when the
On the tower, they watched fliers prepare to join the battle they could hear all around and see in the middle distance. It was still an awesome sight, the transformation of the fliers, but it had become almost familiar.
Poe and Theo watched Richthofen as he changed. Upon the death of his brother, he had shown no trace of anger or passion. But his armour, opening in cracks as Poe teased out material for his book, was entire again, locking inside whatever there was of him that had been alive.
Richthofen's calm face disappeared under fur. Poe thought the flier not even aware of their presence, but, as Kurten and Haarmann stood away, he bowed to his biographer, flourishing a wing-tip as if it were a courtier's cloak. Poe wished Richthofen farewell. The Baron leaped from the tower, followed by his fellows. The fliers swarmed around the
Theo watched his comrades slip into the night, eyes shaded by the peak of his cap.
'It is almost as if our duties here were over,' he said, at last. 'After tonight, what more use will we be?'.
Ten Brincken's disciples had packed their records, preparing to withdraw. Karnstein was redeployed to the Italian front. Poe assumed the Schloss Adler was converted for use as the Graf's headquarters. As the castle became more significant militarily, its scientific purpose was wound down. Reports were written and despatched. The experiment was concluded.
'They will have won the war, Theo.'
Theo shrugged. 'That was what Dracula made them for, winning the war. But as Manfred said, there is no 'after the war'. They are the instruments of conquest, not rule.'
'There will always be conquests.'
'Eddy, my friend, sometimes for one with such foresight you are remarkably blind.'
Poe was shocked.
Though scientists were left behind along with ground crew, and Orlok scuttled about somewhere, the Schloss Adler seemed abandoned with the departure of JG1. The fliers could be seen converging on the
In his last chapters, Poe had written of the Baron's reaction to the loss of his brother. It was as if both Richthofens had died, but he was cursed to walk the Earth a while.
'Poor Manfred,' Theo said, understanding Poe's mind. 'He is a loyal dog, for all else,'
'I'd give anything to be with them, Theo.'
Theo looked at him and tried to smile. 'It's too late for anyone to take any notice of what we do. There's a Junkers J1 fuelled, ready for an observation tour. Would you care to accompany me?'
'You can fly?'
'Only in an aeroplane.'
Pillars of fire rose from the battle. Poe thought of the skies over the decisive conflict.
'I've never been up in . .
'For a prophet of futurity, a sad omission.'
'Very well.'
Theo grinned, with some of his old sparkle. 'The raven has wings.'
In her last seconds, Kate would have liked to forgive everybody. But she couldn't.
Her coat tightened like a straight-jacket as more cloth pulled into the wheels of the tank-tread. She smelled heavy oil and grease as she was dragged into the killing gears. Then the engine inside the tank died and she was held, crucified against the machine's side. A mechanical failure or a chance bullet or the hand of God had saved her. Briefly.
One of her hands was free. She bunched her fingers and made a knife-point of her nails. She punched the taut sheet of her coat at the shoulder and tore. Stitching broke and she was free. She fell, but got her hand round the rim of one of the stalled wheels, gritting her teeth as her barbed nails scraped against greasy steel. Hand over hand, she climbed on top of the tank. The metal was heated, as fire had recently played across it.
There were enemies inside this moving cage. Warm or vampire, they throbbed with blood she needed to drink. A rifle barrel poked through a slit and angled round. She wheeled to stay out of range and took hold of the gun. With a wrench, she pulled the thing free - raising
Putting her face to the slit, she snarled like a beast. She smelled funk inside, heard tank-men scrabbling and panicking, trapped by the stalling of their wonderful war device. Fire would pour in and cook them.
Her face was close to a pair of boots. The only polished, ready-for-inspection boots in the whole of the armies of Europe. She looked up at the soldier who stood calmly atop the tank, uncringing as if the silver and lead bullets flying around were hailstones. He wore the uniform of the United States but this vampire was older than the country.
His boots grew insubstantial, whitening into a mist. She'd heard of the trick but never seen it done. The vampire gathered himself into a wraith-shape, glowing faintly. His clothes and kit dissolved with his body, as much a part of him as his hair. A bullet struck nearby, clanging against the tank. She cringed, but was mesmerised by the elder. A man-shaped cloud floated over the slit. It elongated and funnelled down, like a puff of smoke suddenly inhaled by a smoker.
Screams cut through layers of iron and steel, shaking her to the teeth. A pistol was discharged, shot rebounding in the confined space. A red cloud burst from the firing slit, spattering her face with warm blood. She licked her face, impassioned by the blood, swallowing the terror that came with it.
Not waiting for the elder to emerge from the tank, she vaulted off the machine's back and felt earth under her. Looking back, No Man's Land was No Man's no more. Strung-out lines of grey uniforms advanced through the night in implacable ranks, stepping over their fallen, walking on in a human tide towards the Allied trenches.
A machine-gun, maybe thirty yards away, started up, and a fan of the advancing troops were scythed down. More men filled the gap. The gun ranged again, cutting more down. Then the gun was overwhelmed and silenced. The gunners were torn apart by the undead soldiers, blood splashing all around. The Germans' mouths were red.
The elder floated above the tank, reconstituting himself pretty face reddened with fresh blood.
Someone shot Kate but only with a lead bullet. It slipped through her calf. The hole healed over immediately. She heard the shot long after the stab of pain passed.
Another tank spat a line of burning petrol towards the Allies, spreading fire on the ground. All about her, men retreated, falling back or just falling.
The elder drifted towards the second tank. He must be ancient to have such control of his form. Older than Dracula or Genevieve. Pre-mediaeval. Perhaps pre-Christian. An awesome thing to have hidden among mankind for so long.
He'd have numberless names.
The flame-thrower hitched upwards and belched another burst, catching the elder full in the chest. He burned like a butterfly. Centuries of unchronicled life were extinguished in an uncaring instant, blasted to sparking shreds by brute modernity.
Someone took her arm and saved her tiny life, pulling her backwards, along with the mass of men fleeing the front lines.
'Retreat, man,' someone told her.
42
Night of the Generals
At HQ in Amiens, everyone was shouting at once. A double . dozen telephone lines were manned, staff officers hopping to pass on grave news from points along the front. Lieutenants with brooms shifted markers on a map table the size of a tennis court. Bombardment shook solid walls. There were fires in the town. Shells were falling just short of the outskirts. Fall-back positions on the roads were being hurriedly manned. This was the big push everyone had expected.
Bone-tired after another stormy Channel crossing and dispirited in the aftermath of My croft's funeral,
