by Darren Shan
"I didn't!" I groaned. "Tell me I didn't!"
Vanez's smile spread. "I shouldn't worry. Plenty of others made asses of themselves too."
"Ale should be banned," I growled.
"Nothing wrong with ale," Vanez disagreed. "It's the ale-drinkers who need to be controlled."
We told Vanez we were going on a tour of the lower tunnels and asked if he'd like to tag along. "Not much point," he said. "I can't see anything. Besides…" Lowering his voice, he told us the three Generals he was training were due to be sent into action soon. "Between ourselves, they're as poor a trio as I've ever passed fit for duty," he sighed. Many vampires were being rushed into the field, to replace casualties in the War of the Scars. It was a contentious point among the clan — it usually took a minimum of twenty years to be declared a General of good standing — but Paris said that desperate times called for desperate measures.
Leaving Vanez, we made for the store-rooms to see Mr Crepsley's old mentor, Seba Nile. At seven hundred, Seba was the second oldest vampire. He dressed in red like Mr Crepsley, and spoke in the same precise way. He was wrinkled and shrunken with age, and limped badly — like Harkat — from a wound to his left leg gained in the same fight that had claimed Vanez's eye.
Seba was delighted to see us. When he heard we were going exploring, he insisted on coming with us. "There is something I wish to show you," he said.
As we left the Halls and entered the vast warren of lower connecting tunnels, I scratched my bald head with my fingernails.
"Ticks?" Seba asked.
"No," I said. "My head's been itching like mad lately. My arms and legs too, and my armpits. I think I have an allergy."
"Allergies are rare among vampires," Seba said. "Let me examine you." Luminous lichen grew along many of the walls and he was able to study me by the light of a thick patch. "Hmmm." He smiled briefly, then released me.
"What is it?" I asked.
"You are coming of age, Master Shan."
"What's that got to do with itching?"
"You will find out," he said mysteriously.
Seba kept stopping at webs to check on spiders. The old quartermaster was uncommonly fond of the eight-legged predators. He didn't keep them as pets, but he spent a lot of time studying their habits and patterns. He was able to communicate with them using his thoughts. Mr Crepsley could too, and so could I.
"Ah!" he said eventually, stopping at a large cobweb. "Here we are." Putting his lips together, he whistled softly, and moments later a big grey spider with curious green spots scuttled down the cobweb and on to Seba's upturned hand.
"Where did that come from?" I asked, stepping forward for a closer look. It was larger than the normal mountain spiders, and different in colour.
"Do you like it?" Seba asked. "I call them Ba'Shan's spiders. I hope you do not object — the name seemed appropriate."
"Ba'Shan's spiders?" I repeated. "Why would—"
I stopped. Fourteen years ago, I'd stolen a poisonous spider from Mr Crepsley — Madam Octa. Eight years later, I'd released her — on Seba's advice — to make a new home with the mountain spiders. Seba said she wouldn't be able to mate with the others. I hadn't seen her since I set her free, and had almost forgotten about her. But now the memory snapped into place, and I knew where this new spider had come from.
"It's one of Madam Octa's, isn't it?" I groaned.
"Yes," Seba said. "She mated with Ba'Halen's spiders. I noticed this new strain three years ago, although it is only this last year that they have multiplied. They are taking over. I think they will become the dominant mountain spider, perhaps within ten or fifteen years."
"Seba!" I snapped. "I only released Madam Octa because you told me she couldn't have offspring. Are they poisonous?"
The quartermaster shrugged. "Yes, but not as deadly as their mother. If four or five attacked together, they could kill, but not one by itself."
"What if they go on a rampage?" I yelled.
"They will not," Seba said stiffly.
"How do you know?"
"I have asked them not to. They are incredibly intelligent, like Madam Octa. They have almost the same mental abilities as rats. I am thinking of training them."
"To do what?" I laughed.
"Fight," he said darkly. "Imagine if we could send armies of trained spiders out into the world, with orders to find vampaneze and kill them."
I turned appealingly to Harkat. "Tell him he's crazy. Make him see sense."
Harkat smiled. "It sounds like a good idea… to me," he said.
"Ridiculous!" I snorted. "I'll tell Mika. He hates spiders. He'll send troops down here to stamp them out."
"Please do not," Seba said quietly. "Even if they cannot be trained, I enjoy watching them develop. Please do not rid me of one of my few remaining pleasures."
I sighed and cast my eyes to the ceiling. "OK. I won't tell Mika."
"Nor the others," he pressed. "I would be highly unpopular if word leaked."
"What do you mean?"
Seba cleared his throat guiltily. "The ticks," he muttered. "The new spiders have been feeding on ticks, so they have moved upwards to escape."
"Oh," I said, thinking of all the vampires who'd had to cut their hair and beards and shave under their arms because of the deluge of ticks. I grinned.
"Eventually the spiders will pursue the ticks to the top of the mountain and the epidemic will pass," Seba continued, "but until then I would rather nobody knew what was causing it."
I laughed. "You'd be strung up if this got out!"
"I know," he grimaced.
I promised to keep word of the spiders to myself. Then Seba headed back for the Halls — the short trip had tired him — and Harkat and me continued down the tunnels. The further we progressed, the quieter Harkat got. He seemed uneasy, but when I asked him what was wrong, he said he didn't know.
Eventually we found a tunnel which led outside. We followed it to where it opened on to the steep mountain face, and sat staring up at the evening sky. It had been months since I'd stuck my head out in the open, and more than two years since I'd slept outdoors. The air tasted fresh and welcome, but strange.
"It's cold," I noted, rubbing my hands up and down my bare arms.
"Is it?" Harkat asked. His dead grey skin only registered extreme degrees of heat or cold.
"It must be late autumn or early winter." It was hard keeping track of the seasons when you lived inside a mountain.
Harkat wasn't listening. He was scanning the forests and valleys below, as if he expected to find someone there.
I walked a short bit down the mountain. Harkat followed, then overtook me and picked up speed. "Careful," I called, but he paid no attention. Soon he was running, and I was left behind, wondering what he was playing at. "Harkat!" I yelled. "You'll trip and crack your skull if you—"
I stopped. He hadn't heard a word. Cursing, I slipped off my shoes, flexed my toes, then started after him. I tried to control my speed, but that wasn't an option on such a steep decline, and soon I was hurtling down the mountain, sending pebbles and dust scattering, yelling at the top of my lungs with excitement and terror.
Somehow we kept on our feet and reached the bottom of the mountain intact. Harkat kept running until he came to a small circle of trees, where he finally stopped and stood as though frozen. I jogged after him and came to a halt. "What… was that… about?" I gasped.
Raising his left hand, Harkat pointed towards the trees.
"What?" I asked, seeing nothing but trunks, branches and leaves.
"He's coming," Harkat hissed.
"Who?"
"The dragon master."
I stared at Harkat oddly. He looked as though he was awake, but perhaps he'd dozed off and was sleepwalking. "I think we should get you back inside," I said, taking his outstretched arm. "We'll find a fire and—"
"Hello, boys!" somebody yelled from within the circle of trees. "Are you the welcoming committee?"
Letting go of Harkat's a
rm, I stood beside him — now as stiff as he was — and stared again into the cluster of trees. I thought I recognized that voice — though I hoped I was wrong!
Moments later, three figures emerged from the gloom. Two were Little People, who looked almost exactly like Harkat, except they had their hoods up and moved with a stiffness which Harkat had worked out of his system during his years among the vampires. The third was a small, smiling, white-haired man, who struck more fear in me than a band of marauding vampaneze.
Mr Tiny!
After more than six hundred years, Desmond Tiny had returned to Vampire Mountain, and I knew as he strode towards us, beaming like a rat-catcher in league with the Pied Piper of Hamlin, that his reappearance heralded nothing but trouble.
CHAPTER SIX
MR TINY paused briefly when he reached us. The short, plump man was wearing a shabby yellow suit — a thin jacket, no overcoat — with childish-looking green Wellington boots and a chunky pair of glasses. The heart-shaped watch he always carried hung by a chain from the front of his jacket. Some said Mr Tiny was an agent of fate — his first name was Desmond, and if you shortened it and put the two names together, you got Mr Destiny.
"You've grown, young Shan," he said, running an eye over me. "And you, Harkat…" He smiled at the Little Person, whose green eyes seemed wider and rounder than ever. "You have changed beyond recognition. Wearing your hood down, working for vampires — and talking!"
"You knew… I could talk," Harkat muttered, slipping back into his old broken speech habits. "You always… knew."
Mr Tiny nodded, then started forward. "Enough of the chit-chat, boys. I have work to do and I must be quick. Time is precious. A volcano's due to erupt on a small tropical island tomorrow. Everybody within a ten-kilometre radius will be roasted alive. I want to be there — it sounds like great fun."
He wasn't joking. That's why everyone feared him — he took pleasure in tragedies which left anyone halfway human shaken to their very core.
We followed Mr Tiny up the mountain, trailed by the two Little People. Harkat looked back often at his 'brothers'. I think he was communicating with them — the Little People can read each others thoughts — but he said nothing to me about it.
Mr Tiny entered the mountain by a different tunnel to the one we'd used. It was a tunnel I'd never been in, higher, wider and drier than most. There were no twists or side tunnels leading off it. It rose straight and steady up the spine of the mountain. Mr Tiny spotted me staring at the walls of the unfamiliar tunnel. "This is one of my short cuts," he said. "I've short cuts all over the world, in places you wouldn't dream of. Saves time."
As we progressed, we passed groups of very pale-skinned humans in rags, lining the sides of the tunnel, bowing low to Mr Tiny. These were the Guardians of the Blood, people who lived within Vampire Mountain and donated their blood to the vampires. In return, they were allowed to extract a vampire's internal organs and brain when he died — which they ate at special ceremonies!
I felt nervous walking past the ranks of Guardians — I'd never seen so many of them gathered together before — but Mr Tiny only smiled and waved at them, and didn't stop to exchange any words.
Within a quarter of an hour we were at the gate which opened on to the Halls of Vampire Mountain. The guard on duty swung the door wide open when we knocked but stopped when he saw Mr Tiny and half closed it again. "Who are you?" he snapped defensively, hand snaking to the sword on his belt.
"You know who I am, Perlat Cheil," Mr Tiny said, brushing past the startled guard.
"How do you know my—?" Perlat Cheil began, then stopped and gazed after the departing figure. He was trembling and his hand had fallen away from his sword. "Is that who I think it is?" he asked as I passed with Harkat and the Little People.
"Yes," I said simply.
"Charna's guts!" he gasped, and made the death's touch sign by pressing the middle finger of his right hand to his forehead, and the two fingers next to that over his eyelids. It was a sign vampires made when they thought death was close.
Through the tunnels we marched, silencing conversations and causing jaws to drop. Even those who'd never met Mr Tiny recognized him, stopped what they were doing and fell in behind us, following wordlessly, as though trailing a hearse.
There was only one tunnel leading to the Hall of Princes — I'd found another six years ago, but that had since been blocked off — and it was protected by the Mountain's finest guards. They were supposed to stop and search anyone seeking entry to the Hall, but when Mr Tiny approached, they gawped at him, lowered their weapons, then let him — and the rest of the procession — pass unobstructed.
Mr Tiny finally stopped at the doors of the Hall and glanced at the domed building which he'd built six centuries earlier. "It's stood the test of time quite well, hasn't it?" he remarked to no one in particular. Then, laying a hand on the doors, he opened them and entered. Only Princes were supposed to be able to open the doors, but it didn't surprise me that Mr Tiny had the power to control them too.
Mika and Paris were within the Hall, discussing the war with a gaggle of Generals. There were a lot of sore heads and bleary eyes, but everyone snapped to attention when they saw Mr Tiny striding in.
"By the teeth of the gods!" Paris gasped, his face whitening. He cringed as Mr Tiny set foot on the platform of thrones, then drew himself straight and forced a tight smile. "Desmond," he said, "it is good to see you."
"You too, Paris," Mr Tiny responded.
"To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?" Paris enquired with strained politeness.
"Wait a minute and I'll tell you," Mr Tiny replied, then plopped himself down on a throne — mine! — crossed his legs and made himself comfortable. "Get the gang in," he said, crooking a finger at Mika. "I've something to say and it's for everybody's ears."
Within a few minutes, almost every vampire in the mountain had crowded into the Hall of Princes, and stood nervously by the walls — as far away from Mr Tiny as possible — waiting for the mysterious visitor to speak.
Mr Tiny had been checking his nails and rubbing them up and down the front of his jacket. The Little People were standing behind the throne. Harkat stood to their left, looking uncertain. I sensed he didn't know whether to stand with his brothers-of-nature or with his brothers-of-choice — the vampires.
"All present and correct?" Mr Tiny asked. He got to his feet and waddled to the front of the platform. "Then I'll come straight to the point. The Lord of the Vampaneze has been blooded." He paused, anticipating gasps, groans and cries of terror. But we all just stared at him, too shocked to react. "Six hundred years ago," he continued, "I told your forebears that the Vampaneze Lord would lead the vampaneze into a war against you and wipe you out. That was a truth — but not the truth. The future is both open and closed. There's only one 'will be' but there are often hundreds of 'can be's'. Which means the Vampaneze Lord and his followers can be defeated."
Breath caught in every vampires throat and you could feel hope forming in the air around us, like a cloud.
"The Vampaneze Lord is only a half-vampaneze at the moment," Mr Tiny said. "If you find and kill him before he's fully blooded, victory will be yours."
At that, a huge roar went up, and suddenly vampires were clapping each other on the back and cheering. A few didn't join in the hooting and hollering. Those with first-hand knowledge of Mr Tiny — myself, Paris, Mr Crepsley — sensed he hadn't finished, and guessed there must be a catch. Mr Tiny wasn't the kind to smile broadly when delivering good news. He only grinned like that when he knew there was going to be suffering and misery.
When the wave of excitement had died down, Mr Tiny raised his right hand. He clutched his heart-shaped watch with his left hand. The watch glowed a dark red colour, and suddenly his right hand glowed as well. All eyes settled on the five crimson fingers and the Hall went eerily quiet.
"When the Vampaneze Lord was discovered seven years ago," Mr Tiny said, his face illuminated by the glow of his fingers,
"I studied the strings connecting the present to the future, and saw that there were five chances to avert the course of destiny. One of those has already come and gone."
The red glow faded from his thumb, which he tucked down into his palm. "That chance was Kurda Smahlt," he said. Kurda was the vampire who led the vampaneze against us, in a bid to seize control of the Stone of Blood. "If Kurda had succeeded, most vampires would have been absorbed by the vampaneze and the War of the Scars — as you've termed it — would have been averted.
"But you killed him, destroying what was probably your best hope of survival in the process." He shook his head and tutted. "That was silly."
"Kurda Smahlt was a traitor," Mika growled. "Nothing good comes of treachery. I'd rather die honourably than owe my life to a turncoat."
"More fool you," Mr Tiny chortled, then wiggled his glowing little finger. "This represents your last chance, if all others fail. It will not fall for some time yet — if at all — so we shall ignore it." He tucked the glowing finger down, leaving the three middle fingers standing.
"Which brings us to my reason for coming. If I left you to your own devices, these chances would slip by unnoticed. You'd carry on as you have been, the windows of opportunity would pass, and before you knew it…" He made a soft popping sound.
"Within the next twelve months," he said softly but clearly, "there may be three encounters between certain vampires and the Vampaneze Lord — assuming you heed my advice. Three times he will be at your mercy. If you seize one of these chances and kill him, the war will be yours. If you fail, there'll be one final, all-deciding confrontation, upon which the fate of every living vampire will hang." He paused teasingly. "To be honest, I hope it goes down to the wire — I love big, dramatic conclusions!"
He turned his back on the Hall and one of his Little People handed him a flask, from which he drank deeply. Furious whispers and conversations swept through the assembled vampires while he was drinking, and when he next faced the crowd, Paris Skyle was waiting. "You have been very generous with your information, Desmond," he said. "On behalf of all here, I thank you."