chuckled. “Make sure you bring heavy clothes to wrap up in once you’re done. They don’t believe in pampering themselves here with towels or robes.”

Wester drank more of his ale and looked around the cave, eyes sparkling. Wester and Larten had been blooded at the same time, but Wester hadn’t become a full-vampire until two years ago. Larten had always been a faster learner, a few steps ahead at every stage of their training, but in spite of that Wester had adapted more swiftly to the world of Vampire Mountain. He had been mixing freely with other vampires since he arrived, learning about their history, exploring the maze within the mountain, making himself at home.

Larten had stayed close to Seba most of the time, saying little, not sure how to behave. Their master hadn’t wanted to bring them to Council. They were young and he thought it would be better if they waited another twelve years. But they had argued fiercely with him and in the end he’d relented. At the time Larten thought Seba was worried about Wester, afraid that his slightly younger assistant wasn’t up to the physical strain of the bare-footed trek through lands cold and hard. But now Larten had started to think that his master had actually seen a weakness in him.

Larten listened quietly as Wester told him of his recent meetings, his new friends, what he’d learnt about life in the clan. After a while he lowered his voice and said, “I found out more about the vampaneze.”

Both were intrigued by the mysterious, purple-skinned renegades – Seba had told them precious little of the other night clan – but Wester had more of a vested interest than Larten.

“A group of seventy broke away about five hundred years ago. There was a war. It lasted decades, vampires against vampaneze — they hated each other. In the end a peace treaty was agreed and there’s been an uneasy truce ever since.”

“I wonder why they sought peace?” Larten mused. “Why didn’t they see the war through to its end and kill all of the traitors?”

“I haven’t found out yet,” Wester said. “But you know what this means?” Larten stared at him uncertainly. “Seba was alive then. He probably fought in the war.”

“Perhaps that is why he never speaks of the vampaneze,” Larten muttered.

“Aye. And maybe that has something to do with him not wanting to be a Prince.” Larten had let that slip several years ago. He’d regretted it immediately and made Wester promise never to mention it to their master, but the pair had often discussed it in private, trying to figure out the secrets of Seba’s past.

“Have you ever heard of Desmond Tiny?” Wester asked.

“No. Why?”

“A General mentioned him in passing when he was telling me about the war and its conclusion. I asked a couple of others about him. They got an edgy look when I mentioned his name, but they wouldn’t tell me why.”

“You think he was a traitor?” Wester had learnt that the names of traitors were never uttered by those of the clan.

“Maybe,” Wester said, but he sounded unsure.

Further debate was ended when Seba entered the Hall and hailed them. Their master was with another vampire, a scruffy man clad in purple hides and no shoes. He was about Wester’s height, but much broader than either of Seba’s assistants. He had green hair, huge eyes and a small mouth. There were belts strapped around his torso and strange metal stars were attached to them.

“Larten, Wester, this is Vancha March,” Seba introduced them, sitting down at the table.

Vancha nodded at the youthful vampires and called for a mug of milk. As one of the servants of the Hall handed it to him, he downed it with a deep gulp, then belched loudly and ordered another. Wiping his mouth with the back of a dirty hand, he smiled at Larten and Wester. “Seba’s been telling me about you two. New-bloods, aye?”

“It has been more than five years since I was blooded,” Larten corrected him.

Vancha laughed. “That’s as good as new the way we measure time. Welcome to the clan.” He pressed the middle finger of his right hand to his forehead, placed the fingers next to that over his eyes, and spread his thumb and little finger wide. It was the death’s touch sign, something Larten had seen several times since coming to the mountain. As Vancha made the sign, he said solemnly, “Even in death may you be triumphant.” Then he burped, called for a slab of raw meat and bit into it with relish. Larten frowned. He didn’t approve of the older vampire’s crude manner.

“Vancha is something of a traditionalist,” Seba murmured as blood oozed down Vancha’s chin.

“How old are you?” Wester asked, then raised a hand quickly. “No, let me guess, I’m trying to get used to this.”

“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!”