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 smelled the animal scent of the flying thing and clutched convulsively at the gun-handles. His thumbs pressed and the empty gun clicked. Something long and leathery, like a whip, slithered across his cheek, tearing skin. The vampire had a tail. The blasted thing was a rat with wings. And the Pour le Merite, no doubt. Then the vampire was gone.
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 Château 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. Dear God, if there is a Dear God, please preserve the life of this, thy servant ...
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.
Clinging fast to the rim of the cockpit, he hauled his legs out of the body of the RE8. The wings were wavering. A triangular tear in the upper plane grew larger by the second. Snow and mud rushed by.
The nearer the spotter got to the earth, the more aware he was of the speed. In the heights, there was nothing to judge by except the instruments. As landmarks whizzed past below, it was possible to judge swiftness.
He rode the fuselage as if it were a horse, gripping with his knees. Catriona, a horsewoman from birth, said he had a good seat. The Lewis was in his way. Horrible silences broke up the drone of the engine.
Curse it, Edwin Winthrop did not intend to die.
He would reach the blessed stick, fly home to blast Maranique, marry the sainted Catriona, become a damn vampire, return to filthy Hunland, slaughter the evil bat-thing that had taken Courtney, and drink the Kaiser's stinking blood from a bowl made of the fucking brainpan of the Graf von Dracula.
His left knee lost its grip. He wrenched round entirely at the waist. His legs flailed backwards. His fingers tore dope-stiffened linen. The propeller revolved as slowly as a windmill. Blood flew from his nose and mouth. He had lost his scarf. His Sidcot filled with cold air and he was a human balloon. If he let go, perhaps he would float to safety? No, if he let go, he'd be ripped into darkness and death. The air was infested with monsters. The Red Baron was still on his tail.
With his right hand, he let go of the cockpit rim and grasped for the back of the pilot's seat. His fingers slipped off greasy leather, then he found a purchase. He dragged himself eighteen inches forwards. It was like a mile. Hand over hand, he pulled himself over the cockpit. The stick was within his reach.