Courtney climbed, trying to get above the fight. Winthrop looked down and saw dots of movement. There were bullet- holes in the underside of the spotter. His left foot stung; he wondered if he had been shot.
Before sunset, he had only fired guns in training. His whole war had been a staff officer's, fought in meetings and at desks. Dying and killing were not a part of it.
Courtney was clearing out. Though he could not know for sure, he must assume Winthrop had got his photographs. The primary objective achieved, it was now his duty to get home intact.
Red Albright had got his photographs too.
The problem was that, though the fighters offered more of a challenge and thus more opportunities for honourable victory, it would now be the duty of the German creatures to bring down the contemptible Harry Tate and prevent intelligence getting back to the Allies.
Winthrop still heard gunfire. His Lewis had been alarmingly loud and the echoes of his own fire-bursts tumbled around his skull. Forcing numbed fingers to unimaginable dexterity, he lifted the empty ammunition drum off the spike and replaced it with the fresh one stored under his seat. He fired a few shots to keep the barrel clear, hoping for a lucky hit on a darting batwing.
Little tears in the fabric of the upper fuselage flapped as they flew. The bat-thing had comprehensively shot them. Winthrop was sure the warm stickiness in his boot was blood. When would agony would set in?
He looked down the tail at the Chateau du Malinbois. The famous tower was open to the skies, vast bats swarming around it. With a gasp, Winthrop realised what the diving-board arrangement was for. The shape-shifted fliers used it for takeoff, leaping away from the tower to catch wind under their wings.
There were still at least three Snipes aloft, maybe more. The flaming thing that had rushed past had been one of Cundall's Condors. There was a bonfire on the ground near the castle, where the Snipe had crashed.
The creatures were as fast as Snipes and much more manoeuvrable. In the instant when the thing was bearing up at the RE8, Winthrop had taken it all in. Now, he remembered details. Slung round a thick neck was a harness with twin guns, hanging below a knife-edge breastbone. The large red eyes were those of a night-sighted beast. A human intelligence, a malevolence, made the vampire creature seem a refugee from Fuseli's nightmares. When he had called the shadow on Albright's photograph a gargoyle, Courtney had not been far wrong.
Winthrop shivered with fear, eyes forced open by the cold. He was not thinking clearly. It was important he live to report this development. It was important to live.
Albright had been pursued back as far as Maranique before being killed. That showed a fine sporting instinct. The flier who claimed that victory was Baron von Richthofen. Could the bat- creature that had swooped up at the RE8 be the Red Baron? Winthrop doubted he would still be alive if that were so. Richthofen was not one to let a juicy victory escape him. He must have Harry Tates for breakfast.
Luck or providence was with them so far. He vowed not to die. He could not let Catriona read his silly letter. He had to describe this engagement to Beauregard. And he had unfinished business with Kate Reed.
There was an explosion over the castle. Another comet streaked to the ground. A Snipe had fallen. The formation was broken, though machines were fast catching up with the RE8. Snipes could manage a hundred and twenty miles per hour. Surely, nothing remotely human could match that over a distance.
Tracer caught his attention and he swung to the right, wrenching his gun round. He had little ammunition left. Machine-guns used bullets quickly. There wasn't space in the machine to store many extra drums.
A bat-shape plunged fast, wings rigid. The German vampire had three sets of wings, fixed together by some kind of twine. A human triplane. Winthrop got a fix and emptied his gun.
Light darts shot at the vampire, who turned easily in the air to avoid the flow. His underside was lit up and Winthrop saw guns, dragging towards the ground, hanging below a coat of reddish fur. Was this the Red Baron? Arms reached like a diver's, claws extended in a point. He thought the vampire intended to shear through the canvas and wood of the RE8 like a living knife.
He kept his eyes open and thought of Catriona, of her taste, of her eyes. She said her hair was auburn, but he thought of it as red. There was nothing wrong with red hair. Damn, but this was silly. Dying.
The spotter was thumped and spun. Canvas tore and struts buckled. Wind slapped him in the face. The empty ammunition drum clipped his chin and fell upwards. He realised the RE8 was upside-down again. He
He was suddenly calm. The RE8 was flying evenly and the wind slowed to a breeze. His stomach unclenched and he sucked in sweet air. He could still breathe. He felt nothing. Even his foot did not hurt. Was he dead? And if not, why not? Had the German spared the Harry Tate? If so, why?
He wrenched round to look at Courtney. His calm turned to ice. The horizon was up beyond the upper wing, a tiny wedge of sky at the top of an expanse of ground. Beyond the spinning propeller, darkness was dotted with fire. The forward cockpit was empty, straps and flaps of torn canvas streaming up.
The RE8 climbed, its balance shifted with the loss of the pilot. The flight was almost peaceful. Winthrop's skull rang with his own gunfire, but the rush of the wind seemed to quieten. There was still fire, a distant chatter. The fight was below the Harry Tate. He was out of it. Unless the engine died, the spotter would climb until there was no air to breathe. When it came down, he would be slumped lifeless in the rear cockpit and not even f«l the inevitable fireball.
For a moment, he relaxed. His hands eased off the gun- handles and slipped into his lap. The fear and excitement that turned every muscle and tendon to taut wire soothed away. Engine drone accompanied his drift into reverie.
He thought of the smell of Catriona's hair, damp after rain. It was goodbye to all that.
The RE8 flew in shadow. Between it and the moon was a bat- shape. The creature that had taken Courtney was still up there. The Boche's wings gave a leisurely flap. Was the monster entertained? Amused?
The RE8 angled, one wing raised slightly. Hundreds of feet below, tracer criss-crossed. A cloud of orange flame burst inside a Snipe. The fighter tore to burning fragments which fluttered downwards to the Chateau du Malinbois, fireflies around a fairy castle.
A tiny scream began inside his head. It grew, painfully shrill, popping his ears, forcing his eyes open wide. His lungs hurt, his throat caught. He realised he was shrieking at the top of his voice. His breath condensed with brief damp warmth in his mask and stinging droplets of ice formed in his moustache.
The Boche peeled away and flew off, leaving him to his fate. Given the choice of going down in flames or being sucked empty like Red Albright, Winthrop did not know which to pick.
The RE8 was not a dual-stick machine like the trainers he had been ferried around in. If he was to take control, he would have to be in the forward cockpit. The stick was all of a yard off. If the now-useless Lewis were not in the way, it would have been perhaps nine inches beyond his reach. The stick shuddered as wind streamed over loose ailerons. Courtney's hands had been wrenched away but the Harry Tate still flew on the vanished pilot's last course. It was a miracle the machine had not instantly gone into a spin. The miracle could not last much longer. Winthrop did not have minutes. He might not have seconds.
He tried to get a grip on either side of the scarf-ring, but his gloved hands were stubborn. Concentrating hard, he made fingers curl until he had hold. Then he pushed with his upper arms, lifting his bottom off its seat, shoving his feet against interior struts as he stood in the fuselage. If he slipped, his boot would tear through fabric and he'd be trapped like a fox in a snare.
As he stood, the RE8's balance changed. He leaned forwards and the nose came down. His legs grew heavier, pulling him back into the cockpit. Wind streamed hard against his chest as if he stood neck-deep in a stormy sea. His goggle-rims pressed around his eyes like biscuit-cutters.
Cruel, cold air tore at his agnosticism, ripping it off like a wrapping.
He was struck across the face by what felt like an iron bar. The barrel of the Lewis gun. His nose and mouth filled with blood. One lens of his goggles whitened into a spiderweb. If his head had not been triple-wrapped, he could have been pitched, unconscious, out of the machine.
He prayed with his mind and swore with his tongue.
The Harry Tate was nose-heavy now. He saw the whirring blades of the propeller The engine was slowing. At any moment, it could choke and die.
