Vampire Rites Trilogy

I searched for a costume like my old one, but there were no pirate suits, so I chose a brown jumper and dark trousers, with a pair of soft shoes. Mr Crepsley dressed all in red – his favourite colour – though these robes were less fanciful than the ones he normally wore.

It was while he was adjusting his cape that I realized how similar his dress sense and Seba Nile’s were. I mentioned it to him and he smiled. “I have copied many of Seba’s ways,” he said. “Not just his way of dressing, but also his way of speaking. I did not always use these precise, measured tones. When I was your age, I ran my words together the same as anybody. Years spent in the company of Seba taught me to slow down and consider my words before speaking.”

“You mean I might end up like you one day?” I asked, alarmed at the thought of sounding so serious and stuffy.

“You might,” Mr Crepsley said, “though I would not bet on it. Seba commanded my utmost respect, so I tried hard to copy what he did. You, on the other hand, seem to be determined to do the opposite of everything I say.”

“I’m not that bad,” I grinned, but there was some grain of truth in his words. I’d always been stubborn. I admired Mr Crepsley more than he knew, but hated the idea of looking like a pushover who did everything he was told. Sometimes I disobeyed the vampire just so he wouldn’t think I was paying attention to what he said!

“Besides,” Mr Crepsley added, “I have neither the heart nor the will to punish you when you make mistakes, as Seba punished me.”

“Why?” I asked. “What did he do?”

“He was a fair but hard teacher,” Mr Crepsley said. “When I told him of my desire to mimic him, he began paying close attention to my punctuation. Whenever I said ‘don’t’ or ‘it’s’ or ‘can’t’ – he would pluck a hair from inside my nose!”

“No way!” I hooted.

“It is true,” he said glumly.

“Did he use tweezers?”

“No – his fingernails.”

“Ow!”

Mr Crepsley nodded. “I asked him to stop – I said I no longer cared to copy him – but he would not – he believes in finishing what one starts. After several months of having the hairs ripped from inside my nostrils, I had a brainwave, and singed them with a red-hot rod – not something I recommend you try! – so they would not grow back.”

“What happened?”

Mr Crepsley blushed. “He began plucking hairs from an even more tender spot.”

“Where?” I quickly asked.

The vampire’s blush deepened. “I will not say – it is far too embarrassing.”

(Later, when I got Seba by himself and put the question to him, he chortled wickedly and told me: “His ears!”)

While we were slipping on our shoes, a slender, blond vampire in a bright blue suit barged into the room and slammed the door behind him. He stood panting by the door, unaware of us, until Mr Crepsley called to him. “Is that you, Kurda?”

“No!” the vampire yelled and grabbed for the handle. Then he paused and glanced over his shoulder. “Larten?”

“Yes,” Mr Crepsley replied.

“That’s different.” The vampire sauntered over. When he got closer, I saw that he had three small red scars on his left cheek. They looked somehow familiar, though I couldn’t think why. “I was hoping to run into you. I wanted to ask about this Harkat Mulds person and his message. Is it true?”

Mr Crepsley shrugged. “I have only heard the rumour. He said nothing to us about it on our way here.” Mr Crepsley hadn’t forgotten our promise to Harkat.

“Not a word of it?” the vampire asked, sitting on an upturned barrel.

“He told us the message was for the Vampire Princes only,” I said.

The vampire eyed me curiously. “You must be the Darren Shan I’ve been hearing about.” He shook my hand. “I’m Kurda Smahlt.”

“What were you running from?” Mr Crepsley asked.

“Questions,” Kurda groaned. “As soon as word of the Little Person and his message circulated, everyone ran to me to ask if it was true.”

“Why should they ask you?” Mr Crepsley enquired.

“Because I know more about the vampaneze than most. And because of my investiture – it’s amazing how much more you’re expected to know when you move up in the world.”

“Gavner Purl told me about that. Congratulations,” Mr Crepsley said rather stiffly.

“You don’t approve,” Kurda noted.

“I did not say that.”

“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face. But I don’t mind. You’re not the only one who objects. I’m used to the controversy.”

“Excuse me,” I said, “but what’s an ‘investiture’?”

“That’s what they call it when you move up in the organization,” Kurda explained. He had a light way of speaking, and a smile was never far from his lips and eyes. He reminded me of Gavner and I took an immediate shine to him.

“Where are you moving to?” I asked.

“The top,” he smiled. “I’m being made a Prince. There’ll be a big ceremony and a lot of to-do.” He grimaced. “It’ll be a dull affair, I’m afraid, but there’s no way around it. Centuries of tradition, standards to uphold, etcetera.”

“You should not speak dismissively of your investiture,” Mr Crepsley growled. “It is a great honour.”

“I know,” Kurda sighed. “I just wish people wouldn’t make such a big deal of it. It’s not like I’ve done anything wondrous.”

“How do you become a Vampire Prince?” I asked.

“Why?” Kurda replied, a twinkle in his eye. “Thinking of applying for the job?”

“No,” I chuckled. “Just curious.”

“There’s no fixed way,” he said. “To become a General, you study for a set number of years and pass regular tests. Princes, on the other hand, are elected sporadically and for different reasons.

“Usually a Prince is someone who’s distinguished himself in many battles, earning the trust and admiration of his colleagues. One of the established Princes nominates him. If the other Princes agree, he’s automatically elevated up the ranks. If one objects, the Generals vote and the majority decision decides his fate. If two or more Princes object, the motion’s rejected.

“I squeezed in by the vote,” he grinned. “Fifty-four per cent of the Generals think I’ll make a fitting Prince. Which means that near enough one in two think I won’t!”

“It was the tightest vote ever,” Mr Crepsley said. “Kurda is only a hundred and twenty earth years old, making him one of the youngest Princes ever, and many Generals believe he is too young to command their respect. They will follow him once he is elected – there is no question of that – but they are not happy about it.”

“Come now,” Kurda clucked. “Don’t cover up for me and leave the boy thinking it’s my age they object to. Here, Darren.” When I was standing beside him, he bent his right arm so that the biceps were bulging. “What do you think?”

“They’re not very big,” I answered truthfully.

Kurda howled gleefully. “May the gods of the vampires save us from honest children! But you’re right – they’re not big. Every other Prince has muscles the size of bowling balls. The Princes have always been the biggest, toughest, bravest vampires. I’m the first to be nominated because of this.” He tapped his head. “My brain.”

“You mean you’re smarter than everybody else?”

“Way smarter,” he said, then pulled a face. “Not really,” he sighed. “I just use my brains more than most. I don’t believe vampires should stick to the old ways as rigidly as they do. I think we should move forward and adapt to life in the twenty-first century. More than anything else, I believe we should strive to make peace with our estranged brothers – the vampaneze.”

“Kurda is the first vampire since the signing of the peace treaty to consort with the vampaneze,” Mr Crepsley said gruffly.

“Consort?” I asked uncertainly.

“I’ve been meeting with them,” Kurda explained. “I’ve spent much of the last thirty or forty years tracking them down, talking, getting to know them. That’s where I got my scars.” He tapped the left side of his face. “I had to agree to let them mark me – it was a way of offering myself to them and placing myself at their mercy.”

Now I knew why the scars looked familiar – I’d seen similar marks on a human that the mad vampaneze Murlough had targeted six years earlier! Vampaneze were traditionalists and marked their prey in advance of a kill, always the same three scratches on the left cheek.

“The vampaneze aren’t as different to us as most vampires believe,” Kurda continued. “Many would jump at the chance to return to the fold. Compromises will have to be made – both sides must back down on certain issues – but I’m sure we can come to terms and live together again, as one.”

“That is why he is being invested,” Mr Crepsley said. “A lot of the Generals – fifty-four per cent, in any case – think it is time we were reunited with the vampaneze. The vampaneze trust Kurda but are reluctant to commit to negotiations with other Generals. When Kurda is a Prince, he will have total control over the Generals, and the vampaneze know no General would disobey the order of a Prince. So if he sends a vampire along to discuss terms, the vampaneze will trust him and sit down to talk. Or so the reasoning goes.”

“You don’t agree with it, Larten?” Kurda asked.

Mr Crepsley looked troubled. “There is much about the vampaneze which I admire, and I have never been opposed to talks designed to bridge the gap between us. But I would not be so quick to give them a voice among the Princes.”

“You think they might use me to force more of their beliefs on us than we force on them?” Kurda suggested.

“Something like that.”

Kurda shook his head. “I’m looking to create a tribe of equals. I won’t force any changes through that the other Princes and Generals don’t agree with.”

“If that is so, luck to you. But things are happening too fast for my liking. Were I a General, I would have campaigned as hard as I could against you.”

“I hope I live long enough to prove your distrust of me ill-founded,” Kurda sighed, then turned to me. “What do you think, Darren? Is it time for a change?”

I hesitated before answering. “I don’t know enough about the vampires or vampaneze to offer an opinion,” I said.

“Nonsense,” Kurda huffed. “Everyone’s entitled to an opinion. Go on, Darren, tell me what you think. I like to know what’s on people’s minds. The world would be a simpler and safer place if we all spoke our true thoughts.”

“Well,” I said slowly, “I’m not sure I like the idea of doing a deal with the vampaneze – I think it’s wrong to kill humans when you drink from them – but if you could persuade them to stop killing, it might be a good thing.”

“This boy has brains,” Kurda said, winking at me. “What you said just about sums up my own arguments in a nutshell. The killing of humans is deplorable and it’s one of the concessions the vampaneze will have to make before a deal can be forged. But unless we draw them into talks and earn their trust, they’ll never stop. Wouldn’t it be worth giving up a few of our ways if we could stop the bloody murder?”

“Absolutely,” I agreed.

“Hurm!” Mr Crepsley grunted, and would be drawn no further on the subject.

“Anyway,” Kurda said, “I can’t stay hidden forever. Time to return and fend off more questions. You’re sure there’s nothing you can tell me about the Little Person and his message?”

“Afraid not,” Mr Crepsley said curtly.

“Oh well. I suppose I’ll find out when I report to the Hall of Princes and see him myself. I hope you enjoy your stay in Vampire Mountain, Darren. We must get together once the chaos has died down and have a proper chat.”

“I’d like that,” I said.

“Larten,” he saluted Mr Crepsley.

“Kurda.”

He let himself out.

“Kurda’s nice,” I remarked. “I like him.”

Mr Crepsley glanced at me sideways, stroked the long scar on his own left cheek, gazed thoughtfully at the door Kurda had left by, and again went, “Hurm!”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A COUPLE of long, quiet nights passed. Harkat had been kept in the Hall of Princes to answer questions. Gavner had General business to attend to and we only saw him when he crawled back to his coffin to sleep. I hung out with Mr Crepsley in the Hall of Khledon Lurt most of the time – he had a lot of catching up to do with old friends he hadn’t seen in many years – or down in the stores with him and Seba Nile.

The elderly vampire was more disturbed by Harkat’s message than most. He was the second oldest vampire in the Mountain – the oldest was a Prince, Paris Skyle, who was more than eight hundred – and the only one who’d been here when Mr Tiny visited and made his announcement all those centuries ago.

“A lot of today’s vampires do not believe the old myths,” he said. “They think Mr Tiny’s warning was something we made up to frighten young vampires. But I remember how he looked. I recall the way his words echoed around the Hall of Princes, and the fear they instilled in everyone. The Vampaneze Lord is no mere figure of legend. He is real. And now, it seems, he is coming.”

Seba lapsed into silence. He’d been drinking a mug of warm ale but had lost interest in it.

“He has not come yet,” Mr Crepsley said spiritedly. “Mr Tiny is as old as time itself. When he says the night is at hand, he might mean hundreds or thousands of years from now.”

Seba shook his head. “We have had our hundreds of years – seven centuries to make a stand and tackle the vampaneze. We should have finished them off, regardless of the consequences. Better to have been driven to the point of extinction by humans than wiped out entirely by the vampaneze.”

“That is foolish talk,” Mr Crepsley snapped. “I would rather take my chances with a mythical Vampaneze Lord than a real, stake-wielding human. So would you.”

Seba nodded glumly and sipped at his ale. “You are probably right. I am old. My brain does not work as sharply as it used to. Perhaps my worries are those of an old man who has lived too long. Still…”

Such pessimistic words were on everybody’s lips. Even those who scoffed outright at the idea of a Vampaneze Lord always seemed to end with a ‘still …’ or ‘however …’ or ‘but …’ The tension was clogging the dusty mountain air of the tunnels and Halls, constantly building, stifling all present.

The only one who didn’t seem troubled by the rumours was Kurda Smahlt. He turned up outside our chambers, as upbeat as ever, the third night after Harkat had delivered his message.

“Greetings,” he said. “I’ve had a hectic two nights, but things are calming down at last and I’ve a few free hours. I thought I’d take Darren on a tour of the Halls.”

“Great!” I beamed. “Mr Crepsley was going to take me but we never got round to it.”

“You don’t mind if I escort him, Larten?” Kurda asked.

“Not in the slightest,” Mr Crepsley said. “I am overwhelmed that one of your eminence has found the time to act as a guide so close to your investiture.” He said it cuttingly, but Kurda ignored the elder vampire’s sarcasm.

“You can tag along if you want,” Kurda offered cheerfully.

“No thank you,” Mr Crepsley smiled thinly.

“OK,” Kurda said. “Your loss. Ready, Darren?”

“Ready,” I said, and off we set.

Kurda took me to see the kitchens first. They were huge caves, built deep beneath most of the Halls. Large fires burned brightly. The cooks worked in shifts around the clock during times of Council. They had to in order to feed all the visitors.

“It’s quieter the rest of the time,” Kurda said. “There are usually no more than thirty vampires in residence. You often have to cook for yourself if you don’t eat with the rest at the set times.”

From the kitchens we progressed to the breeding Halls, where sheep, goats and cows were kept and bred. “We’d never be able to ship in enough milk and meat to feed all the vampires,” Kurda explained when I asked why live animals were kept in the mountain. “This isn’t an hotel, where you can ring a supplier and re-stock any time you please. Shipping in food is an enormous hassle. It’s easier to rear the animals ourselves and butcher them when we need to.”

“What about human blood?” I asked. “Where does that come from?”

“Generous donors,” Kurda winked, and led me on. (I only realized much later that he’d side-stepped the question.)

The Hall of Cremation was our next stop. It was where vampires who died in the mountain were cremated. “What if they don’t want to be cremated?” I asked.

“Oddly enough, hardly any vampires ask to be buried,” he mused. “Perhaps it has something to do with all the time they spend in coffins while they’re alive. However, if someone requests a burial, their wishes are respected.

“Not so long ago, we’d lower the dead into an underground stream, and let the water wash them away. There’s a cave, far below the Halls, where one of the larger streams opens up. It’s called the Hall of Final Voyage, though it’s never used now. I’ll show it to you if we’re ever down that way.”

“Why should we be down there?” I asked. “I thought those tunnels were only used to get in and out of the mountain.”

“One of my hobbies is map-making,” Kurda said. “I’ve been trying to make accurate maps of the mountain for decades. The Halls are easy but the tunnels are much more difficult. They’ve never been mapped and a lot are in poor shape. I try to get down to them whenever I return, to map out a few more unknown regions, but I don’t have as much time to work on them as I’d like. I’ll have even less when I’m a Prince.”

“It sounds like an interesting hobby,” I said. “Could I come with you the next time you go mapping? I’d like to see how it’s done.”

“You’re really interested?” He sounded surprised.

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

He laughed. “I’m used to vampires falling asleep whenever I start talking about maps. Most have no interest in such mundane matters. There’s a saying among vampires: ‘Maps are for humans’. Most vampires would rather discover new territory for themselves, regardless of the dangers, than follow directions on a map.”

The Hall of Cremation was a large octagonal room with a high ceiling full of cracks. There was a pit in the middle – where the dead vampires were burnt – and a couple of long, gnarly benches on the far side, made out of bones. Two women and a man were sitting on the benches, whispering to each other, and a young child was at their feet, playing with a scattering of animal bones. They didn’t have the appearance of vampires – they were thin and ill-looking, with lank hair and rags for clothes; their skin was deathly pale and dry, and their eyes were an eerie white colour. The adults stood when we entered, grabbed the child and withdrew through a door at the back of the room.

“Who were they?” I asked.

“The Guardians of this chamber,” Kurda replied.

“Are they vampires?” I pressed. “They didn’t look like vampires. And I thought I was the only child vampire in the mountain.”

“You are,” Kurda said.

“Then who –”

“Ask me later!” Kurda snapped with unusual briskness. I blinked at his sharp tone, and he smiled an immediate apology. “I’ll tell you about them when our tour is complete,” he said softly. “It’s bad luck to talk about them here. Though I’m not superstitious by nature, I prefer not to test the fates where the Guardians are concerned.”

(Although he’d aroused my curiosity, I wasn’t to learn more about the strange, so-called Guardians until much later, as by the end of our tour I was in no state to ask any questions, and had forgotten about them entirely.)

Letting the matter of the Guardians drop, I examined the cremation pit, which was just a hollow dip in the ground. There were leaves and sticks in the bottom, waiting to be lit. Large pots were set around the hole, a club-like stick in each. I asked what they were for.

“Those are pestles, for the bones,” Kurda said.

“What bones?”

“The bones of the vampires. Fire doesn’t burn bones. Once a fire’s burnt out, the bones are extracted, put in the pots, and ground down to dust with the pestles.”

“What happens to the dust?” I asked.

“We use it to thicken bat broth,” Kurda said earnestly, then burst out laughing as my face turned green. “I’m joking! The dust is thrown to the winds around Vampire Mountain, setting the spirit of the dead vampire free.”

“I’m not sure I’d like that,” I commented.

“It’s better than burying a person and leaving them to the worms,” Kurda said. “Although, personally speaking, I want to be stuffed and mounted when my time comes.” He paused a moment, then burst out laughing again.

Leaving the Hall of Cremation, we set off for the three Halls of Sport (individually they were called the Hall of Basker Wrent, the Hall of Rush Flon’x, and the Hall of Oceen Pird, though most vampires referred to them simply as the Halls of Sport). I was eager to see the gaming Halls, but as we made our way there, Kurda paused in front of a small door, bowed his head, closed his eyes and touched his eyelids with his fingertips.

“Why did you do that?” I asked.

“It’s the custom,” he said, and moved on. I stayed, staring at the door.

“What’s this Hall called?” I asked.

Kurda hesitated. “You don’t want to go in there,” he said.

“Why not?” I pressed.

“It’s the Hall of Death,” he said quietly.

“Another cremation Hall?”

He shook his head. “A place of execution.”

“Execution?” I was really curious now. Kurda saw this and sighed.

“You want to go in?” he asked.

“Can I?”

“Yes, but it’s not a pretty sight. It would be better to proceed directly to the Halls of Sport.”

A warning like that only made me more eager to see what lurked behind the door! Noting this, Kurda opened it and led me in. The Hall was poorly lit, and at first I thought it was deserted. Then I spotted one of the white-skinned Guardians, sitting in the shadows of the wall at the rear. He didn’t rise or give any sign that he saw us. I started to ask Kurda about him, but the General shook his head instantly and hissed quietly, “I’m definitely not talking about them here!”

I could see nothing awful about the Hall. There was a pit in the centre of the floor and light wooden cages set against the walls, but otherwise it was bare and unremarkable.

“What’s so bad about this place?” I asked.

“I’ll show you,” Kurda said, and guided me towards the edge of the pit. Looking down into the gloom, I saw dozens of sharpened poles set in the floor, pointing menacingly towards the ceiling.

“Stakes!” I gasped.

“Yes,” Kurda said softly. “This is where the legend of the stake through the heart originated. When a vampire’s brought to the Hall of Death, he’s placed in a cage – that’s what the cages against the walls are for – which is attached to ropes and hoisted above the pit. He’s then dropped from a height and impaled on the stakes. Death is often slow and painful, and it’s not unusual for a vampire to have to be dropped three or four times before he dies.”

“But why?” I was appalled. “Who do they kill here?”

“The old or crippled, along with mad and treacherous vampires,” Kurda answered. “The old or crippled vampires ask to be killed. If they’re strong enough, they prefer to fight to the death, or wander off into the wilderness to die hunting. But those who lack the strength or ability to die on their feet ask to come here, where they can meet death face-on and die bravely.”

“That’s horrible!” I cried. “The elderly shouldn’t be killed off!”

“I agree,” Kurda said. “I think the nobility of the vampires is misplaced. The old and infirm often have much to offer, and I personally hope to cling to life as long as possible. But most vampires hold to the ancient belief that they can only lead worthwhile lives as long as they’re fit enough to fend for themselves.

“It’s different with mad vampires,” he went on. “Unlike the vampaneze, we choose not to let our insane members run loose in the world, free to torment and prey on humans. Since they’re too difficult to imprison – a mad vampire will claw his way through a stone wall – execution is the most humane way to deal with them.”