The Last Duel

The Last Duel, Part Two

 A storm is gathering above me. I can feel the change of pressure in the air, gathering, thickening. I hear a sizzling zishCRACK! and the water ahead of me explodes.

I'm spattered by a faceful of near-boiling Thames – it's in my eyes, my mouth, my ears, nose, everywhere. Coughing and spitting and giggling like a child (I love it when Carla brings out the heavy artillery) I flip so I'm flying on my back again.

There Carla is, twenty metres up but gaining fast, the vengeful goddess in her righteous fury. The black storm-cloud she's summoned writhes and spits: her sword lights up from hilt to tip, charged and crackling. She points it at me and hurls another thunderbolt.

I jink left as second chunk of Thames detonates nearby with a pungent whiff of ozone and evaporating rat piss. Slowly, so Carla can see, I fold my arms across my chest.

'Did you just miss again?' I call up to her. 'What are we doing here, Carla? Fighting? Or flirting?'

She scowls. Her lips press together in annoyance. Her sword flashes. A third bolt splits the air between us. This time it's too late for me to dodge.

Now: if this was the old days, I would retaliate. I might draw the river up around me like a shield. I might reach down with my power, pull a barrage of raw magma together from beneath the mantle of the Earth and hurl it back up at Carla, aiming to knock her from the sky. Why would I care what a sudden volcanic eruption (plus earthquakes and aftershocks) might do to London and its human population? I'm a god. I've done this stuff before – which, partly, is why I don't do it now.

Instead, I let the bolt hit me.

There's a pop as it punches through my left wing. For a bare instant it feels like nothing else is going to happen then the lightning washes through me, locking and freezing every muscle in my body. It's only a second, that's how long I take to soak up the blast, but this close to the Thames not ending this chase by crashing into the water is suddenly proving something of a challenge. Electricity is discharging across my teeth. My hair and eyebrows crackle and go crisp. Every beat of my damaged wing rips the hole wider: in agony but still in control, I flip over again.

I break right, leaving the Thames, exactly at the place I intended. Gritting my teeth against the pain I tip my wings to gain the height I need to make it over the riverside outbuildings, the streetlamps and finally the sides of the gas tower itself.

There's a rippling CLANG as I land at my destination: East Greenwich Gasometer.

Imagine a tube about sixty metres high and maybe seventy-five metres wide, made out of steel spokes - some vertical, some criss-crossing in starlike patterns. There's a shallow brown dome at the bottom of the tube: that's actually the rusty top of a big gas storage cylinder which can rise and fall depending on how much gas is inside it. East Greenwich Gasometer has been in constant use since it was built, in 1888. It's like a metal arena, a fine place for the climax of our battle – which, partly, is why I chose it.

Wincing, I fold my wings and let them fade as I turn to face Carla for what will be the last time. The giant gas cylinder reverberates under my shoes like a steel drum. Carla's bare feet touch down without a sound. We look at each other.

'What's wrong, Vespasian?' Carla asks. 'You don't seem yourself tonight.'

'Vin,' I say.

She tips her head, quizzical.

'My name hasn't stood the test of time as well as yours has, Carla,' I explain. 'These days I tell everyone to call me Vin.'

Carla gives me a small smile. It is a gift: smiles from Carla are to be treasured and stored and remembered - for what little time I've got left. In front of me now, as always, Carla's smile fades. There's that expression on her face again, that same strange sadness I noticed at the start of the fight.