Brothers to the Death (The Saga of Larten Crepsley) by Darren Shan

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 thesame 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 theGeneral 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 oldmaster 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