by Kim Newman
Thinking he was broken, he turned, trying to get the horizon level. After the even air, the ground was unsteady, rising and falling like the deck of a ship in a storm.
The Junkers, still aloft, circled like a protective spirit.
Stalhein saw Dracula rise from the field and brush off his uniform. He still did not understand why the Attila had been wasted, why an airship had committed suicide. The Graf walked over to Stalhein and looked down at him. His flat face was inexpressive, but Stalhein recognised the daze. In a lesser man, it might be called shell-shock. In Dracula, such weakness was unthinkable.
The field was not empty. Men shouted, in English. Shots were fired. Stalhein cringed.
Looking up, he saw Dracula was wounded. Blood soaked his chest.
'To die,' he announced, theatrically, 'to be really dead ...'
Shadow-men gathered around in a circle. The Junkers uselessly strafed the field, hundreds of feet out of range. Silver caught light. Fixed bayonets neared.
The Graf still tried to speak.
'Poor Bela,' he said, incomprehensibly. 'The curtain falls.'
Blades moved, stabbed into the standing vampire, carving through his ribs and neck. Stalhein could not help his master. His wings were snapped. One of his legs was broken. Given minutes, he would heal and be well. He did not have minutes.
The enemy tore Dracula apart, spreading him across the field. Then they noticed the fallen flier. Gasping in revulsion at his changed shape, they closed in. Silver points pressed to his chest. Almost with pity, the British soldiers pierced his heart.
44
Kagemusha Monogaturi
Croft personally picked the black oval of the Attila off the map. His lips were a line of triumph.
'Gentlemen,' he announced, 'Dracula is dead. His head will be sent here.'
Beauregard remembered this had happened before. When Vlad Tepes was killed, his head was supposedly cut off and sent to the Sultan. Yet he had survived.
Events moved too swiftly for Croft's news to have much impact. Haig and Pershing were in dispute, competing for the honour of jamming breaches with their own dead. The telephone connected to the Prime Minister hung abandoned, twittering like a pathetic bird.
With Mireau gone, the French were rallying sensibly. American troops arrayed themselves against the German advance: raw recruits against combat-hardened veterans, or fresh spirited men against battle-weary remainders. And the British were dug in.
A shell burst on the roof of HQ. A patch of plaster fell from the ceiling, dusting Croft and Churchill like pantomime ghosts. Only their livery lips and fiery eyes were red in white faces. Subalterns with buckets were sent off to douse the fire.
'It is evident the Diogenes Club should have ceded responsibility for the secret war earlier,' gloated the phantom Croft. 'Great losses might have been prevented.'
The German advance came like a wave, spreading and breaking as it came up against the bulwarks of well-prepared positions.
Churchill did mental calculations.
They cannot keep this up,' he said. 'With the Attila down, they will lose perspective. Confusion must set in.'
Comte Hubert de Sinestre, a sardonic general, reported a sighting of Dracula.
Croft paid attention. The Attila?'
'No,' said de Sinestre. 'Dracula leads his cavalry in full armour, mounted on a black horse, laying about him with a silver sword. Here, on the left flank. Where the gallant Mireau made his stand.'
The officer indicated a German charge.
Croft was perturbed. 'We have definite word the Graf was in his airship. He was killed by ground troops.'
The French vampire shrugged. 'English intelligence is notoriously suspect. I have the word of Colonel Dax, a most reliable officer.'
'He was in the air. It is his character.'
'The Graf proves remarkably mobile,' said Churchill. 'I've been handed a despatch from Captain George Sherston of the Royal Flintshire Fusiliers which tells me Dragulya has personally led a bayonet charge on the right flank and been peppered with silver bullets. Another cause for celebration, Mr Croft?'
Croft crushed the Attila oval in his hand.
'We have a plague of doppelgängers,' Beauregard offered. 'Next the Graf will be spotted strolling down Piccadilly with a straw hat on.'
'A mediaeval trick,' Churchill said, making a chubby fist. 'Impersonators to rally the troops, to draw fire.'
'The real Dracula was in his Zeppelin. I have affirmed it.'
Croft was green under his grey. His hands reached out involuntarily.
The cavalry Dracula is down,' said de Sinestre. 'Cut in two y a machine-gun. His charge is broken. Mireau is avenged.'
It will not do,' said Churchill. 'We must kill all of him.'
'He is dead. Truly dead,' insisted Croft.
'He'll be somewhere safe,' concluded Beauregard. 'In Berlin, probably. This has all been a distraction.'
'No,' said Croft, firmly. His fingers closed on Beauregard's throat. 'I am right and you are wrong.'
The face, rotten under the tight skin, came close, ghastly green powdered with plaster dust. Beauregard gripped the vampire's wrists, trying to break the choke-hold.
Officers tried to free him from Croft.
'I say,' snapped Haig, 'stop that, you two. I'll have no fighting in here. There's a war on, you know.'
Croft pushed him away, letting go. Beauregard coughed, breathing again, pulling his collar away from his bruised throat. The grey man calmed, deflated. Beauregard assumed the vampire's career was about to suffer a reversal.
Haig and Pershing came to an agreement and began piling American and British blocks on the road to Amiens. Black blocks, reinforced by cross-marked paper scraps, edged nearer.
Bombardment was constant and close. Blocks jumped on the table with each impact. Telephone lines were cut and re-established.
Everyone looked at the table. The blocks were hopelessly mixed up.
Conceiving of the losses, Beauregard's heart ached.
'Oh the humanity, the humanity ...'
45
To End that Spree
The wreck of the Attila burned so brightly Winthrop might have been flying by day. Beyond the forest, the landscape was covered with the straggling shadows of Allied troops falling back to Amiens. Lorries clogged roads and men waded through fields.
His face stung from the immense heat of the dirigible's death. He scanned the sky, above and below the Camel, for the enemy. Howling frustration gnawed his gut. He might be the sole survivor of the dog-fight, the last of both Condor Squadron and JG1. And he would never know what exactly had happened to Baron von Richthofen.
That would be worse than going down in flames. No. Nothing was worse than going down in flames. Nothing was worse than Allard's sacrifice, Brandberg's crack-up or the deaths of the dozens of men in the Attila. It occurred to him that he was, or had been, quite mad.
The Albert Ball in him urged him on to hunt out and destroy his enemy. But there were doubts. It wasn't so much the Kate Reed in him. She was not his conscience. He missed his old self, the boy he'd been before war made a man of him. The man he'd been before war made a monster of him. He owed explanations to Catriona. To Beauregard.
In concentrating on evening things with the Baron, he'd made himself a freak. This strange Edwin Winthrop was as repulsive as Isolde, pulling out her veins on stage, or the bat-staffel of JG1, demon monsters for the Kaiser.
The rush of air on his face awakened him, purging him. He opened his mouth and let the wind blow in. Pulling back the stick, he made the Camel climb. The higher he went, the more distance he got from the brutish business. He could burst through the Earth's bubble of atmosphere and be free of the war and its eternities of killing and waste.
Then he saw the flying creature, hugging burned-out treetops, moving with purpose, as alone as a hunting shark. A flight commander's streamers flew from his ankle. It was Richthofen. In the firelight, the Baron was truly red.
Wint
hrop hoped this was the last of the shape-shifters. He'd seen enough of them destroyed. The charm was off. They were creatures who bled and died like any others.
His doubts drowned in a red tide. Icy calm, he took the Camel down, fast. The miracle was that he still had ammunition left. The shape-shifter couldn't fire backwards. From behind, the Baron was easy meat.
Richthofen was alerted. The bat-ears must be enormously sensitive. The German tried to climb and turn, bringing guns to bear on the Camel, but Winthrop harried him with a burst - short, for he must conserve his bullets for the kill - and forced him to dip down into the forest.
Winthrop pulled up and skimmed across the treetops, watching the Baron weave through the canopy of branches. He was unbelievably agile, but the forest slowed him. He seemed to be swimming through the dense trees. Fire spread from the Attila. Thick wood-smoke churned upwards, stinging Winthrop's eyes, swirling around his propeller.
If the Baron chose to land, he'd survive the night. He could wait for advancing German troops and be carried back to Schloss Adler a hero. But Manfred von Richthofen would not duck out of a fight.
The forested patch was small. Winthrop overshot the trees and flew over plain ground, rising towards low hills in the near distance. There were Allied positions in the hills. Men streamed back to them. This was where the German offensive would break. Or where the war would be lost.
Winthrop turned back towards the forest just as Richthofen flew out of the trees and soared upwards, a prehistoric monster with twentieth-century guns. The Baron fired and Winthrop returned fire. Bullets sparked all around. There was a hideous pranging noise. Winthrop thought he had taken a hit on the prop.
They rushed at each other, and missed colliding in the air. Winthrop felt the wind of the Baron's wings.
What must it be like to be such a monster?
He turned the Camel tightly. The Baron was far more manoeuvrable, so Winthrop had to push his machine to its limits.
Richthofen must have nothing. A warrior-monk, thoughtlessly dedicated to his country. That must be a weakness. He had nothing to fight for. Nothing but the empty achievement of an ever-increasing score.
Winthrop didn't want to be the Baron's victory. But he no longer needed to kill. He no longer wanted to kill. Nevertheless, he fired his Lewis guns at the bat-shape swooping at him.
The Baron evaded the stream of bullets. He passed by close enough for Winthrop to see his shape-shifted face. With blue human eyes and fixed bat-snarl, it was a tragic mask, leaking blood at the mouth.
There was another aeroplane in the sky, hugging the trees, moving slowly. A two-man spotter. At a glance, Winthrop took in the kite's colours. A Hun.
The Camel was above and behind the Baron. Winthrop fired single shots, conserving ammunition for the killing burst. He crowded and drove Richthofen onwards.
The bat-creature darted from side to side, but could not break free of the funnel in which Winthrop had him penned. His ammunition was nearly out. If the Baron stayed beyond range of accurate fire for a few more moments ...
They were beyond the forest, half-way towards the hills, low enough to startle trudging troops. Men turned to whoop and cheer as Richthofen and Winthrop zoomed over them. Caps were whipped off by the windwash. Rifles were aimed at the sky and shots fired.
Bloody idiots. Both parties were moving so fast that a shot aimed at the leading flier could well strike the pursuer.
The spotter would be on the Camel's tail but Winthrop needn't worry about it yet. The fighter could outrace the pusher any night of the year and have juice left over to smash it into the ground.
A mortar barrage burst up into the sky ahead, startling Richthofen. The Baron soared up, flapping his wings. Winthrop gained on him fast, pulling back the stick.
The moon broke through the cloud like an eye opening.
Holding steady at speed, Winthrop realised the Baron was in his sights. If he depressed the firing buttons ...
His thumbs were frozen iron.
There was Archie ahead. Gun positions in the hills laid a carpet of shellbursts. Richthofen winged towards heavy fire.
Late, startled by explosions all around, Winthrop pressed the buttons. A stream of silver squirted forth. Red wounds exploded in the Baron's hide. He had tagged Richthofen.
He was still pressing the buttons, but his ammunition was out.
Richthofen's wings seemed to spread like an enormous curtain, filling his sky. Winthrop knew he was caught without defence between the Baron and the Boche spotter. If they came at him together, he would be truly dead. Maybe that was for the best: to die, rather than live on and risk becoming even more of a monster.
In the creature's eyes, Winthrop saw killing frenzy. The Baron was about to add Edwin Winthrop to his score.
He reflexively thumbed the buttons. His Lewis guns clicked, empty ...
But the Baron was struck again and again, as if Winthrop were hitting him with ghost bullets. Richthofen twisted in the air, wings struggling, riddled with bloody holes.
Winthrop was astonished.
It was ground fire, of course. Shocked out of his frenzy, he realised he was as likely as a Hun to be riddled by Archie and climbed above the dying flier. As he spiralled up, Winthrop saw Richthofen jittering in the air, as if kept up by the multiple impacts of shots fired from below.
The outspread wings were ripped ragged. The body dwindled, guns become anchors, limbs twisting. The dead thing fell towards the ground, disappearing into fire and darkness.
Shocked to his senses, Winthrop wondered what he was doing in alien air.
46
Valhalla
When they touched ground again, Poe was changed. His first experience of flight had been unrelieved nightmare. Free of the earth, he had been whirled into a sphere of chaos, a maelstrom of terror that destroyed the foundations of his vision.
The Attila was lost, a giant cloud of flame consuming the father of European vampirism. Baron von Richthofen was dead, a broken corpse transforming as he fell. Der rote Kampfflieger was incomplete; it would have to be published with an afterword of obituary. The offensive had broken through, but at what cost?
Theo taxied the aeroplane along the little strip by the lake. The shadow of Schloss Adler stood against the sky. No light showed. The castle seemed deserted. The machine came to rest with a lurch, wheels sinking into grassy ground.
Poe was shocked by the calm that fell on him, the equilibrium he suddenly felt. His face was stiff with dried tears.
Theo crawled out of the fore cockpit and dropped to the ground. He tore off his helmet and gloves and threw them away.
What now?
The great gate hung open slightly. As he stepped inside, Poe knew the Schloss Adler was unpeopled. He had become used to the sounds of toil. Footsteps were hollow echoes, now. This position had been-abandoned.
Theo was not surprised. 'Orlok will be on his way back to Berlin, to report to his masters. Dracula will want to know how successful his schemes have proved.'
'Dracula? He was aboard the Attila. He is lost, surely?'
Theo shook his head, weary and disgusted.
'That was an impostor, one of many poor fools dressed up to dupe the Entente. He was supposed to be a target. He did his duty. The enemy concentrated so hard on killing him in the air that they neglected to prepare themselves for the attack on the ground.'
'Who was he? The vampire in the Attila?'
'A Hungarian actor. A matinee idol from Lugos. One of Dracula's get. Moulded to serve as his doppelgänger. There were others. Maybe a dozen.'
"But ... the men of the Attila, the airship itself?'
'Smoke and mirrors, scenery for the pageant ...'
'Who could countenance such a thing?'
Theo thumbed towards a huge, indifferent martial portrait. Graf von Dracula standing beside the Kaiser, both in braid- heavy uniform, moustache points like needles.
'Them.'
Another had been left behind, Hanns Heinz Ewers. Someon
e had taken the trouble to shoot him but only with a lead bullet. He tried to hold his shattered skull together as it healed.
Poe's mind was whirling around. He had sought honour and glory, and found murderers and knaves.
Theo looked dispassionately at Ewers's wounds, and admitted the vampire might have a chance of recovery.
'Who was it?' Poe asked.
'Only one ... flier came back,' Ewers said, eyes shut against the pain. 'He wanted your manuscript, Poe. It was Goring.'
'The recording officer,' Theo said. That makes sense. Eddy, this has all been about the writing of history. As long as records are kept, they'll have won. Germany has too many heroes. The book-keepers need to cull them. Goring, Mabuse, Dracula. Book-keepers, not soldiers. Think of the Graf and his beloved railway timetables. Deeds of glory reduced to numbers, like a stock exchange or a ministry for the collection of taxes.'
'My manuscript? Where is it?'
Ewers tried to smile. 'Goring was to take it to Berlin. To be published. It occurred to me to stop him.'
Ewers's eye rolled up towards his head-wound.
'I don't know why I chose to waste my brains on keeping your work from its publishers. I dislike you immensely but I would give anything to have your abilities, degraded and exhausted as they are. Call it jealousy, if you will. That is why I tried to suppress your book. Jealousy.'
The wounded man pawed at the top button of his tight tunic. Theo helped him, opening his clothes to give him air. Pages, s covered in Poe's handwriting, spilled out.
'You are a great writer, Poe. I confess it. But you are hopelessly mad. I may have done you a service. Goring took the first three pages of your manuscript, bulked out with some of my own tales. Fine stuff, but wasted ...'
Ewers lost consciousness. Theo stood up, his gloves bloodied. Poe had shrugged off his horror and was trying to catch up. The last pieces of the puzzle had been given him.