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“My one’s winning,” Yebba whooped as one of the brutes landed a blow.
“You didn’t bet on him,” Wester retorted. “You bet on the other one.”
“Did not!” Yebba shouted.
“Yes you did. He has that mark on his left arm, remember?”
Yebba squinted at the boxers, then cursed. “These humans all look the same to me,” he growled. Larten and Wester laughed and passed the disgruntled vampire another mug of ale — that was guaranteed to settle him down.
After the fight, Larten and Wester collected their winnings and took Yebba to a tavern where they found ladies to dance with. Small towns lacked the dance halls of big cities, but you could always sort out something if you splashed enough money around.
They joined a card game later. All three were drunk and they lost heavily, even Larten, who rarely tasted defeat at the gambling tables. But they didn’t mind. Money was easy to come by if you were a creature of the night.
Larten wanted to do his knife-catching trick again, but Wester wouldn’t let him. He took his friend’s knife away and held it out of reach as Larten tried to snatch it back. If they had been sober, Wester couldn’t have kept it from the faster, stronger vampire. But Larten was woozy and helpless. Wester had a knack of knowing when Larten was going to drink more than he could handle, and he stayed relatively clear-headed on those nights so that he could keep an eye on his reckless friend.
“Ish not fair,” Larten complained to a man with a monocle. “I’m Qui-hic! I’m Quick-hic!” He gulped ale until the hiccups went away. “I’m Quicksilver,” he growled majestically.
“Aye?” the man said, passing Larten a pinch of snuff. “I’m in the leather trade myself.”
“Not my bizzzness,” Larten slurred. “Ish my… ish my…” He pulled a face and forgot what he was trying to say, then fell face down on the table and knew no more until morning.
Larten awoke to savage pain. He was outside in the sun and his skin was a nasty red shade. As he blinked sleep from his eyes and tried to raise a hand to protect his face from the rays, he found that his arms were tied behind his back and he was hanging upside down. His shirt had been ripped away, exposing his torso, which had been burnt as deeply as his face.
Fear flared in his heart, but he thrust it from his thoughts. He didn’t know what was going on – perhaps he had been caught feeding drunkenly – but that didn’t matter. He had to escape quickly or he would burn like a pig on a spit.
Larten set to work on the knots around his wrists. He was hanging from a thick length of rope, swinging and turning in a soft breeze, but he ignored that and kept as still as possible, except for his fingers, which danced over the knots. The long, hardened nails of the vampires were invaluable when it came to picking knots and locks, but Larten would have been able to make short work of these regardless. He had learnt well from Merletta all those years ago.
Once his hands were free, he wriggled loose of the ropes binding his arms and chest. Bending upwards, he grabbed the supporting rope with one hand, tore apart the ropes around his legs with the other, hung in the air a moment, then dropped to his feet and landed in a crouch. His first instinct was to dart for the safety of the shadows, but he forced himself to scan the doorways of the sheds around him – he was in a courtyard – looking for the enemies who had strung him up.
For long, anxious seconds, Larten searched for his foes and readied himself for battle. Then he caught a scent and his nose crinkled with disgust. He rose and brushed dirt from his trousers. He dug out his watch and checked the time – it was for show, as Seba had taught him to read the time based on the position of the sun and stars – then coolly glanced at the sky and sniffed.
“My watch has stopped, Tanish,” he called. “If it’s broken, I’ll have the price of a new one out of you.”
Laughter greeted this statement and four vampires lurched out of a shed. One was a sheepish-looking Wester Flack. The others were Yebba, Zula Pone and Tanish Eul, the vampire who had originally given Larten his nickname.
“The same old Quicksilver,” Tanish snorted admiringly, then hurried forward to throw a cloak over the head and shoulders of his friend and bundle him into the shadows of the shed where a barrel of ale was waiting.
CHAPTER THREE
Tanish Eul was tall and thin, with a stunning smile and carefully groomed hair and nails. He was always stylishly dressed, and spoke in the smooth tones of a silver-tongued rogue. If Larten was a Romeo, Tanish was a full-blown Casanova — his success with the ladies was legendary.
Zula Pone, on the other hand, was one of the shortest people Larten had ever met. He was stout and ugly. Many vampires were rough by human standards, their faces laced with scars and patches from old wounds, but they were considered fair among their own. Poor Zula was ugly by any reckoning. Fortunately he didn’t care, and even wore shabby clothes and cut his hair crookedly to prove he was immune to what others thought of his looks. Despite this, Zula was a surprise hit with those of the fairer sex. He generally repulsed them to begin with, but after ten minutes in his company virtually any woman found herself won over by his charm.
Tanish had run into Zula a few years ago and instantly recognised a kindred spirit. They’d become fast friends and it wasn’t long before Larten and Wester were introduced to the newest member of their rowdy pack.
“You’ve got fairer skin than a baby,” Tanish hooted as Larten rested in the shed and tried not to move — his burnt flesh sent needles shooting through him every time he shifted. “You were only up there half an hour. I’d be a mild pink colour if it had been me.”
“You’ll be red with your own blood if you ever try that again,” Larten said angrily. “What if I hadn’t been able to undo the knots?”
“We were keeping a close watch on you,” Wester said. “We would have seen if you were in trouble.”
“And left you there to burn!” Zula exploded.
Larten found himself laughing along with the others. It had been a good joke, even though he was the butt of it. Wester was the only one who couldn’t see the funny side. He smiled along with the rest of them, but his smile was strained. Larten would be tender for the coming week, his flesh would peel and some of the sores might fester. Wester saw nothing humorous in that.
The vampires drank and chatted for a few hours, telling tall and bawdy tales. Tanish and Zula had been involved in a number of near scrapes as usual and had been run out of the last three towns they’d visited.
“The problem with humans is that they take life too seriously,” Tanish sneered. “Admittedly, we burnt down a storehouse with a winter’s supply of grain in it, so a few children will go hungry this year. So what? It will sort out the strong from the weak. Humans are too attached to their young. The vampaneze have the right idea — humans are only fit for killing.”
Tanish winked at Larten as he said that, then looked as innocent as he could when Wester flared up. “That’s a horrible thing to say! We were the same as them before we were blooded. They have shorter lives than us and are much weaker. If we kill humans, we disgrace ourselves. The vampaneze are soulless scum who will never find Paradise, and more fool you if you can’t see that.”
Wester ranted for another fifteen minutes. His hatred of the vampaneze had set in him like a disease, and though he spoke little of the matter most of the time, those close to him knew of his true feelings. Seba had tried reasoning with him – just because a vampaneze had killed his family, it didn’t mean he should hate all of them – but Wester refused to listen.
Wester’s hatred of the breakaway group of night-walkers troubled Larten more than it worried Seba. Their master had seen this dark bent in Wester many decades before and was convinced the young vampire would meet an early end at the hands of one purple-skinned vampaneze or another. But Larten had always hoped that Wester would come to terms with his loss and put his hatred behind him.
Larten had urged his dearest friend to track down Murlough – the one who had slain Wester’s family – and kill him. He thought that would finally help Wester to put that dark night behind him. But Wester was reluctant to do that. He had come to hate the entire vampaneze clan. He sometimes swore that he would finish off Murlough only when he was done with the rest of the scum, that he wanted his foe to suffer the same kind of loss that Wester had been forced to endure.
Tanish shrugged when Wester finally lapsed into a fuming silence. “The vampaneze mean nothing to me,” he said. “If war breaks out between us, I’ll fight them and be glad of the challenge. But as long as the truce is in place, what do they matter?”
“Desmond Tiny would beg to differ,” Wester growled. “He said the vampaneze would unite behind a mighty leader one night, that their Lord would lead them into war with us and wipe us from the face of the Earth.”
“I’ve never seen the legendary Mr Tiny and I don’t believe he’s as powerful as certain old fools claim,” Tanish said dismissively.
“Seba saw him,” Larten said softly. “He was at Vampire Mountain when Tiny visited after the vampaneze split from the clan. Seba heard him make his prophecy. He takes it seriously.”
Desmond Tiny was a being of immense magical power, who had predicted the downfall of the clan at the hands of the vampaneze. Lots of younger vampires thought he was a mythical creature. Larten might have too if his master hadn’t told him of the night when Mr Tiny visited the vampire base. He had seen the fear in Seba’s eyes, even all these centuries later.
“When I was blooded,” Larten continued, “Seba made me hold on to the Stone of Blood for longer than necessary. He said that the Stone was our only hope of thwarting destiny. Mr Tiny gave us the Stone to give us hope. Tiny craves chaos. He doesn’t want the vampaneze to eliminate us too easily. He’d rather we get dragged into a long war full of suffering and torment.”
Larten stared again at the marks on his fingers, remembering the night when he had embraced the Stone of Blood and surrendered himself forever to the rule of the clan.
“I didn’t mean to belittle Seba Nile,” Tanish said, choosing his words with care. He wasn’t close to his own master, but he knew Larten respected Seba. “If he says he saw Desmond Tiny, I believe him and apologise if I offended you.”
Larten made light of Tanish’s apology, though secretly it made him uneasy. He could feel himself starting to drift away from Tanish and the Cubs. Larten was growing tired of the endless drinking, gambling and womanising. He wasn’t yet ready to turn his back on the human world and its many delights, but he was sure he would return to Seba in a few more years to resume his studies.
He doubted Tanish would abandon the easy life so willingly. Some Cubs ended up rejecting the ways of the clan. They grew attached to human comforts and chose to remain in that soft, safe world. The Generals allowed them their freedom so long as they obeyed certain laws. Larten thought that Tanish would be one of those who never returned to Vampire Mountain, but wandered forever among humans.
“Enough of the damn vampaneze,” Zula scowled. “A pox on their purple skin. We have more important matters to discuss.”
“Such as?” Larten asked, a twinkle in his eyes, anticipating the answer.
“A war pack has formed.” Zula licked his lips and grinned. “They’re no more than a night’s march from here.”
“We thought we’d swing by for you two in case you were interested,” Tanish said.
“You thought right,” Larten chuckled. “We’ll set off at dusk.”
“With your skin as red as a lobster’s?” Wester asked.
“A minor irritation,” Larten said, wincing as he leant back on his bed of straw.
Without any further discussion he closed his eyes. The others lay down and also prepared for sleep, though it would be a long time before any of them dozed. They rested in the shade for much of the morning, eyes closed but awake, thinking of the war pack, stomachs rumbling with excitement… and hunger.
CHAPTER FOUR
War was the great addiction of humans. Vampires loved to fight and got involved in bloody, brutal challenges all the time. But they had only been involved in a war once, when seventy of their clan broke away to become the vampaneze. Although various vampires had clashed with human forces in the past, they had never engaged in all-out conflict. As an old pun put it, war was not in their blood.
Humans, on the other hand, seemed to be interested in nothing else. Larten had seen much of the globe in the last twenty years. He had explored the continents of Europe, Africa, America and Asia. Wars raged everywhere as men found new, inventive ways to kill even more of their race. It was like a contest, the many tribes of mankind competing to see who could commit the worst atrocities.
Although mature vampires were not drawn to war, the Cubs were fascinated by it. To them it was a spectator sport, the same as boxing or wrestling. Many met at battlefields and cheered on the soldiers, laughed at the innocents trying to escape the crossfire, gambled on who would claim victory.
And of course they fed. By the gods, how they fed!
The war which Larten and his associates travelled to observe that night was a minor skirmish. Scholars might recall it in later decades, but it would not be marked as one of the important battles of its time. No vast chunks of land were at stake. History didn’t hang in the balance. There were no real profits to be made. It was just one more clash of men who felt driven to kill each other for reasons only their leaders knew. And sometimes not even their kings and generals could explain why they were fighting. They often went to war simply because they could think of nothing else to do.
The vampires arrived a few hours before dawn. Signs of fighting were everywhere — bloodstained fields, discarded swords and muskets, limbs that had been left to rot, even a few whole bodies. There was a foul stench and the animals and birds of the night were gorging themselves, picking flesh from bones and nibbling on guts, making the most of the unexpected feast.
Tanish studied a field of trampled crops. His sharp eyes picked out the corpse of a child among the broken stalks. The head of a soldier was half submerged in a rabbit hole. A bare foot was sticking up into the air — the four small toes had been chewed off, leaving only the big toe pointing oddly at the sky. Tanish ran his gaze over the blood and entrails, taking it all in.
Then he laughed.
“These look like an especially vicious lot,” Tanish said enthusiastically. “We should have an interesting day.”
“You don’t think we’ve missed all the fighting?” Zula asked.
“Not by a long shot,” Yebba said. “I smell human fear in the air. That way.” He pointed west. “And there.” East. “They mean to clash again and they know many more will die when they do.”
Although Larten could smell the soldiers, he wasn’t able to pinpoint the scent of fear. But Yebba was fifteen years older and had been blooded when he was only thirteen. A vampire’s senses improved for most of their first hundred years.
The sharp-nosed Yebba led the way as they homed in on their kin. Vampires were harder to track than humans. If Larten hadn’t known there were others present, he probably wouldn’t have noted the subtle traces of their smell in the air.
They found the war pack resting beneath a massive, leafy tree. There were eight of them, a couple younger than Larten, the rest the same age as him or older. Tanish was the eldest and he immediately acted as if he was the ranking vampire.
“On your feet, you lazy, good-for-nothing Cubs,” he snarled, standing just beyond the limbs of the tree, glaring like a General. “Is this any way to behave in front of your betters?”
“You’re no better than the pimples on my backside, Tanish,” a vampire drawled. Larten recognised him — Jordan Egin, one of three in the pack that he’d met before.
Jordan rose, slouched towards Tanish, sneered in his face, then laughed and hugged him hard. “Good to see you again, old friend.”
“And you,” Tanish beamed. “You’ll remember these two.”
“Larten and Wester,” Jordan nodded. “We feasted heartily last time, aye?”
The pair chuckled at the memory, although Wester looked somewhat ashamed. He had overindulged on that occasion and been violently sick afterwards.
“These are Yebba and Zula Pone,” Tanish said. “Yebba has a nose like a hound and Zula is a villain of the highest order. You’ll get on well.”
The vampires shook hands, then moved forward to greet the rest of the pack. It wasn’t long before they were guzzling ale and swapping tales of their adventures.
War packs were a relatively new phenomenon. Vampires had tended to stay out of the way of warring humans in the past, not drawing attention to themselves. But there were so many wars being fought now, on such a massive scale, that the night-walkers could mingle freely with human troops in most places. The Cubs had started frequenting battlefields several decades earlier and now it was a common part of their lives. A lone vampire could nearly always be assured of finding company in a war zone.
Larten listened happily to the stories of Jordan and the others, and told some of his own in return. There was much laughter when Tanish told them of the trick he had played the previous night, and Larten had to take off his jacket and shirt to show his sunburnt back. He had already recovered from the worst of the burning, but his skin was still sore to the touch and a few of the vampires slapped him and hooted when he screeched. He had to knock a couple of heads together before they left him alone, but it was all done in good spirits.
The next bout between the armies wasn’t due to start until late in the morning — both sides were waiting for fresh recruits. So the pack turned in when the sun rose and caught some sleep. When they were awakened by the sound of gunfire, they groaned, stretched, took umbrellas from a large sack and set off to find the battle.
Larten had felt foolish the first time he’d stood by a group of soldiers hellbent on killing one another, sheltered from the sun beneath an umbrella that would have suited a lady far better. But he had grown accustomed to it. He now felt the same way a huntsman did when he pulled on ridiculous-looking clothes before mounting his horse and riding out behind his hounds.
The Cubs found the soldiers massed in a large field. They were fighting hand to hand. Most were armed with swords or knives, which the vampires preferred. They disliked guns for a number of reasons, firstly because the clan frowned on the use of them — guns were the choice of cowards. There was also the fact that guns could be turned against the Cubs. Vampires were tougher than humans and much harder to kill, but a well-placed bullet could account for even the best of them. It was an embarrassing way to die, your brains blown out from a distance.
But mostly the Cubs disapproved of long-range warfare because it was boring. There wasn’t much fun in watching humans shoot each other. The delight came in observing them struggle to stay alive. In dirty scraps like this, dozens of duels were being fought, life-or-death dramas which the vampires could follow with ghoulish glee, then turn away from at the end and discuss like a play.
Some of the soldiers noticed the curious men with the umbrellas, but most were too focused on the business of staying alive. If they caught sight of the scarred, pale-skinned figures walking among them, they paused to assess whether or not the strangers posed a threat. When the soldiers saw that the observers meant them no harm, their attention returned to those who did.
The vampires were almost never challenged. Humans who spotted them didn’t always know who the spectators were – many had never heard the vampire myths – but they could tell that the guests were not of their own kind. They would watch the wan creatures gliding through their ranks, neatly stepping out of danger’s way whenever they got too close to the action. Sometimes the soldiers would cross themselves and mutter prayers. But the majority chose not to confront the spectral visitors and did their best to forget about them if they survived. There were things in the world that most people didn’t want to dwell on at any great length.
Larten had a fine time that day. As Tanish had predicted, the armies fought with a vengeance. Whatever they were warring over, the troops clearly hated their opponents and were determined to shed as much blood as possible before a truce was declared. They didn’t just stab one another and move on. When a soldier knocked down a foe, he paused to strike again, gutting his opponent, smashing his face to pieces, often maiming him even after he was dead. It was a savage, bloodthirsty display, very much to Larten’s liking.
Occasionally, when straddling corpses and wading through puddles of blood, Larten would remember that he had once been human. If his life hadn’t taken the turn it did, he might have wound up on a field like this, fighting to the death, killing because he had to. He’d wonder how he would have felt in that position if he had looked up and seen a vampire studying him like an insect.
Larten always pushed such thoughts swiftly from his head. One of the hardest things about being a vampire was separating yourself from your origins. You had to leave behind your old ways to truly fit into the clan. There was no room for pity if you wanted to become a vampire of good standing. You had to force yourself to see humans as a different, lesser species.
A young man was shot in the shoulder and spun around from the force of it. He fell against Larten, who steadied him with one hand, keeping his umbrella straight with the other. The man’s eyes widened with fear and wonder. Then the pain kicked in and he doubled over. Larten nearly bent to help him, but if he showed favouritism the soldiers of the other army might fire on him. Both sets ignored the vampires because they were neutral. If they interfered, they risked drawing fire. So Larten left the young man to writhe in the dirt, lonely and untended, and strolled along.
The battle lasted most of the afternoon. The war pack withdrew in the evening to rest. They debated the highlights, each reporting on what he had witnessed. A few had been cut or struck, and Jordan had been shot in his left arm. But the wounds weren’t serious and they laughed about them as they relaxed beneath a tree, comparing scratches.
The vampires dozed, letting the sun drop. When darkness had settled on the world, they returned to the killing zone. There were no smiles this time, or if there were, they were tight, vicious, inhuman sneers. No banter either. They proceeded smoothly and silently. The umbrellas were left behind and when they reached the edge of the battlefield they shed their coats, cloaks and boots. A couple even stripped naked, baring all beneath the moon.
For a minute they stood on the flanks, drinking in the sight of the corpses and mouthwatering pools of blood. No humans moved. Even those who’d never heard of vampires had sensed menace in the night air and withdrawn to the safety of camp. In the morning they would return to bury the bodies of their fallen allies and pick weapons, shoes and other items from the dead. But the night belonged to the Cubs.
When the vampires were satisfied that the field was theirs, they closed in. Each trod softly, barely trampling the grass as they advanced on the corpses. Their nostrils and eyes were wide. Drool dripped from the lips of many. Some trembled with expectation. Others growled softly.
They held as a pack until they were in the middle of the slaughter. Then all eyes settled on Tanish. Though they had scorned his claims of leadership earlier, in this situation they acknowledged his right to command. If he hesitated, they would ignore him and press on, but they gave him the chance to unleash them, as was the vampire way.
Tanish beamed wolfishly, then snapped his teeth and threw himself on to all fours. Around him the others did the same. Breaking away from one another, they dug into the bodies of the slain, slicing flesh from bone, gulping blood as it gushed into the air, wallowing in the thick, red liquid.
After a while they started to howl and beat the ground with bones which they had snapped loose. Some fought with each other, wrestling clumsily, but the fights didn’t last long. They could challenge one another for real any time. These ripe nights were reserved for pleasures more savage than battle.
Like the rest of his pack, Larten soon lost himself in the feeding frenzy. For an hour or more he was neither human nor vampire, just a howling, hungry creature of dark delights. At times he slithered across the cool, sticky bodies like a ravenous worm, cutting, chewing, drinking. And all he knew… all any of them knew… all that their world consisted of in that intense, vicious, darkly delicious time… was blood.
CHAPTER FIVE
The vampires slept late the following day. A couple rose to observe the fighting in the afternoon, but most had seen enough and preferred to rest, digest their feast and dream of future feeding frenzies.
“Wake up,” Tanish grunted in the evening, digging Larten in the ribs.
“Leave me alone,” Larten growled.
“You’ve slept enough,” Tanish said. “I’m bored. I want you to teach me some new tricks.”
