Blood On Borrowed Wings: A Dark Fantasy Thriller (41 page)

‘It’s a Zeppelin,’ said Leonora, still braced between Cowlin’s seat and mine.

‘What,
the
Zeppelin?’ Rose asked.

‘Can’t tell.’

‘What is it doing down here? There are no scheduled flights. In fact I made damn sure the airspace down here would be clear. Cowlin, did you cancel all manoeuvres and patrols?’

‘Yes of course, Governor.’ Cowlin banked slightly left so the zepellin was off further to my right, high above us but somewhere between two and three o’clock. I had a better view.

‘Maintaining course for Nimbus City Governor.’ Cowlin said

‘I don’t like it,’ Leonora said quietly.

From the look on Cowlin’s face, neither did he.

‘I think we should turn around and land on the airstrip,’ Leonora said.

‘It’s not that easy,’ Cowlin added, ‘but I could start to …’

Rose unbuckled her seatbelt. ‘Let’s see what all this fuss is about. And will you two stop being so overdramatic? I mean, it’s not as if …’

The windscreen shattered inwards. A stiff and oversized crossbow bolt thrust straight through it and down into the control panel. Glass flew everywhere and the blare of the wind filled the small aircraft instantly.

Cowlin reacted instinctively and did what anyone would have done in his position, he leaned away from the gushing wind and flying glass, pulling back on the steering yoke. The plane’s nose was aiming high, trying for vertical. I felt gravity tug at the corners of my mouth as we climbed at speed. I heard Leonora and Rose fall backwards, clatter about the cabin. Cowlin looked white, his hands glued to the yoke, he throttled harder and held us in the impossible climb. A small piece of glass stood proud from his cheek.

Every Slayer was taught the basics of mechanical flying orientation in training. If the wingspan ever puts the tail in its aerodynamic shadow when trying to ascend, and you are not going fast enough, you will stall. Now a stall does not mean you have stopped moving forward or up; it means you have passed the critical angle for ascent and either more speed or a shallower angle needs to be attained. This did not present Slayers with a direct problem. Our own wings and lack of tail fin meant we could shift our body weight to move laterally. But it was helpful to know, it kept the stresses on the body down, helped us decipher the mysteries of our own flights and limitations. Though aerodynamics were different for people, I had yet to fly in any craft or with anyone with wings who did not have to obey the laws of physics and gravity.

Cowlin just held fast to the controls and the plane sped on to the inevitable. Wind filled every corner of the plane.

‘You’re going to stall it!’ I shouted into the wind. ‘Cut me loose and I will help on the stick.’ I had no idea how to fly an aircraft but was sure I had enough of the basics down naturally, and enough muscle, to help us get out of this alive.

‘No,’ Cowlin said, through gritted teeth, ‘I got this.’

I heard nothing from the two women behind us. Maybe they were screaming, or bailed already. The noise rushing in was deafening.

‘Maintaining climb,’ Cowlin shouted. ‘Achieving maximum altitude so can pull out of stall.’ He was totally oblivious to me in the cockpit alongside him. I had no idea who he was shouting flight plans to. We were now almost vertical; I looked for the source of the fired bolt and waited for the pitch and drop.

Then I realised that, in such a vertical position, if I eased forward and out of my seat, I would be hanging from my hands and the steering shaft. The plane started to slow. I leaned further forward, sidled off my chair and then stepped out into the centre gap between the two pilots’ seats, my arms stretched out in front of me still tied. Cowlin was busy fighting with the stick. I climbed onto the back of the seat I had just vacated, the top of my chest rested across its back. My feet hung straight down into the centre of the plane. Nothing was touching them. I brought my knees up and braced my feet on the back of the co-pilot’s chair that I had just climbed from. My back was painful and the ties cut deeper into my wrists. Blood ran down my forearms, my shoulders burned from overextension. The wind was so loud and buffeting that it seemed to be coming from inside my own head. Some loose glass scattered down at my face and I briefly looked away to protect my eyes. Then I saw them, out of the side window, undoubtedly the source of the bolt still lodged in the dash: two Blackwings, maybe the same ones I had seen at Pan’s, briefly, then they disappeared again in the swirling clouds.

I stepped up my efforts. Pushed my legs into the seat back and pulled back and down as hard as I could. Some of the tie sawed through my skin and embedded itself into my forearm. My shoulders ached and started to feel numb.

Cowlin shouted something lost in the wind.

I pulled.

If I could just get free, pull the column loose, anything.

I summoned the nerve for one last pull, focused, shut out the sound of the waterfall wind and found stillness. I concentrated my effort, my resolve, felt the energy channelling through me; harnessed it. Got ready to pull again, for all I was worth.

Then the plane stalled.

Let the bodies fall and grief rescind;

All ashes on the knowing wind,

And in our most inglorious hour,

Let ashes fertilise the flower.

Both grape and thorn live on the vine;

But only one of them makes wine.

Book One: The Nimbus Foundation Principle

The plane obeyed physics, stopped moving upwards, hung for a second, before falling away to its right. My stomach lurched. This was my last chance, soon gravity would not be on my side. I snapped back violently, the way a dog tries to jerk a toy free from its owner’s hand. Desperate. I had hope now, and I was not letting go of my chance of getting off this thing alive. I put everything in. The seat bent but held. I felt something buckle and bow in my hands, heard a screech of metal above the cacophony and then fell free, the steering column still wedged between my hands but no longer fastened to the console. The age of the plane had at least helped me with something.

 
I tumbled to the carpet and managed to catch hold of one of the metal struts used to bolt the seats securely to the Cessna’s floor, the steering column in my other hand, both wrists tied together.

The plane spun then, at least seven hundred and twenty degrees as it started its descent. My feet were hitting walls and the floor and ceiling. I was not sure which way was up. At one point Leonora or Rose collided with me. I held onto the strut and hoped that it did not come loose as easily as the steering column had. I looked back to see Rose had succeeded in wedging herself in the small storage space behind the rear seats but Leonora looked unconscious and bounced around limply across and sometimes out of and over the two seats.

Rose made a feeble attempt at grabbing Leonora but was not willing to lean out far enough to do so; her own safety clearly more important. As we plummeted and the plane gathered speed, the wind in the cabin was so powerful it felt like it could fill the flimsy aircraft then blow it apart from the inside. The G-force held me in position, flat on the floor and clinging to the strut, looking directly under the co-pilot’s seat.

Cowlin was still shouting something, maybe at me, maybe about me. I still could not hear him. I looked up from my vantage point and saw him flicking a switch repeatedly, pushing the throttle full forward and easing up on the yoke. I could not hear the engine but hoped it was still running.

After what seemed like an age caught in the dive, Cowlin began to regain control of the plane, it began to slow down and I felt a slight shift in speed and direction. The angle improved gradually and I eased off my white-knuckled hold on the bracket. I knew I had did not have long until everyone on board regrouped and I had to take control, if not of the plane then of the situation. Luckily I had been staring, face to face with the answer through our entire descent.

 
I scrambled over the floor to Cowlin’s seat, then back to Rose’s and Leonora’s collecting the three parachutes as I went.

Cowlin levelled the plane, I think I heard a small cheer as we started the climb again. ‘Controls are compromised. Something must have shorted. Don’t think it will steer properly.’ He battled the yoke entirely unaware of anything not directly related to the flying of the plane, even my position. The noise in the cabin dropped back to just a raucous level.

Clutching the three parachutes to my chest, with my hands bound, I made my way up off my knees and over to the side of the plane where I smashed the emergency door release handle off with a powerful kick. I then booted at the door lever two or three times until the red handle crashed down and the latch disengaged. One final kick on the release button and the door flew open.

I now had everyone’s attention.

Rose was trying to get out of the tiny gap she had crawled into. She could see what was going on, the colour drained from her face. She stretched for Leonora’s crossbow but it was lodged under her assistant’s unconscious frame. Cowlin unbuckled and gingerly stepped out of the pilot’s chair. The plane threatened to tip left but held.

‘Come on,’ he shouted, ‘give me a break. I mean I just saved us all.’ The panic live and wild in his pleading eyes.

He had a point.

‘Please,’ he said, ‘I’m just the hired help. The deterrent.’

The dog
, I thought.

‘Fair enough,’ I said and threw the three parachutes out of the plane.

‘Fetch.’

*

Croel watched below as the door to the light aircraft was opened then three small packets were thrown out. A large man then jumped from the plane and was whipped away on the wind, as the packets had been, then vanished into the dense cloud below. It did not look like Drake. He signalled Mckeever and they both circled down after the plane.

*

Rose was almost out of the niche she had ensconced herself in. I stumbled over to the front of the plane as it pitched to the left, and grabbed the yoke with both tied hands, the feedback from the steering was all wrong. The wind howled through the hole in the glass and flapped through my feathers noisily, I tucked them in. Peering for any signs of the horizon or ground, I saw a large shape that couldn’t be anything other than Nimbus City. A sheer granite wall visible through the veil of clouds and speckling rain, but then it was gone, a shifting and fleeting behemoth in the murk.

I tried to set the course, managed to get the plane’s wings relatively even and left the yoke and throttle in position. I flicked the autopilot button too, though I had no idea if it was still working, the steering column stuck fast between my hands hindering all of my actions. I then pulled the barbed bolt free of the console. Sparks spat and metallic-smelling tendrils of smoke caught on the wind and then were gone. I rammed the bolt down as hard as my restricted hands and arms would allow straight into the heart of the control panel. The instrument lights went out on three quarters of the dashboard. More sparks flew. I turned to see the Governor clamber over the back of her chair and down onto the seat she had previously occupied, not noticing that she stepped on one of Leonora’s open hands as she did. Leonora stirred. The plane catapulted away, its nose raised slightly.

‘Mr. Theron, wait,’ Rose said. She clung to the arm of her chair and alternated her fearful glances between me and the gaping hole where the door should be.

I staggered past her to the door.

I braced myself in the doorframe, my hands above my head, the steering column I was forced to hold, clanged on the riveted architrave; I looked back.

‘Please,’ she said, ‘it’s not too late to …’

‘Governor,’ I shouted, ‘Nimbus thanks you, for your sacrifice.’

I jumped from the plane.

Dying is the fight for your life,

Living is the fight of your life.

Old Slayer Motto

Source unknown

All of my previous sky launches had been from the relative calm of a Zeppelin or into the thermals rushing up to meet me at a ledge or edifice. I had never experienced a jump from such a fast-moving vehicle. I hurled myself as far as I could from the plane but still only missed the wing’s support by inches. The wind and air resistance hit me like an unhappy god and I tumbled as I tried to tuck my wings in and work out which way was up. The stomach churning feeling of freefall and disorientation took over then for a few seconds until the rapid acceleration settled into my constant speed of descent. I watched as the mist of clouds approached, uncertain of how close I was to the ground and ready to pull up out of the dive, though I knew to do so would probably tear the wings right from my back. I still felt a numbness there, a pain that demanded some of my concentration. I just had to ignore it and hope they would hold out. I had no choice.

I hunched my shoulders, tucked in more and tried to fly to the right, towards a thicker swatch of cloud. I was amazed at how difficult changing direction was. Trying to fly with your hands tied was like trying to run with your hands in your pockets. Flying proficiently was all about shifting weight and the attitude of the body, subtle movements and rolls with the arms and legs, to find direction and balance. I fell more than flew, more rock than bird.

As I careered towards the ground, towards whatever swamp or sulphuric pool I could pick out to break my fall, I sensed I was higher up than I had first thought and started to pull out of the dive; trusting my instincts. I would be travelling at a terminal velocity if I held my current speed for too long.

It was then I saw them, at first barely noticeable, then slowly spreading out across the canvas of the cumulus below. The shadows of two Blackwings splayed and grew across the opaque clouds, falling after me.

*

Croel saw Drake jump from the plane. It looked like his hands were tied and he tumbled clumsily as he fell.

Christmas
, thought Croel.

He signalled for Mckeever to follow him; they got into close formation ready to dive. As he flew past the plane he briefly saw Rose, frenziedly scrambling at the controls, her hair wild; her composure gone. He waved at her and thought she had seen him, glimpsed a flash of recognition on her panicked face, before they flew by.

His day was getting better and better.

They tucked in, Mckeever slightly behind Croel and to his right, cutting a sleek slipstream. They resembled hawks, their wings a tight ‘M’ at their backs. They watched Drake correct his body position and both slipped into a dive, much faster than his. He did not even know they were there. The hunt was on, they would be upon him soon.

Croel’s thin lips spread into a smearing grin as he gathered speed.

*

My planned escape had vanished at the sight of those shadows. I had hoped to dive unencumbered and disappear into the lower level of clouds to glide to safety on the ground below, but they were onto me much faster than I had anticipated. My options were fast running out. I had to hold my dive as long as I could, wait for them to gather momentum, then slam on the brakes, pull out of the dive and watch them sail on by. As they were travelling much faster than me it would take them longer to slow down, to change direction. It was one of the oldest flight manoeuvres in the book, and if the two of them had split up, it would not work, though their shadows had seemed close together.

I had to time my move right. I could not risk looking over my shoulder to see exactly how far away they were, for to do so would surely alert them that I knew they were on my tail and I would need surprise on my side. And luck. So I just watched the size of their shadows as they slipped and expanded across the uneven peaks of the clouds below. I prayed the intermittent sunlight would not abandon me, stuck as we were between the lower and upper strata of clouds that stormed below and scattered above. I started to break the surface of the lower clouds, felt the cold mists and dampness engulf me, held my body shape so they would not suspect what I was about to do. I clenched the bar between my hands, this was going to hurt. Really hurt.

I braced my wings out, brought my knees up to my chest then kicked back. My feathers caught the damp air and tried to hang on to it, like filigreed fingers raking snow on the edge of a mountainous drop. The wind shouted abuse, it hurled everything it had up at me and forced my wings so far back that I feared they would wrench clean out of their neglected sockets. Crucified in the air. I tried to beat them, but my angle of descent was still too severe, so I held them out on the downward turn as much as I could and battled to resist gravity’s pull. I shook with effort. My teeth ground together and every muscle in my body screamed at the same pitch, telling me stop, ease up, no more. I bent the steering column in my hands.

Then I felt something change. The wind seemed to be propping me up rather than hitting me, I was slowing and almost enough to take a wing-beat and fly. Clutching the crooked bar I angled away and flew into an upright position. Hovering is next to impossible for any Slayer, the number of wing-beats and rotation required, just far too steep, far too demanding but I would have given anything to be able to hover then. Instead I started to circle in the thickness of the cloud and waited.

The first one shot past me a few seconds later. He came screeching out of the mist like a wounded banshee. I did not hear what he had said. He was already trying to slow himself down, had worked out what I was doing, but was a lot later than me in applying the brakes. I did not see the second one at all. Did not need to. I had split them up and now could meet them in the sky, one on one, on even terms. I looked up and beat my wings, as I flapped, the cloud curled around my wingtips then circled off in vaporous spirals. I climbed.

I could see the cloud becoming less dense again, feel the change in temperature. My sleeve, whilst offering a good range of movement, offered little protection against the elements. I flew towards blue and the intermittent, waiting sun. The wind was whirling in places, quiet in others, major, minor, but ever-present, like a violin in an orchestra. There was something else there, though, a sound carried on the wind that I had heard before.

I broke through the cumulus’ meniscus and emerged into the sky immediately looking left and right, and up, for the source of the loud whirring noise that was getting louder all the time. I ducked, the Cessna missed my head by inches, the heavy roar of its sputtering engine sounded like a dinosaur, lost and hungry. It wobbled on its horizontal axis, gained altitude, dropped and then sped up, circling right and then away.

I had to keep moving and decided to head back East, to the hangar where all of this had started. There would be a film crew I could do with talking to.

I held the level of the clouds so I was not easily visible, but yet hopefully could spot, or hear, an incoming aircraft and avoid getting decapitated by two duplicitous women. They were doing well to be steering the vehicle at all.

I did not see the second Blackwing until it was too late. He barrelled straight into me. He must have been circling up here waiting for me to emerge. He was a large man and when he hit me, and clung to me, the air escaped my lungs. My head snapped sideways and the force of the blow threatened to push us both off, down into the clouds. There was a sickening internal crack as at least one of my ribs gave out. I tried to twist myself free, but he held on. He was wearing an eye patch and he was not grinning. Spittle flew from his lips with the effort and he squeezed onto me tighter. A monosyllabic ‘NNNNGGGHHHH’ the only thing he said. I beat my wings frantically, to stay upright, to offer up some kind of resistance, keep some kind of control. We were face to face, locked and tumbling through the air. He had tight hold of my torso, but my bound hands were unrestricted.
 

Then I remembered they were not empty and brought the bent steering column smashing up into the underside of his jaw. His teeth splintered and he relaxed his hold. Our wings tangled and repeatedly hit each other as I shoved to get out of his hold. I would lose my advantage if I fell, so I held on, beat my wings and brought my hands up to his face.

‘You thucking bathtard.’ He spat teeth and blood, so much blood he could have stained a cloud. I raked at his eye-patch until I snagged the elastic and dragged it down about his nose. I pushed my thumb into the empty socket.

He cried out and let go, reeling away sharply, fell ten or twenty feet and I followed. I could hear his shrieking above the wind and something else.

It was the sound of the Cessna approaching again.

*

Croel emerged from the lower storm clouds and scanned the skies. He located the plane first, an incoming hornet with smoke bellowing out of the missing door. Lurching into and out of turns as its engine complained, it was not easy to miss. He then noticed Mckeever and Drake entangled, grappling, saw Drake get the upper hand and heard his partner squeal. On Drake’s blindside, he flew towards them, his head was low and his smile had now gone, leaving absolute fury in it’s wake.

*

I dropped fast, kicked an angry boot out at the Blackwing and caught him a glancing blow on his shoulder. He tipped and yawed, unsteady but still flying. One of his hands to his eye. I positioned my hands, bent bar forward and prepared to go at him again. If I could manoeuvre him into the flight path somehow, I …

‘Last time I heard a squeal like that was from a perfumed bitch in our basement,’ another Blackwing said from behind me.

I span around as a club swung at my head. I brought my hands up to protect my face, and dropped a couple of feet quickly, so I was not there when the swing finished. I twisted and flew under him, trying to come up behind him. He was too fast, had anticipated my move and was already turning to face me as I rose. He kicked me in the chest and I tumbled backwards, my rib was agony. I brought my knees up to my stomach and managed to slow my turns on the third rotation, put my head down and flew straight back at him. More rock than bird. It surprised him but as he evaded me, I swept passed him and kept flying. Beat my wings. Ignored the tiredness and agony at my back. Started to climb again. If I traded blows with two, I would fail and fall. And it was a long way down.

I looked over my shoulder, the two Blackwings were in pursuit, the plane was circling and angling in close to us. Its flight path was so unpredictable it was more a danger than a use to me. Though I could always hope it would sweep in on some acute angle and take care of one of the Blackwings for me, they would both have to be deaf as well as partially sighted for anything so unlikely to occur. I kept flying up, wanting to gain height, get into the second strata of clouds to obscure my next dive and direction as much as possible.

I heard something small fly past my ear and disappear on a wide arc into the distant clouds. Before I had processed what it was the second one hit and a barbed bolt stuck into my right side, found a space between my ribs and lodged there. I winced, curled over to my right and tried to pull it out with my bound hands, but they were not working, especially encumbered as they were by the bar. My wings faltered as the sickening pain at my core tore through my tired body. I lost altitude. The clouds were close. So close. The smudged grey and white underbellies looked like a soft quilt made of cotton balls. Waiting for me. I wanted to get up there. To rest. To never come down.

The big Blackwing caught up to me, grabbed my feet, hooked me like a fish and dragged me backwards. I had no strength left. Kept beating my wings but it was no use. He clung on to me tightly in a bear hold, one massive forearm hooked up, squeezed my throat airless, the other around my middle and rested on the bolt embedded in my side. I felt numb to the pain, it did not hurt as much as the one Coyle had put into me in Doc’s garden. Maybe it was the cold and adrenalin, or maybe it was resignation. The smaller one rummaged at his belt to bring another bolt out as the other flew a small circle and squeezed harder at my throat. The clouds seemed to grow darker, their grey hearts surfacing once again as daylight seeped away and gave us the unnatural in-between light of late dusk, when the sun starts to bleed from the day. I felt as if my consciousness would leave me before he made his shot.

One waved his bow and the big guy loosened his hold a little.

‘Any last words, Slayer?’ He hissed the ‘S’ like it was a spat slight.

I looked him in the eye as I had at Bethscape before he had brought the club down onto the Doc’s skull.

No one spoke.

‘Croel ...’ the Blackwing shouted. His wings, beating hard to keep us both aloft, missed a beat. Croel followed his partner’s open-mouthed gaze and looked up to see a bright yellow Zeppelin looming out of the clouds, blotting out the light. He could just make out the shape of someone on the landing platform.

‘What the …’

The windshark harpoon obliterated part of Croel’s wing and exploded through his collarbone and chest, almost took a chunk of him clean away. Pink mist fanned out, painted a wet crescent of blood across my thin sleeve.

The puzzled look on Croel’s face stuck, even as his wings folded inwards and he started to fall, then swing backwards on an arc. The high tensile wire that now attached him to the harpoon’s winch on the Zeppelin, made him look like the weight at the end of a plumb-line. There was a pressurised
THWAPP,
the line was cut and Croel tumbled away down towards the waiting blanket of clouds. His hands flailed as if reaching out for an invisible ledge, his eyes, locked on mine, wide with fear and incomprehension as he fell.