Bout with Vancha

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.”

***

The Saga of Larten Crepsley: Brothers to the Death, Chapter 9