“No,” Vancha said. “We need help wording laws and decrees, but no vampire of good standing ever needed another to tell him what was in his heart. If Larten believed what he was saying, I’d have no quarrel with him. You have your view of the world, Wester, and you’re entitled to it, as every vampire is. But Larten’s passing off your opinions as his own, and that stinks. I won’t stand for it, even if these idiots will.”
He spun and glared at the vampires around them. Most dropped their gaze and coughed with embarrassment.
“You do not know what I feel or why I say these things,” Larten snarled.
“Of course I do,” Vancha retorted. “Your mistress was killed by a vampaneze.”
“She was not my mistress,” Larten thundered, squaring up to the Prince. “She was a gentle, loving woman, deserving of respect. I will not have you say anything derogatory about her.”
“I’m not sure what that word means, but I can guess,” Vancha sniffed. “I meant no offense. I’m sure she was a fine person. But no individual is worth going to war over. Find the cur who killed her and tear him apart, but don’t pledge yourself to a cause you don’t believe in. Don’t let Wester use you as his mouthpiece. You’re better than that.”
“I speak the truth as I see it,” Larten hissed. “The vampaneze are scum and it is time we dealt with them. If you believe otherwise, so be it. But do not try to stop me from speaking my mind or treat me like a fool.”
“But you are a fool,” Vancha said, and many of the vampires around them gasped.
Larten’s face paled. “Take that back,” he whispered.
“I won’t,” Vancha huffed. “You want to guide the clan to disaster because of a private feud. You seek to stir up war with the vampaneze simply because you haven’t been able to find the one who hurt you—kill them all to destroy just one. Only a fool seeks war over a petty, personal cause, and I’ve no time for fools.”
Larten was quivering with rage. “If you were not a Prince…”
“Don’t let that stop you,” Vancha said with a vicious grin.
For a moment Larten held back. Then, with a roar that had been building inside him since Alicia was killed, he threw himself at Vancha and lashed out.
Larten’s fist connected with Vancha’s chin and the Prince went sprawling. He crashed through a group of vampires and they tumbled around him like skittles, yelping with surprise.
Larten was on Vancha before the Prince could rise, punching, kicking, keen to cause maximum damage. He was normally a refined fighter and would never strike an opponent who had been knocked down. But he had lost all self-control. It wasn’t the same as when he’d killed the foreman, Traz, or the people on the ship. On those occasions he had become an ice-cold killing machine. This time he simply exploded and lashed out like a child throwing a fit.
Vancha protected his face from the worst of Larten’s blows while his head was spinning. The damage to his stomach and chest didn’t bother him, but he couldn’t let Larten strike his chin cleanly again, as another direct shot might put him out of action. He could have crawled away, but retreat wasn’t in his nature. So he lay still, let Larten tear into him, and waited for his ears to stop ringing and his vision to clear.
As Larten threw one wild punch after another, Vancha’s senses returned. He shook his head to steady himself, then lashed out at Larten’s stomach with one of his filthy bare feet. He connected and drove the General back several steps.
Vancha was up in an instant. He spat blood, wiped the back of a hand across his lips, and smiled. He made a Come on! gesture with his bloodied fingers and Larten swallowed the bait. Bellowing angrily, he ducked his head and charged, forgetting his decades of training.
Vancha let Larten tackle him, but before the General could wrestle the Prince to the floor, he drove a knee up into Larten’s stomach. As Larten spasmed, Vancha crashed an elbow down over the back of his head. Larten slumped and rolled away, groaning.
The vampires around them cheered, even Kurda, who normally frowned upon savage battles like this. Only Wester darted towards Larten, concerned for his friend. Before he got near, someone caught his arm and dragged him back. Wester turned on his assailant furiously, only to find Seba Nile staring at him calmly.
“I came as soon as I heard,” Seba said. “I would not have missed a fight between these two even if I had been on my deathbed.”
“We have to help him,” Wester gasped. “Vancha’s mad. If we let this go on, he might—”
“If you interfere, Larten will hold it against you forever,” Seba interrupted. “I almost wish I could let you make such a mistake, to drive him out from under from your influence. But I know how much you care for one another and I could not bear to see your friendship end in such an ugly fashion. Leave him be, Wester. He chose this fight and he must bear the punishment if he loses.”
Wester groaned with frustration, but his old master was right. For a moment he’d thought as a human, not a vampire. He felt responsible for placing Larten in this position, but ultimately it was Larten’s choice to fight. He wouldn’t thank Wester for trying to protect him from himself.
Vancha waited patiently as Larten staggered to his feet. The Prince could have finished off his opponent while he was vulnerable, but that wasn’t his style. When the scarred General finally looked up and focused—albeit with a pair of blurry eyes—Vancha again made the Come on! gesture.
Larten didn’t rush this time. The blow to his head had knocked some sense back into him. Taking deep breaths, he circled closer cautiously. When he came within range, Vancha struck at Larten with his right foot, testing the dazed General’s reflexes.
Larten slapped the foot away and responded with a kick of his own. He hit the side of Vancha’s head, but it was only a grazing blow. While Larten’s leg was in the air, Vancha slipped in close and threw short, snappy punches at Larten’s chest. He struck seven or eight times. Both vampires heard bones snap, but neither knew how serious the damage might be. Neither cared. Each would go on until he could fight no longer, regardless of his injuries.
Not worrying about the possibility that a shattered bone might pierce his heart or lungs, Larten kicked at Vancha again. It was similar to his last attack, and once again Vancha darted in to pound the General’s chest. But Larten had tricked the Prince this time. As his opponent came forward, Larten’s other leg swung up from the floor and smashed into Vancha’s side.
The Prince felt his left arm break, along with one or two of his ribs. With a cry of pain he tumbled aside. As he rose, Larten smirked and made a cynical Come on! gesture of his own.
Vancha grimaced, then laughed—he’d deserved that rebuke. He ignored the pain and hurled himself at Larten, throwing a series of punches and chops, a deadly force even one-handed. Larten met the Prince’s assault head-on, blocking as many of the blows as he could, countering with some of his own. Both vampires stood toe-to-toe, punching, chopping, kicking, their hands and feet a blur, too fast for most of the cheering crowd to follow. Even by the standards of the clan, this was a fierce and furious fight.
Larten’s face was ripped open in a number of places and he felt bones snap in his hands and feet. He was inflicting similar damage on Vancha, but the Prince had the advantage, even without the use of his left arm. As quick as Larten was, Vancha had always fought without a weapon. He’d never resorted to a knife or sword, so he knew more hand-to-hand tricks than the General. He wasn’t faster or stronger, but smarter and more experienced, and that soon began to tell.
One of Larten’s eyes swelled shut. A couple of his teeth tore loose and stuck in the back of his throat. It was almost impossible to breathe, and he could feel his right leg about to give beneath him. Another few blows and he would be done for.
In desperation, Larten threw everything into one last kick. Creating a sliver of space for himself, he sprung into the air and launched his left foot at Vancha’s head. Vancha almost didn’t spot the incoming leg in time. But even a fraction of a second was enough for
a vampire of his caliber to react, and he managed to drive an elbow into the leg and misdirect it. A bone snapped loudly and Larten fell to the floor in agony.
Vancha started after his opponent, then realized Larten was finished. He paused to blow blood from his nose and press his left ear back into place—Larten had almost ripped it loose. It had been a long time since the Prince had suffered such a beating, but he relished the pain. It made him feel alive.
“Had enough?” he gasped, standing over Larten, wary in case the battered General was faking.
“I… can’t… go… on,” Larten wheezed, only barely able to make out the shape of the burly Prince.
“Are you a fool?” Vancha asked.
Larten sneered through his pain. “No.”
Vancha smiled. “Then I apologize for calling you one.” He sighed and held his sides as his smile faded. “I think it’s best you stay out of my way for a while. And don’t let me hear you talking up war with the vampaneze again, at least not during Council. You can say what you like when I’m not around, but while I’m here, I expect silence from you on this matter.”
“I will… always… obey… the wishes… of a… Prince,” Larten groaned.
Vancha nodded, then hobbled out of the Hall. Vampires crowded around him to offer their congratulations, but he waved them away with a snap of his hand. He wasn’t proud of himself. He should have handled this discreetly. He had lost his temper and forced a duel, where a carefully phrased warning might have sufficed. Paris would give him a stern dressing-down for this, and the ancient Prince would be right to chastise him.
In the Hall of Oceen Pird, Wester hurried to his wounded friend and asked if he needed help. Larten shook his head. He just wanted to lie there and mull over Vancha’s aggressive motives. He didn’t feel any shame in losing to a vampire like Vancha March. But as he lay on the floor, breathing shallowly, a mess of broken bones, cuts, and bruises, he was troubled that Vancha had felt the need to pick a fight with him in the first place. He must have done something truly unpardonable to enrage the Prince, whom he had always counted as one of his closest friends.
As Larten’s blood seeped into the cracks between the stones, and as pain drove him to the point of unconsciousness, he forced himself to stay awake and strained to judge his actions over the past few years, in an effort to understand what he’d done that could be considered so terribly wrong.
Chapter
Ten
Larten recovered slowly, nursed by Wester and Seba. The old quartermaster insisted Larten be brought to his quarters, where he could keep an eye on him. Seba laid Larten in an oversized coffin and stood watch over him for the next forty-eight hours. He knew from experience that this was the most dangerous period. If any of Larten’s internal organs had been seriously damaged, it should show within the first couple of nights.
Larten was unconscious for most of that time. He didn’t fight sleep when it tried to claim him. He was in agony every moment that he was awake. His only comfort came when he drifted off into the land of dreams.
The vampires who had seen the fight were still talking about it. Though there would be many duels to look forward to during Council, none would be fought as passionately as this one. Those who hadn’t been present were jealous and eagerly pried more details from the lucky few who’d borne witness.
Larten’s defeat hadn’t shamed him in any way. It was widely acknowledged that Vancha was probably the most accomplished fighter in the clan. The Generals who had seen them duel were impressed by how close Larten had come to victory, how he’d absorbed so many blows without flinching, how he’d almost been able to match the Prince. His star continued to rise even in defeat, and for that Wester was grateful.
As the nights passed, Larten improved and Seba and Wester left him to his own devices—both were manically busy in the run-up to the Festival of the Undead. Larten spent his solitary time thinking about Vancha’s reasons for challenging him and how he should respond. He had rarely devoted much time to considering the future. He usually just reacted to whatever destiny placed in his path.
Now that he was incapacitated, he analyzed his recent behavior, trying to see himself as Vancha had seen him. He began to understand what he should do, the cause to which he needed to dedicate himself. He didn’t discuss the issue with Seba or Wester. He wasn’t sure either would agree with his assessment or approve of his plans, and he didn’t wish to engage in a heated debate with them. But he needed to discuss it with someone. Gavner Purl would have been his first choice, but the young vampire still hadn’t shown up for Council and Larten now doubted that his assistant would come—he had the feeling that Gavner was avoiding him. But finally a visitor arrived who was just as good a sounding board as Gavner, and in certain ways even better.
“I wish I’d been there to see you get pulped.” Arra Sails chuckled harshly.
Larten propped himself on an elbow and smiled at the dark-haired vampiress. She was leaning against the wall inside the entrance to Seba’s cave, dressed in the white shirt and beige pants that she had favored for as long as he’d known her. She looked even tougher than when he’d last seen her. Arra had built a proud name for herself. It was doubtful that she would ever be nominated for the highest position—there had never been a Vampire Princess, and though many accepted that a woman would probably lead the clan one night, it was not yet time for such an upheaval. But Arra was well on her way to becoming a General of high standing, one who would be listened to carefully by the Princes.
“I did not know you were so eager to see me fail,” Larten said.
“After you scorned me in Germany?” she pouted. “I only wish Vancha had broken that damn neck of yours, so I could use your head as a punching bag.”
It took Larten a few seconds to realize she was joking. As he smiled, she came forward and asked how he was feeling.
“Better,” he said. “I have made a solid recovery. My bones are mending cleanly and I should be on my feet in time for the Festival of the Undead.”
“I thought you might have planned to sit it out,” Arra remarked.
“Never,” Larten said. “If Vancha had broken both my legs, I would have crawled. If he had snapped my fingers, I would have used my teeth to drag myself along. I will be there and I will face anyone who wishes to challenge me.”
“There will be a long line,” Arra warned him. “Everyone wants a piece of the General who almost beat Vancha March.”
“It was not that close a contest,” Larten said. “I gave a good account of myself, but he took control early in the bout and was never in real danger of losing.”
“That’s not how the spectators tell it. According to them, you only lost by a whisker.”
“Then they are fools,” Larten grunted.
“That’s what I told them.” Arra perched on the edge of his coffin and studied his bruises, still purple and tender. “Can you tell me what it was about? There are all sorts of rumors. Some claim that the pair of you were fighting over me.”
Larten frowned. “Why should we be fighting over you?”
Arra punched his arm and he yelped. “I’m not that unattractive,” Arra growled.
“I never meant to give the impression that you were,” Larten said swiftly, turning on his old Quicksilver charm. “I was smitten from the first time I saw you. Dreaming of your beauty brings joy and warmth to my long, dark nights.”
“Stop before I get sick,” Arra jeered.
Larten stroked Arra’s cheek and smiled fondly. Then he sighed and told her why Vancha had goaded him into battle. He was open with her and explained how he had been trying to provoke vampires, talking up war with the vampaneze, lying at Wester’s prompting.
“Vancha will tolerate many indiscretions, but never a lie,” Larten said soberly. “And he is right not to. It is the lowest of crimes. Anyone can make a mistake and act vilely in the heat of the moment. For that reason a crime of passion can often be forgiven. But only a person of truly low character knowingly twists
the truth. Such a person can carry on in that manner for years, even decades, and bring great discredit to the clan. Vancha had every right to be angry. I am only surprised that no one reacted before him.”
“They admire you too much,” Arra said. “Sometimes, when you love or respect someone, you mistake their lies for truth. Most vampires don’t question their leaders. If Vancha or Paris Skyle said that the sun was no longer harmful, many Generals would walk by daylight to their death, simply because they accept anything that a Prince says.
“So,” she added, “does this mean you’re putting thoughts of war behind you?”
Larten shook his head. “I still despise the vampaneze and believe that war is necessary if we are to safeguard our future. But I realize now that I am not a politician. I always knew that, but I let Wester convince me otherwise. Vancha did not attack me because of my beliefs but because I was not being true to myself.
“I will do no more campaigning,” Larten said. “I will make it clear that I still approve of Wester and, if anyone asks, I will tell them he has my full support. But I will not try to convince others to rally to his cause. I am not meant for such a role. Wester will not like that, but it is time I followed a path of my own choosing. I will let him use my name if he thinks there is profit in it, but I will no longer push directly for war by his side.”
“What do you plan to do instead?” Arra asked.
“Hunt and fight,” Larten said grimly. “It is what I should have done all along. Randel Chayne killed Alicia and he is the one I must focus on. I will scour the world for him, track down every vampaneze I can find, ask after him and challenge each to a duel.”
Arra frowned. “Why the challenge?”
“To be truthful. No vampaneze would tell me about Randel if they knew that I had hidden motives for seeking him. I lied to those I spoke with before, and pretended I simply wanted to duel with Randel. I will not lie again. By being open, I hope they in turn will be open with me. By giving them the opportunity to kill me in a fair fight, I will be giving them the chance to protect Randel Chayne. I think they will respect my honesty, and if anyone knows where he is, I hope that they will tell me, seeing that I am a man of honor.”