Brothers to the Death (The Saga of Larten Crepsley) (9 page)

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.

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.”