She grabbed a face, feeling a moustache, and tried to latch on to a skull with her nails. As the man who was stealing her blood stood, she was pulled through earth. The barrier scraped across her chest and hips. Then she was stuck again. Her shoulder burned. She thought her arm would be wrenched off. Then her face was out of the dirt and she was screaming.
Her glasses, miraculously unbroken, were smeared with earth, and the sun had set. But the light seemed intense. Her eyes stung. And she was assaulted by incredible din.
She stood up, still grasping the scavenger, and shook, trying to get the dirt-clumps off her clothes. Layers of earth between layers of clothes formed three or four skins of cold mud.
She let go of her captive. Her hand was enlarged and knobbly, meat stretched over a swollen skeleton. Her fingers had shot out, stretched to six-inch twigs with three-inch blades. As she thought about it, her hand dwindled. A deep-buried shape- shifting power had come with direst need.
If the new-born soldier staring at her had worn a German uniform, she would have killed him and eaten his heart. But he was a maddened Tommy, bleeding in a dozen places, her blood on his mouth. The soldier backed away and darted off, leaving Kate alone on a mound of mud. She was still enraged, fighting off the red thirst that came with this carnage.
As her eyes recovered, she distinguished pieces of her ambulance and the former trench-shorings. Dead men, smashed to pieces, lay all about. Mercifully, none was recognisable. She assumed Tietjens and Bartlett must be among them. There was no trench any more. Explosions had filled it in. She stood on the restored ground level, exposed. She saw the ditch-lines of nearby trenches. Most of the system was still intact. Men swarmed through, rushing to and away from the front.
A fragment worked its way out of her shoulder and she plucked it free. The pain was already fading.
There were explosions all around. Still ringing from the one that had nearly killed her, she was not further shocked. Turning, she looked to the front. Though her position was foolishly dangerous, she had a remarkable view. From her mound, she saw the busy line of the Allied trenches, the wire tangles of No Man's Land, and the puffs of the German guns. She even saw the distant fortifications of the enemy positions. Eerie music - Wagner? - was falling from the sky. In No Man's Land, steel monsters crawled. Above floated a leviathan of the air.
Again, Stalhein was high man. This time, he remained in his own shape and was detailed to the Attila.
The armoured gondola was a conclave of commanders, a nightmare of priorities eliciting a frenzy of salutes from the junior men of the airship service. The airship's captain was Peter Strasser, a fanatic for lighter-than-air flight who had carried out bombing raids on London early in the war. Outranking Strasser was Engineer Robur, director of the Imperial German Airship Service, the great designer of and propagandist for such devices. And outranking all was the Graf von Dracula, who stood alone, paces ahead of his black leather guards, looking at the mud- crawling battle through the observation ports. It was fortunate room had not been found for the Graf von Zeppelin, Field Marshal von Hindenburg and the Kaiser. The combined weight of their medals would have prevented the Attila from attaining operational altitude.
Everybody aboard the dirigible had precisely assigned duties, with the exceptions of Stalhein and the Graf von Dracula. Stalhein, feeling the cold of the height in his unshifted shape, had the sense he was being held back. JG1 would come into play soon.
From his chair, Strasser issued orders into a speaking-tube. His efficient crew scurried like uniformed monkeys through the fantastical arrangement of levers and struts.
A long shadow fell on the sunset-reddened land.
As befitted a craft of such magnificence, the Attila was equipped with a pipe organ. Robur sat at the keyboard, picking out themes from Lohengrin. The music was amplified through trumpets attached to the exterior of the ship.
Stalhein, with unaccustomed meekness, approached the observation port, a circular glass window three yards across set into the floor of the gondola. It was the eye of the Attila. The commander-in-chief of all the armies of the Vaterland stood, blunt hands resting on a brass rail, looking down on the battle. His face was grey in the artificial light, melancholy in aspect, slightly swollen. Stalhein had expected Dracula, the eternal warrior prince, to rejoice in the spilling of blood.
He had expected to feel more in the presence of the Graf. At one remove, Dracula was Stalhein's father-in-darkness. His bloodline, passed on through the elder Faustine, had given him shape-shifting aptitude. He was one of Dracula's creatures. Stalhein's blood did not sing. He did not feel compelled to kneel before his master. He joined Dracula at the port, and looked down.
There was light enough from the dying sun to see clearly. Formations of tanks crawled forwards, the first wave almost at the Entente trenches. Men advanced in their rutted wake. From this view, the troops were reduced to ants. The tanks seemed big beetles, ploughing through tiny obstacles. Bursts of flame burst throughout No Man's Land. This would be costly.
Spitting fire burst from the most advanced tanks, squirting liquid flame into the enemy trenches. Stalhein, though inured to fiery death, shuddered. This war prompted men of genius like Robur to develop weapons which could extinguish vampires as easily as gunfire and the sword killed warm men. Sections of the enemy trench system turned into rivers of fire, burning frontiers in the blackened map.
The Attila was over enemy territory, hovering above the range of anti-aircraft guns. Any heavy guns not yet overwhelmed would be occupied with the ground attack. There were no shells to spare for useless pot-shots.
A junior officer approached, terrified and awe-struck, and handed the Graf a note. He considered gravely and nodded. The officer waved an affirmation and Strasser gave orders into his tube.
Dark objects tumbled out of vents in the gondola, plunging to the ground. Mushrooming patterns of fire showed where the bombs burst. The Graf's eyes were balls of red, blood-blinded. His bloated face was lit by the fires below. He turned to Stalhein.
'God is with us,' Dracula said.
There were columns of fire all around. Kate realised how exposed she was on her mound. But, fascinated, she could not move. It was her job to be here, remember, to tell what she saw. She could not yet look away.
This was the German spring offensive, the Kaiserschlacht. Though everyone from Haig down to the dray-horses had known an attack was coming it had still taken the Allies by surprise.
As night fell, star-shells exploded above the trenches. The magnesium-flares of light stung her eyes. The land ironclads had advanced across the desert of wire and the dead, beating a path for the infantry.
'Who's that cretin up there?' someone shouted. Kate realised he meant her. 'Get his bloody head down before we have to pick it up in pieces.'
She was rugby-tackled by someone permeated with the smell of years of trench life, and dragged into a hole only half-filled with loose earth.
'It's a bint,' the soldier said.
His officer swore. Her Red Cross arm-band was slimed with mud. She wiped a swathe of grime away.
'She's a nurse, sir.'
'Bloody good for her, I say.'
'I think she's dead.'
Kate's fangs were poking out of her mouth. She felt her jaw distorting into a shark mouth.
'Bloody shame,' the officer commented.
'No, sir,' the soldier said. 'Not dead, dead. You know a vampire.'