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 ofthe 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 ofthe 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 ofthe 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 ofthe 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 ofthe 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 ofthe 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 ofthe pileup in the tunnel or what Larten had been through. But Seba knew what his assistant meant and he nodded softly. “Very well.”
Larten frowned. “You do not understand. I am quitting my studies. I do not want to be a General. I am sick of this place. I am leaving.”
“No!” Wester gasped. “You can’t mean it. What’s happened? Why are you-”
“I understand perfectly,” Seba interrupted. “I never asked you to stay and I do not hold you against your will. You are no longer a Cub. You are a man of wisdom and experience. I am honored that you and Wester still call me master, but in truth no one is your master now or ever will be again. If you wish to go, you can go with my blessings.”
Larten hadn’t expected this. In a strange way he felt cheated. He wanted Seba to be hurt, to try to convince him to stay. It was childish — human — but in his heart he craved attention. This was a momentous decision and he needed an argument to mark it.
Wester unwittingly gave Larten what he required.
‘You can’t leave,” he huffed. “This is madness. Seba told me you’ve nearly completed your training.”
“I also asked you to keep that information to yourself,” Seba snapped, his eyes flashing with a rare spike of anger.
“Is that true?” Larten asked, momentarily flustered. He had thought he was five or ten years away from becoming a General, assuming he passed his tests at all.
‘You have impressed some of your peers,” Seba sniffed, still glaring at Wester. “There was talk of passing you in the near future. But after this display, I doubt it. A General must know his mind completely. On this evidence, you do not.”
“I damn well do,” Larten growled, finding his fury again. “I want out. I do not want to be a General. You are all old-fashioned and backwards.”
“Larten!” Wester cried, alarmed by this vicious, uncharacteristic attack.
Larten laughed bitterly. “Every vampire should pursue his dreams, live life to its maximum, chase a glorious, savage death. We should not be imprisoned here, training. Are we students or men? Humans or vampires?”
Before Wester could answer, Larten pressed on. “I say to hell with Generals, Princes and the rest. Life is too short. I want to live, fight, love, die. Not waste my time studying.”
