Driven by an impulse greater than self-preservation, two more chatts made last-ditch leaps from the edifice as the kite balloon drifted beyond it
One leapt for the basket. Its long fingers closed about the lip, and it began to haul itself up. The moment its face appeared, Gutsy smashed it with his rifle butt, and it fell, flailing, to smack into the ground.
As the kite balloon drifted out over the forest canopy, the second chatt, hanging from a trailing mooring rope, attempted to pitch its spear into the balloon. It struck the skin a glancing blow before falling harmlessly away.
Tonkins cut through the rope with his bayonet. “Thank God the bastards haven’t got wings,” he said as he leaned over and watched the chatt drop. “They haven’t, have they?”
The falling chatt didn’t even have a chance to hit the ground. Its shadow, falling across the forest canopy below, triggered a whipperwill, which lashed up into the air, caught the body and snatched it out of sight.
After that, Atkins watched the shadow of the balloon nervously as it sailed over the forest, a trail of hungry whips snapping far below.
A crackle alerted Atkins to more danger. He looked up. A chatt balloon, its mooring now a smoking ruin, was now adrift. It was higher and floating in the same direction as the kite balloon, out towards the crater. The chatts fired their electric lances.
Atkins couldn’t get a sight on the chatt balloon’s occupants. The balloon itself made a better target.
He heard the roar of an engine and raked his eyes across the sky, looking for the source, but couldn’t see anything. Then he heard the sickening stutter of twin machine guns and saw the Albatros diving towards them.
It was virtually impossible to move in the cramped basket now, as everyone crouched for what blessed little cover they could get. From the other end of the cradle came a shout. Atkins craned his neck.
Another aeroplane, this one theirs.
KNIGHTS OF THE air, jousting in single combat. It sounded romantic; Tulliver had thought the same when he volunteered. His flight commander had quickly debunked that notion. It wasn’t a game. It was kill or be killed. There was no fair play. No chivalry. Shoot them in the back, from behind. Whatever it took. Up here, he owed Werner nothing.
Push forward on the stick, dive.
Werner’s Albatros was in his gunsight. He fired.
Werner banked away sharply. The Albatros was faster and more manoeuvrable than the Strutter, but with its front-mounted twin Spandau machine guns, the Albatros could only fire head on. If they were to stand any chance at all, Hepton would have to use the observer’s Lewis machine gun, mounted behind him. It would even the odds a little.
Seeing the two tethered chatt balloons rising above their chimneys, Tulliver pushed his stick to the side and banked, coming down on them from above. He strafed them with brief bursts of machine-gun fire. You were supposed to wait until you were almost on top of them, but he wanted to keep out of range of their electric lances. The petrol tank was between him and Hepton, and the whole plane was doped fabric and wood. He didn’t fancy going down in flames.
As he pulled up, he saw the punctured balloons begin to deflate and sink towards the edifice on their leashes.
He heard the pop-pop-pop of machine gun fire. The threat of death spurred Hepton into action. The man had found some gumption. He was firing off at the Hun as the Albatros dived down on them from behind.
Left stick and rudder, Tulliver side-slipped away. Both planes were now trying to turn inside each other’s circles so they could bring their forward guns to bear on their opponents. Diving and climbing, they spiralled, each pilot desperately trying to thwart the other, seeking the advantage for himself.
Werner levelled out and swept towards the kite balloon, firing incendiaries at it as it drifted out over the crater.
Tulliver pushed forwards on the stick and followed him down, all the while trying to centre him in his gunsight. He needed to be as close as possible to avoid hitting the kite balloon, but it was looming up fast.
Werner flattened out at the last minute and roared so low over the top of the kite balloon that it looked as if he might set down on it.
Tulliver could see the men in the cradle shouting and waving at him frantically. He was on a collision course. Wiping the fouling oil spray from his goggles, he nudged the nose forward, steepening his dive, sweeping under the kite balloon’s cradle.
He hauled back on the stick and the bus raced up in a long climb. He swivelled his head about him, looking for the Hun. He tipped his wing and, looking down, saw him below, readying for another run at the kite balloon.
Tulliver watched in horror as the balloon crumpled, flames consuming and shrivelling its skin, as it sank towards the crater.
RANAMAN STOOD IN the cleft between the two halves of Croatoan’s Heart, holding the box. He nodded at the two warriors holding Alfie’s arms and they released him. Alfie tensed himself for the inevitable. If they were going to sacrifice him, then he would go with as much dignity as he could muster. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of screaming, or at least, he’d try not to.
“Now you are to commune with the ancestors,” Ranaman demanded.
The urman withdrew another smaller box from the first and offered it to him.
Alfie’s resolve collapsed in confusion. Would it spring open and douse him with a poison? Or did it contain some sacred creature that would kill with a lethal sting? If they wanted to kill him, he wasn’t going to make their job any bloody easier. He refused to touch the box, and glared at the chieftain.
With a nod, Ranaman offered the smaller box again. “It is time. Channel the spirits of the ancestors.”
Alfie looked again and saw that it wasn’t a box: it was a large book, spine on. He almost laughed. It was the last thing he expected. It had been an easy mistake to make in the dim light of the temple. It was an old book by the look of it, too, a large leather-bound tome with iron clasps. Its cover had some sort of symbol cast in iron set into it. Water damage had wrinkled the page edges and there was a faint smell of mildew about it.
Seeing no alternative, he reached out and closed his hands about the book, trembling. What could be so bad about a book?
There was an audible sigh of relief from Ranaman as he let go. It was as if he had transferred some great responsibility and was now absolved of any further expectations.
Alfie turned to face the gathered clan. Ranaman had stepped back and joined the others, looking on with an awed, expectant gaze, expecting some miracle to occur.
He’s going to be severely disappointed, thought Alfie as he frowned and turned his attention to the book. He opened it and riffled through the pages, a murmur of expectation rippling through the waiting clan. They watched him in amazement as he turned the pages.
Why the hell didn’t they just read it themselves?
And then it struck him. They couldn’t. He didn’t even think they knew what a book was, let alone writing. They seemed to think it was some arcane object, imbued with great supernatural powers, a vessel through which someone with witchcraft could communicate with the dead. In fact, this book looked old enough for their ancestors to have written it. If he could read it, then he supposed he would be communicating with the dead, reading their thoughts. He’d never thought of it like that before, and now that he did, it sent a shudder down his spine. No wonder they thought it a great magic.
There was nothing else for it. He thumbed through the pages and stopped at random. Illegible, close, handwritten text filled the thick parchment pages. It hadn’t occurred to him that the language might not be English.
He flipped through the pages, becoming anxious. He tried to look serious and portentous. He glanced up over the top of the book at the clan, who shuffled uneasily. Two men had stepped up behind Tarak, as if to make good on their threat, should Alfie fail.