Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

Ignoring the blazing pain, he stared through the mist, spying the Weir House just up ahead. He knew that Renard still had one bullet left-more than enough to send him on his way to his maker. He had to move quickly, for there was something else of concern to him. Like a tremendous undulating acidic wave, something stirred within his guts, causing a nauseous cloud to blur his vision. That damn poison was nothing if not persistent. Just when his strength of will had forced one intense attack to dissipate, another was waiting in the wings, ready to pounce upon him. It was akin to being blindfolded in a boxing ring whilst your opponent was free to hit you at will. He knew the punches were inevitable, but had no idea from which direction they would come.

Quaint knew that Renard getting an accurate shot off whilst he was being thrown around the confines of the carriage was next to impossible. But his recognition of that fact was quickly dashed as the younger and fitter Renard hoisted himself up and out of the window, clawing his way up out onto the roof.

'Hold her steady, Melchin!' screamed Renard.

'What d'you think I'm trying to do, mate?' replied the driver over the din of the carriage's wheels. The short, stout man was wrenching on the reins as hard as he could, and the fight against the startled horse was lifting him clear out of his seat.

'You're as stubborn as ever!' Renard said, thrusting his palm hard towards Quaint's jaw, sending the conjuror skidding across the roof.

Quaint landed with a painfully unceremonious thump onto the large fender of the carriage's rear wheel. He was inches from the wheel, and the constant buffeting against the small of his back was sheer torture. Just as he reached for a handhold on the roof, the carriage hit a large bump in the road, and Quaint was cast aside, bouncing with the ricocheting vehicle. The vibrations of the wheel against the hard stone cobbles reverberated through his body, shaking the very teeth in his gums. His head was less than six inches from the whitewashed Thames wall and, with one last spurt of strength, Quaint reached out with all his body's remaining effort. His fingertips brushed against the luggage rack affixed to the roof, and the man clung on with all his might. Quaint threw his other arm up, gripping onto the rail, just as the Frenchman threw his weight towards him. Both men tumbled over the side of the transport onto the rear luggage rack in a jumble of awkward limbs. With a jab of his elbow towards Renard's throat, Quaint regained a handhold. The cobbled stone streets streaked past, inches from both Renard's and Quaint's heads. All it would take was one minor graze at that speed, and the flesh would burn off to the bone. With a well-placed punch to his foe's solar plexus, Quaint managed to gain the upper hand, and clambered back up onto the carriage's rooftop.

'Now it's your turn to beg, Renard,' hollered Quaint, holding on desperately by his left hand. 'Call a halt to this insane plan of yours now-before it's too late!'

'Cornelius, you self-righteous old fool…it's no good appealing to my conscience,' Renard said. 'I don't have one.'

Renard swiftly produced his pistol from underneath his body. Quaint's eyes widened. As the Frenchman pulled the pistol's trigger, his face was briefly illuminated in a glare of amber light. The bullet struck his shoulder…The shoulder of the arm attached to the hand that held the fingers that gripped the roof rack of the carriage…and Cornelius Quaint fell. He fell clumsily, and he fell hard.

Seeing the lifeless figure of his fallen enemy lying in the middle of the street, Renard saluted. 'A valiant effort, Cornelius…but in the end, was there ever any doubt as to which of us would be the victor?'

THE FREEZING WIND chilled the cobbled stone gound, and as Cornelius Quaint tried to lift his battered and wounded body, its surface clung to his cheek. Wincing in agony as he put weight upon his shoulder, he slowly pulled himself up off the ground, like pulling a bandage from an open wound. Quaint lost his balance, and crashed back down onto the wet stones. After what seemed like an immeasurable amount of time, he finally managed to force his body to obey his commands, and he rose to his feet.

It had been precious seconds since Renard had shot him, but the dull ache barely even registered. It was the endgame, and he only hoped that he could make it in time to prevent Renard from fulfilling his plan. Pushing the physical pain to the back of his mind, he continued the pursuit, making good use of his determined, single-minded ability to focus upon his quarry.

'You're going to pay for the pain you have wrought, Renard,' Quaint said, as he picked at his tattered and ripped clothes with a limp hand. 'Or, at the very least, you'll pay for my bloody suit.'

After an arduous quarter-mile hobble, Quaint was less than fifty yards from the now battered and beaten carriage, when he saw Melchin tying up the coach's horse outside the huge Weir House. A bemused Quaint felt a small semblance of energy creep back into his body at the sight. The conjuror's unconquerable doggedness might just give him the edge he needed.

Sneaking as low as he could, Quaint scuttled through the long dark shadows and grabbed Melchin by his collar, dragging him to the ground. The man was flustered and cowardly, but Quaint was in no mood to play nice.

'Please don't hit me,' Melchin yelped. 'I don't want no bother, sir! I'm just a driver!'

'Run,' Quaint sneered, his face up close to Melchin's. The poison was evident now on his face, the excited blood vessels creating red blotches on his cheeks, and he had rims around his eyes, accentuating his rage in a truly demonic fashion. 'As fast, and far away as you can,' Quaint thrust his face closer to the quivering driver. 'Go!'

Melchin scrambled to his feet, and did as Quaint had ordered. He ran as if his life depended on it down the street, his footsteps echoing into the distance like castanets.

Quaint painfully removed his overcoat, and pulled his handkerchief from his pocket. He folded it into a square swab, and pressed it hard onto the bullet wound on his shoulder. Feeling the nub of the iron projectile just beneath his flesh, he winced. He was loathe to scream-he would not give Renard the pleasure. Quaint wiped a trickle of blood from his nose with his cuff, and stared towards the Weir House as if it were the Devil's residence itself.

'That's the hors-d'oeuvres done with…now for the main course,' he said.

The outside of the Weir House building was a completely different affair than inside. It was essentially a large, warehouse-like containment building, with tall, vertical windows set high into the walls, and huge wooden struts that ran the length of the white building, leading down to the elongated jetty that ran parallel. Inside the building were housed over twenty mechanical weirs; small, metal plates with V-shaped notches cut into them, designed to measure and regulate water depth at certain times of the year. Each plate was fitted to spiralling metal domes housed in the water. The noise both within and without was tremendous; small wonder then that the only tenement buildings located nearby were one step shy of Cheapside, London's fleapit not too far up the river, a haven for users and abusers of opiates, absinthe, petty crime and prostitution.

Quaint made his way to the rear of the building and climbed the wall up to one of the church-like windows, peering cautiously inside. A giant, cog-powered metal construct could be seen clearly, and standing on an observation platform at the rear of the building was Renard. He was scouring the weirs as if he'd lost something, searching for the optimum place to tip the poison. From the weirs, it would mix with the main-flow of the water and be dragged down the length of the Thames. Feeling the acidic rush flow over him again, like a million tiny red ants scuttling under the surface of his skin, he was suddenly appreciative of the weapon's power.