Vancha laughed at that and spat out a chunk of nail. "I think we're going to get along fine, Mulds!"

"Hard trek, Sire?" Mr. Crepsley asked, sitting down beside the Prince, covering his eyes with cloth again.

"Not bad," Vancha grunted, uncrossing his legs. He then started in on his right toenails. "Yourselves?"

"The travelling has been good."

"Any news from Vampire Mountain?" Vancha asked.

"Lots," Mr. Crepsley said.

"Save it for tonight." Vancha let go of his foot and lay back. He took off his purple cloak and draped it over himself. "Wake me when it's dusk," he yawned, rolled over, fell straight asleep and started to snore.

I stared, goggle-eyed, at the sleeping Prince, then at the nails he'd chewed off and spat out, then at his ragged clothes and dirty green hair, then at Harkat and Mr. Crepsley. "He's a Vampire Prince?" I whispered.

"He is," Mr. Crepsley smiled.

"But he looks like…" Harkat muttered uncertainly. "He acts like…"

"Do not be fooled by appearances," Mr. Crepsley said. "Vancha chooses to live roughly, but he is the finest of vampires."

"If you say so," I responded dubiously, and spent most of the day lying on my back, staring up at the cloudy sky, kept awake by the loud snoring of Vancha March.

WE LEFT the vampets lying where we'd killed them (Vancha said they weren't worthy of burial) and set off at dusk. As we marched, Mr. Crepsley told the Prince of Mr. Tiny's visit to Vampire Mountain, and what he'd predicted. Vancha said little while Mr. Crepsley was talking, and brooded upon his words in silence for a long time after he finished.

"I don't think it takes a genius to surmise that I'm the third hunter," he said in the end.

"I would be most surprised if you were not," Mr. Crepsley agreed.

Vancha had been picking between his teeth with the tip of a sharp twig. Now he tossed it aside and spat into the dust of the trail. Vancha was a master spitter — his spit was thick, globular and green, and he could hit an ant at twenty paces. "I don't trust that evil meddler, Tiny," he snapped. "I've run into him a couple of times, and I've made a habit of doing the opposite of anything he says."

Mr. Crepsley nodded. "Generally speaking, I would agree with you. But these are dangerous times, Sire, and—"

"Larten!" the Prince interrupted. "Its 'Vancha', 'March' or 'Hey, ugly! while we're on the trail. I won't have you kowtowing to me."

"Very well—" Mr. Crepsley grinned " — ugly." He grew serious again. "These are dangerous times, Vancha. The future of our race is at stake. Dare we ignore Mr. Tiny's prophecy? If there is hope, we must seize it."

Vancha let out a long, unhappy sigh. "For hundreds of years, Tiny's let us think we were doomed to lose the war when the Vampaneze Lord arose. Why does he tell us now, after all this time, that it isn't cut and dried, but we can only prevent it if we follow his instructions?" The Prince scratched the back of his neck and spat into the bush to our left. "It sounds like a load of guano to me!"

"Maybe Evanna can shed light on the subject," Mr. Crepsley said. "She shares some of Mr. Tiny's powers and can sense the paths of the future. She might be able to confirm or dismiss his predictions."

"If so, I'll believe her," Vancha said. "Evanna guards her tongue closely, but when she speaks, she speaks the truth. If she says our destiny lies on the road, I'll gladly pitch in with you. If not…" He shrugged and let the matter rest.

Vancha March was weird — and that was putting it mildly! I'd never met anyone like him. He had a code all of his own.

As I already knew, he wouldn't eat cooked meat or drink anything but fresh water, milk and blood, and he made his clothes from the hides of animals he hunted. But I learnt much more about him during the six nights it took us to reach Lady Evanna's.

He followed the old ways of the vampires. Long ago, vampires believed that we were descended from wolves. If we lived good lives and stayed true to our beliefs, we'd become wolves again when we died and roam the wilds of Paradise as spirit creatures of the eternal night. To that end, they lived more like wolves than humans, avoiding civilization except when they had to drink blood, making their own clothes, following the laws of the wild.

Vancha wouldn't sleep in a coffin — he said they were too comfortable! He thought a vampire should sleep on open ground, covering himself with no more than his cloak. He respected vampires who used coffins but had a very low opinion of those who slept in beds. I didn't dare tell him about my preference for hammocks!

He had a great interest in dreams, and often ate wild mushrooms which led to vibrant dreams and visions. He believed the future was mapped out in our dreams, and if we learnt to decipher them, we could control our destinies. He was fascinated by Harkat's nightmares and spent many long hours discussing them with the Little Person.

The only weapons he used were his shurikens (the throwing stars), which he carved himself from various metals and stones. He thought hand to hand combat should be exactly that — fought with one's hands. He'd no time for swords, spears or axes and refused to touch them.

"But how can you fight someone who has a sword?" I asked one evening as we were getting ready to break camp. "Do you run?"

"I run from nothing!" he replied sharply. "Here — let me show you." Rubbing his hands together, he stood opposite me and told me to draw my sword. When I hesitated, he slapped my left shoulder and jeered. "Afraid?"

"Of course not," I snapped. "I just don't want to hurt you."

He laughed out loud. "There's not much fear of that, is there, Larten?"

"I would not be so sure," Mr. Crepsley demurred. "Darren is only a half-vampire but he is sharp. He could test you, Vancha."

"Good," the Prince said. "I relish worthy opponents."

I looked pleadingly at Mr. Crepsley. "I don't want to draw on an unarmed man."

"Unarmed?" Vancha shouted. "I have two arms!" He waved them at me.

"Go ahead," Mr. Crepsley said. "Vancha knows what he is doing."

Pulling out my sword, I faced Vancha and made a halfhearted lunge. He didn't move. Simply watched as I pulled the tip of my sword up short.

"Pathetic," he sniffed.

"This is stupid," I told him. "I'm not—"

Before I could say anything else, he darted forward, seized me by the throat and made a small, painful cut across my neck with his nails.

"Ow!" I yelled, stumbling away from him.

"Next time I'll cut your nose off," he said pleasantly.

"No you won't!" I growled and swung at him with my sword, properly this time.

Vancha ducked clear of the arc of the blade. "Good," he grinned. "That's more like it."

He circled me, eyes on mine, fingers flexing slowly. I kept the tip of my sword low, until he came to a halt, then moved towards him and jabbed. I expected him to shift aside, but instead he brought the palm of his right hand up and swiped the blade away, as he would a flat stick. As I struggled to bring it back around, he stepped in, caught hold of my hand above the wrist, gave a sharp twist which caused me to release the sword — and I was weaponless.

"See?" he smiled, stepping back and raising his hands to show the fight was at an end. "If this was for real, your ass would be grass." Vancha had a foul mouth — that was one of his tamest insults!

"Big deal," I sulked, rubbing my sore wrist. "You beat a half-vampire. You couldn't win against a full-vampire or a vampaneze."

"I can and have," he insisted. "Weapons are tools of fear, used by those who are afraid. One who learns to fight with his hands always has the advantage over those who rely on swords and knives. Know why?"