"I don't know," I answered honestly this time. "Maybe."

She sighed and lay back. "At least I will not die unavenged. You fight well, Darren Shan. You are a true vampire."

"Thanks," I said hollowly.

Mr. Crepsley reached us and examined Arra worriedly. He rubbed spit around the edges of the cut to stop the bleeding, but his efforts didn't make much of a difference. "Does it hurt?" he asked.

"Talk about asking… stupid questions!" she gurgled.

"You always said I had a talent for putting my foot in my mouth." He smiled, tenderly wiping blood away from the corners of her lips.

"I'd ask you to kiss me," she said, "only I'm not… in any shape… for it."

"There'll be plenty of time for kissing later," he vowed.

"Maybe," Arra sighed. "Maybe."

While Mr. Crepsley tended to Arra, I sat back and watched numbly as the battle drew to its bloody conclusion. No more than six or seven vampaneze were left on their feet, and each was encircled by several vampires. They should have surrendered, but I knew they wouldn't. Vampires and vampaneze only knew how to win and how to die. For the proud legions of the undead, there was no in-between.

As I watched, two vampaneze who'd been fighting back-to-back made a break for the exit tunnel. A pack of vampires moved to intercept them, Vanez Blane among them. They prevented the escape, but one of the vampaneze threw his dagger in spiteful desperation before the vampires captured and killed him. It flew through the air like a guided missile at its helpless target — Vanez!

The games master whipped his head backward and almost avoided the dagger, but it was too swift, and the tip of the blade caught his one good eye. Blood spurted, Vanez screamed and covered his face with his hands, and Seba Nile hurried forward to lead him away to safety.

By the way he'd screamed, I knew in my gut that if Vanez survived, he would never again see the light of the moon or the twinkle of the stars. The vampaneze had finished the job that a lion had started. Vanez was now completely blind.

Glancing around miserably, I saw Streak chewing on the head of a still-living vampaneze. One of the younger wolves was helping him. I searched for the other hot-blooded wolf and found it lying dead by a wall, belly ripped open, fangs bared in a vicious death snarl.

Paris Skyle arrived and took Mika's place. The ancient Prince wielded a thick staff, both ends of which had been sharpened to stakelike points. He showed less taste for the fight than his younger brethren, but still fell in with the bloodshed and latched on to one of the last vampaneze. He made no calls for peace, nor did he tell his men to take these final hardy fighters alive. Perhaps it was best that he didn't. Those vampaneze who'd been taken intact — there were several — had only the Hall of Death to look forward to, where they'd be impaled on stakes in front of a crowd of jeering vampires. Given the choice, I was sure they'd rather die on their feet, with honor.

Finally, painfully, the fighting drew to a close. The last vampaneze was killed — he roared as he died, "May the demons take you all!" — and the clearing away of the bodies began. The vampires acted with mechanical efficiency. Generals who'd been swinging axes and swords moments before now picked up wounded vampires and led them away to be nursed, chuckling as they did so, discussing the battle and making light of the injured party's wounds. Others collected the dead, first the fallen vampires, then the vampaneze. They made mounds of the bodies, which were collected by the ghoulish Guardians of the Blood (they must have been waiting outside the cave during the battle), who carried them away to be readied for cremation.

It was all done in good spirits. It didn't bother the Generals that we'd lost nine or ten of our own (the actual death toll, by the time those with fatal injuries succumbed, was twelve). The battle had been won, the vampaneze had been destroyed, and the mountain was secure. They thought they'd come out of "the scrap" rather well.

A stretcher had to be brought for Arra — there was no way she could walk. She'd grown quieter while waiting and stared at the roof of the cave as though studying a painting. "Darren," she whispered.

"Yes?"

"Do you remember… when I beat you… on the bars?"

"Of course." I smiled.

"You put up… a good fight."

"Not good enough," I chuckled weakly.

Coughing, she faced Mr. Crepsley. "Don't let them kill him, Larten!" she said. "I was one of those… who insisted on his… death when he failed… the Trials. But tell them I said he should… be spared. He's a… worthy vampire. He's earned a… reprieve. Tell them!"

"You can tell them yourself," Mr. Crepsley said, tears dripping down his cheeks, a display of emotion I never thought I'd see. "You will recover. I will take you to the Hall of Princes. You can speak up for him."

"Maybe," Arra sighed. "But if I don't… you'll do it for me? You'll tell them… what I said? You'll protect him?"

Mr. Crepsley nodded wordlessly.

The stretcher arrived, and Arra was loaded onto it by two vampires. Mr. Crepsley walked along beside her, holding her hand, trying to comfort her. She made a death's touch sign at me with her free hand as she left, then laughed — blood sprayed from her lips — and winked.

Later that day, shortly before the sun sank in the wintry sky, despite the best efforts of the medics, Arra Sails closed her eyes, made her peace with the gods of the vampires, breathed her last… and died.

Hours later, when wordreached me of Arra's death, I returned to the cave to try to make sense of it all inside my head. The vampires had departed. The dead bodies had been cleared away by the morbid Guardians of the Blood. Even the many trampled spiders had been removed. Only the blood remained, great ugly pools of it, seeping through the cracks in the floor, drying on the walls, dripping from the roof.

I scratched my cheeks — caked in dust, dried blood, and tears — and studied the random patterns of blood on the floor and walls, thinking back over the fighting and the lives I'd taken. As I listened to the echoes of the dripping blood, I found myself reliving the screams of the vampaneze and vampires, the moans of the dying, Seba leading the blind Vanez away, the relish with which the battle had been fought, Glalda's expression when I killed him, Arra and the way she'd winked at me.

"Mind if I join you?" someone asked.

Glancing up, I saw it was the aged quartermaster of Vampire Mountain, Seba Nile, limping badly from a wound he'd sustained during the fighting. "Be my guest," I said hollowly, and he sat down beside me.

For a few minutes we stared around the crimson-splashed cave in silence. Finally, I asked Seba if he'd heard about Arra's death.

"Yes," he said softly. He laid a hand on my knee. "You must not mourn too grievously for her, Darren. She died proudly, as she would have wished."

"She died stupidly!" I snapped.

"You should not say that," Seba scolded me gently.

"Why not?" I shouted. "It's the truth! This was a stupid fight, fought by stupid people."

"Arra did not think so," Seba said. "She gave her life for this 'stupid fight. Others gave theirs too."

"That's what makes it stupid," I groaned. "We could have driven them off. We didn't have to come down here and cut them to pieces."

"If I remember correctly," Seba said, "it was your novel idea regarding the spiders which paved the way for our attack."

"Thanks for reminding me," I said bitterly, lapsing back into silence.

"You must not take it to heart," Seba said. "Fighting is our way. It is how we judge ourselves. To the uninitiated this might look like a barbaric bloodbath, but our cause was just. The vampaneze were plotting our downfall. It was us or them. You know that better than anybody — you were there when they killed Gavner Purl."