severed and four vampires made a premature journey to Paradise, their friends cheering them on — dying in combat was a noble way to perish.
Larten let himself be washed along with the tide of warring vampires — there was no point trying to fight it
— but as soon as things calmed down a little he went in search of a particular opponent. He didn’t know the vampire’s name, only that he was tall and burly, with a nose that had been broken many times. The General had mocked Larten when easily defeating him in a challenge the first time he’d come to Council. Larten had been looking forward to facing him again ever since.
Larten was challenged a few times while searching for the General and he had to respond to each — you weren’t supposed to avoid a contest during the Festival — but finally he found his man standing by the bars in the Hall of Oceen Pird, watching two vampires with round-ended staffs trying to knock each other flying.
‘You!” Larten shouted, pounding the vampire’s back.
The General looked around and scowled. He didn’t remember this young pup, but something about the orange hairstruck a chord.
“Wrestle with me,” Larten growled.
The vampire smiled bitterly and turned. Larten’s heart sank — the General’s right arm was missing from just beneath the shoulder.
‘Why the long face?” the General snapped, then glanced at the space where his arm should be. “Surely this won’t deter you? It’s just a flesh wound.”
“I…” Larten hesitated.
'… don’t want to fight a cripple?” the General asked softly, fire burning in his eyes.
Larten stiffened. “I have no intention of offending you with pity. I was merely going to say that I did not want to have an unfair advantage. So…” He pulled his right arm inside his shirt, tucking it in tight.
The General gaped at Larten, then laughed. “That’s a first! Have at me, then, youngster, and may the luck of the vampires be with you.”
Larten moved in on the General and tried to get a grip with his left arm. But he wasn’t used to fighting one- handed. The General, who’d had years to adapt, threw the younger vampire to the floor and pinned him with his legs.
“One to me,” he grinned as Larten rose and dusted himself off, then went on to throw his challenger two more times in quick succession.
Larten hadn’t imagined the fight going this way, but then again he’d planned to use both arms. As he picked himself up for a third time, all he could do was laugh atthe unexpected direction the bout had taken.
Many years ago the General had mocked Larten and walked off contemptuously after defeating him. But this time he helped the orange-haired vampire to his feet and embraced him warmly.
“I might have beaten you with ease, but you’ve earned my respect, young one. It’s not easy fighting one- handed. You didn’t have to challenge me on my own terms. By doing so, you proved you have courage and dignity, as well as something even more elusive — style! We’ll fight again sometime, when you’ve had more practice with a single arm, aye?”
“Aye,” Larten chuckled.
They drank much and spoke of many things that night. The General told Larten about some of the times his nose had been broken and the great vampires he had faced in challenges over the years. But he never mentioned his name, or if he did, Larten failed to note it.
Over the coming years Larten often trained with an arm tied behind his back. But he never got to test himself against the broken-nosed General again, for he died soon after Council in a fight with a panther. He was alone and his passage went unmarked, but if anyone had been present, they would have seen him smile just before his throat was ripped open. They wouldn’t have known what he was grinning about, but he was fondly remembering the night when a young orange-haired assistant had challenged him to a one-armed wrestling match in the Hall of Oceen Pird.
Chapter Eleven
Night gave way to day and most of the vampires went to rest for a few hours, or tend to their injuries. At sunset they gathered in the huge Hall of Stahrvos Glen for the traditional howling contest. At the signal, every vampire howled loudly and tried to sustain it. The one who held his howl the longest would be afforded the title “of the Howl” for the next twelve years.
Larten didn’t have a particularly impressive howl and faded from the contest early. But two vampires he knew well were among the last three. One was his old Cub ally, Yebba, who seemed to have grown even larger since Larten last saw him. The other was a less familiar acquaintance, Mika Ver Leth.
Larten was surprised to see Mika — dressed in black, as always — among the final trio. Normally the successful howlers were bulky and large-lunged, like Yebba, but Mika was of average height, and slender. Yet he was holding his own against the others. Larten cheered on Yebba because of their friendship, but secretly he hoped Mika would take the honors — he had always had a soft spot for an underdog.
Yebba came to a sudden, choking stop and scowled, disgusted with himself. Mika and the other General carried on for another minute, the cords in their throats strained to the breaking point, tears coursing from their eyes. Mika was in trouble — his voice was wavering — but then the other vampire fainted without warning and it was over.
A huge cheer went up and Mika was engulfed by Generals eager to toast his name and be the first to challenge him to a fight. Larten bumped into him later that night and hailed him as Mika of the Howl.
“It sounds strange,” Mika said, managing a rare, thin smile.
‘Were you surprised to win?” Larten asked.
“No,” Mika said. “I practiced for the last decade. I took singing lessons from a human tenor and he taught me howto extend a note.”
Larten frowned. “Why? It surely cannot mean that much to you.”
“It means respect,” Mika said seriously. “I hope to be a Prince one night and I want to be invested sooner rather than later. As trivial as this contest was, it got me noticed, and that’s important.”
Larten was amused by the ambitious General. Most vampires weren’t political — they didn’t care about power games and moving up the ranks. Mika was more like a human in that respect. But the clan was changing. The world was becoming hostile as mankind bred in ever greater numbers and claimed more territory. Vampires would have to keep an even lower profile than before if they were to survive. That meant taking the clan in a new direction. They would need youthful, imaginative leaders. A hundred years ago Mika wouldn’t have gotten far in his quest to be a Prince, but Larten believed he might prosper in the current climate. He wished Mika luck in his princely pursuit, even though it wasn’t a goal he personally aspired to.
But Mika wasn’t the only one earning respect at that Council. Although he was unaware of it, Larten had caught the eyes of many of his peers and was beginning to make a name for himself. The clan approved of the way he had faced the one-armed General, and although he’d lost that challenge, he had won most of his subsequent contests, defeating a host of older, more experienced vampires.
Paris Skyle heard of the youngster’s success and sought out his friend Seba to congratulate him.
“The credit is not mine,” Seba said with a smile, watching from the sides as Wester struggled with a vampire who had only been blooded within the last couple of years. “Larten is driven by an inner passion. I have helped him, I hope, but he cannot be molded, merely guided.” “He could go far, according to the rumors,” Paris murmured.
Seba sighed. “Is that so important? If he lives a good life and is true to himself, should that not be enough?”
“My words stung you,” Paris said, surprised. “Forgive me.”
‘You do not need to apologize, Sire,” Seba said. “I have heard others talk highly of Larten, but they have noticed no merits that I had not already seen many years ago, even when I first met him as a child. I have always known that he will climb high, if he chooses to climb.”
