London Underground: An Unofficial Legend of The Secret World (Unofficial Legends of The Secret World Book 2)

by Blodwedd Mallory

  “I will discuss a date for your initiation with the Grand Master and let you know when it has been scheduled,” he said. “In the meantime, there is a private training area which we have reinforced for members and candidates. You may spend your time there until the date is set.”

  He pointed at a second doorway to the left, then sat down at his desk and returned to his papers.

  My face fell. I was dismissed.

  I fiddled uncomfortably for a moment as my heart ached. This was not the grand meeting I had envisioned with Richard Sonnac in my fantasies about the future. I looked back at him sitting at his desk, engrossed in his papers, and fought back tears.

  Taking a deep breath, I got my emotions under control, scolding myself silently for foolishness. I was here after all, and I would get a chance to prove myself worthy to become a Templar.

  With that bit of hope to sustain me, I turned back to the door I had entered, only then noticing that D. I. Shelley was standing there at the entrance. I smiled at her, and she gave me a curt nod as she entered Sonnac’s office.

  I moved through the new doorway and stepped out into another marble-floored hall. To my right were two large red wooden doors carved with roses, hung inside a tooled stone frame that looked like a Greek temple. They made me feel very small. Two more uniformed guards stood before them. They didn’t acknowledge me as I awkwardly pushed at the heavy doors and entered the training room as I’d been directed.

  I stepped through the doorway into the room and looked around myself in confusion. This didn’t look like a gym. It looked like a nightclub.

  Directly in front of me stood a large wooden bar, with a marble counter and nearly a dozen stools in front of it. The back bar was lit glass, and I could see a variety of bottles of spirits as well as neat rows of glassware lining the shelves. The floor in front of me was covered in a thick, luxurious red carpet.

  I did a double take and looked back over my shoulder at the door. Was I in the wrong place?

  “Hi there,” called out the bartender stationed behind the marble and glass edifice, dressed in an impeccable Templar uniform. “Come in then. Don’t dawdle.”

  I stepped forward and looked right and left. The carpeted area was filled with tables and chairs on both sides of the bar, with small table lamps adorning them. The bar area appeared to be the raised portion of a split level surrounded by a wooden railing, and I could see steps down to a marble floor below it.

  “Am I…?” I asked tentatively.

  “This is the Crucible. You’re in the right place,” the dark-haired bartender responded as he polished a crystal tumbler with a white towel. “Everyone does that when they come in for the first time. I take it Sonnac directed you here to train?”

  “Erm, yes.”

  “You’ll want to talk to the master-of-arms down there then,” he said, pausing to point his thumb over his shoulder. “Better head on down. The Brig doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  I nodded and strode across the carpet to the stairs. I stepped down on to the marble main floor and approached a tall older man wearing a tan button-down army shirt and brown pants, a mechanical brace supporting his right leg. He turned to me, and I could see his right eye was covered with a black patch.

  “Christ almighty,” he said with an Australian accent and a scowl as he looked me over. “We’ve got our work cut out for us.”

  I could see four shiny medals attached to his chest, two silver medals with red and white ribbons, and two gold with solid red ribbons. This was beyond a shadow of a doubt the brigadier in question.

  He watched me as I walked up, his scowl deepening, making the grooves in his forehead stand out. I could see a scar intersecting his right eyebrow and disappearing behind the patch. His hair was brown but closely cut, and he appeared to be in his mid-50s.

  He pointed his finger at me. “The Crucible is my house, and in my house my word is law. Forget your mother's teat, from now on this is your home. This is where you learn to stay alive.”

  I swallowed hard. What had I done to deserve such an ear bashing?

  “Now, what’s your name, soldier?” he asked.

  “Blodwedd Mallory,” I responded in what I hoped was a crisp tone.

  “Blodwedd Mallory,” he said, lingering over my last name. “Your mother is Lisbette? Elizabeth Mallory?”

  I nodded, pleased that he knew her.

  “Hmm. She’s a good agent. Your father…” He turned away from me and wandered over to a weapon case. “Have you ever used a blade?”

  “No, sir.”

  He looked back at me, surprised. “What then are your weapons?”

  “I have blood magic,” I began, as he nodded.

  “From your mother.”

  “And chaos magic.”

  The brigadier looked at me in astonishment. “No physical weapons training at all?”

  I shook my head.

  His face clouded over like a storm. “That is why the Illuminati should not be in charge of training anything,” he yelled. “This is an outrage. Nearly 20 years old, I should think, and never picked up a blade?”

  I shook my head again, warily. “I just turned 18, sir.”

  He gritted his teeth and got himself under control, before speaking in a somewhat calmer voice. “I am Brigadier George Lethe, and I am responsible for your martial instruction. You've come here an empty slate. You have potential, that's why you were recruited, but that potential needs strict guidance. Normally I give the recruits their choice of weapons, but not you. You will begin training on blade work immediately.”

  My mouth flopped open, and I closed it with a snap.

  He limped back to the weapons crate and dug through it, pulling out a blade and a shotgun.

  “Since your magic comes in two flavors of combat, we’ll make sure you have the same in your weapons training.”

  I looked at him blankly.

  “Melee combat, like blade work or chaos magic,” he yelled, then pointed to the shotgun. “And ranged combat, girl, like blood or shotgun. You need both to have choices, depending on the fight you’re in.”

  Brigadier Lethe set the weapons back down on top of a closed crate, then moved right into my face and leaned down, “You want to be close up for some things.”

  He stepped back and gestured at a long target range behind him. I could see the floor marked at intervals—10 meters, 20 meters, 30 meters—and at the back of the wall was a grotesque body strapped to a large wooden X. “And further away for others.”

  I looked with alarm at the creature hanging there, crucified. It was pale skinned and unnatural, with two arms and two legs like a human, but not like a human; it had a wide gaping mouth full of sharp teeth and a leather band of some sort covering its eyes. Widening my focus, I saw there were at least five more, secured at the end of each lane of the range. I was stunned to find monsters like these inside the vaunted marbled halls and turned to Brigadier Lethe with a question written on my face.

  “Those things are called rakshasa,” he explained. “They're basic hellhounds. We keep them chained. They used to make such a mess of the new recruits. You’ll use them for target practice, to get accustomed to shooting your shotgun.”

  At my further look of doubt, Brigadier Lethe chuckled darkly. “Don't worry, they don't feel a thing, and they're unworthy of your mercy.”

  “Will I still practice my blood and chaos magic?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine not working on my magic after four years of practice. I’d only recently come to like blood magic.

  “You’ll practice it all here,” he answered. “From now on, this is the most important room in the world for you. It's a place where you can try out all your new-found power without risk of hurting yourself. Go on, get started. I’ll offer some guidance along the way.”

  I set down my backpack, walked over to the black crate, and picked up the blade he’d pulled out, and pulled it from its sheath. It was a plain looking traditional type sword with a grip and pommel, as well as a metal cro
ss guard. It had a long blade with two edges and a shallow groove in the middle. I touched the top edge of the blade carefully with my left thumb, catching my breath as the edge cut into the skin slightly. This was no practice weapon!

  And it was heavy—at least for my unaccustomed arm. It must have weighed three pounds or more, and it didn’t take long before the muscles of my arm complained about holding it. I slashed the air tentatively.

  “The pointy end goes in your opponent,” the brigadier called out behind me.

  I made a face. Very helpful guidance. Not. I turned and looked back at him.

  “Put that one back in its scabbard, soldier. We’ll start next week with some strength training and footwork before you try to work with a sharp blade. It’s too easy to cut off your limbs if you’re not ready for it.”

  Brigadier Lethe pointed to his leg in the brace. I suspected he was pulling mine, but the past day had been strange enough that I wasn’t sure. He walked over to me and picked up the shotgun.

  “Let’s start you on this for now, shall we? What do you know about shotguns?”

  “I shot one the other…” I stopped, confused. I hadn’t actually shot one, had I? The Tokyo subway had all been a dream, I was pretty sure, despite how real it had felt.

  “Well, we’ll start with the basics then,” he said, holding the shotgun with care, but so I could see all the parts. “This is the hand stock; this is the barrel. This is the safety. You’ll want to make sure that’s on at all times unless you plan to shoot it, to keep you from blowing someone’s head off. You Bees are resilient, but even you might struggle to regenerate a head. Also, it’s good practice never to put your finger on the trigger until you're ready to fire.”

  Lethe held the shotgun hand stock in his left hand, and the wooden grip in his right as he demonstrated, with the barrel pointed at the ground. I guess I had been right about that part in my dream.

  He reached behind him to the weapons crate and took out five shotgun shells, explaining an unmodified shotgun could typically hold three to five rounds. He demonstrated loading the gun, telling me that this particular model was a “pump action.” He oriented a shell, so the brass end was facing toward the grip, I noted with satisfaction, and inserted it in the loading port. Pocketing the remainder of the rounds, he pumped the hand stock to finish loading the cartridge.

  “You’ll want to pull the gun up to your shoulder to fire it,” he continued, turning the gun to the range to demonstrate. “Make sure you keep the butt tight there. Otherwise, the kick will hurt.”

  He flipped off the safety with his thumb and fired a shot down the range. The gun boomed, the noise enormous, but strangely enough my dream had prepared me for that as well. I recalled the sound of both Rose and me firing in the relatively small area of the subway station.

  “Earplugs are a good idea, if you want to hear when you’re my age,” Lethe added, “Although I suppose you Bees can just regenerate your eardrums.”

  He flipped the safety back on and handed me the shotgun and a shell. “Here, walk out there to the 10-meter line on the range with me, and we’ll have you try it.”

  We walked out in the wooden lane that reminded me vaguely of a bowling alley toward the line marked 10 meters. I shuddered as I got a closer look at the Rakshasa hanging on the wall. That was one ugly monster.

  Holding the gun as he had shown me, and trying not to shake, I double checked the safety and put the shell into the loading port, brass end back. Then I slid the hand guard back toward the grip, pumping it to load the shell.

  “Good. Now, bring it tight against your shoulder—Watch the barrel! Don’t just be swinging it around willy-nilly.”

  I gulped nervously and re-focused on what he was saying.

  “Look down the barrel to sight your target. You’ll want the Rakshasa in this lane, soldier,” he added dryly. “When you’re ready, flip off the safety and pull the trigger smoothly, keeping the shotgun level.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut and pulled. Boom! The gun kicked up, the barrel raising by a few degrees, hitting the back wall above my target.

  He tsked at me with irritation. “You have to keep your eyes open when you fire. And pull the trigger more smoothly, so you don’t raise the barrel on the follow-through. You’ll be fixing that divot you just made later.”

  Nevertheless, Lethe had me try again, insisting that I keep both eyes open to ensure I could see my target as I fired, particularly if it was moving, pointing out that most of the demons I encountered in the future wouldn’t be handily secured to a wooden X.

  That seemed like good advice. I carefully loaded the shell, pumped the shotgun once, pulled it back to my shoulder, and took a calming breath. Then, carefully, so carefully, I pulled the trigger back smoothly. Boom! The shotgun barked again, but this time, a hole blossomed on the body of the Rakshasa, blood running from the wound. Gross. And cool.

  I lowered the barrel and flipped on the safety before looking over my shoulder at him, a smile on my face.

  “Much better,” Lethe praised me. He pulled a shell with a purple casing out of his pocket. “Now, let’s try a specialty shell. This one is full of depleted uranium. It’s twice as dense as a lead shell and makes a hell of a hole in your target. It can shoot through the side of a tank if you need to. Move back to the 30-meter line. I don’t want to have to explain to Dame Julia why some poor unlucky sod in the next room keeled over dead from your stray shot.”

  He explained a few more techniques, then left me to it. I practiced shooting with a dozen or so shells of different types as well as techniques for single targets and groups of assailants.

  When I finally ran out of shells, I walked back to the central portion of the practice hall to ask him for more, placing the empty training shotgun back in its case. Brigadier Lethe was in deep, animated discussion with a tall, austere-looking older woman wearing a very formal red-and-black Templar uniform, complete with a high collar, a cape, and a plate-mail shoulder guard.

  She looked unamused by the topic of their conversation and kept glancing over at me and scowling.

  “Wedd, come here,” Lethe called me over. “This is Dame Julia Beatrix Tyburn. She’s the Agent Special Assignment Supervisor. You will answer to her at the completion of your training.”

  I approached them both and offered a handshake to Dame Julia. She looked at my hand, and her scowl deepened, so I dropped into an awkward curtsy instead. What was the proper etiquette for meeting a dame anyway? They didn’t teach that at Innsmouth Academy.

  “Is this some sort of attempt to fraternize?” she enunciated in a severe tone which was as cold, I thought to myself, as her steel shoulder guard. “Well, I won't stand for it. Never mind me, you'd do well to worry a little more about yourself. How you dress, how you carry yourself. I mean, who are you?”

  My face flushed red at the admonishment. I wanted to defend my choice of clothing, but figured discretion was the better part of valor in this instance.

  “This is Elizabeth Mallory’s daughter, Julia. She presented herself here today,” Lethe explained in his Australian drawl, as Dame Julia continued to pin me in place with her scowl. “I’m going to see to her weapon training before I turn her over to you because…she has none.”

  Lethe revealed my lack of weapon knowledge with a tone as dry as a desert. The way the conversation was headed was starting to alarm me, and I looked at him in consternation. Would I be found lacking and unworthy of becoming an agent?

  Dame Julia’s head whirled back to Lethe, and she peered at him with the scrutiny of a hawk surveying a mouse.

  “What do you mean, ‘she presented herself’?” Dame Julia demanded. “Sevenoir was assigned to collect her and bring her to us.”

  Lethe shrugged in return.

  She turned to me. “Well, girl. Did he bring you here or not?”

  I faltered not knowing how to respond while she looked at me impatiently. I didn’t have any great love for the agent who had dropped me off at the Agartha portal, but I al
so didn’t want to throw him to the lioness. In the end, I decided the best answer was the unvarnished truth, expressed as objectively as I could manage.

  Dame Julia’s face darkened with anger as I related my tale.

  “Well, we shall see about that!” she intoned imperiously. “Carry on here, George. Get this girl the training she needs post haste.” With that, she whirled on her heel and marched up the stairs and out of the Crucible.

  My face crumbled as I watched her go, and I felt the cold burn of acid in my stomach. Not just one, but two dismissals by high-ranking Templars on the same day? This was not turning out to be the triumphant entrance to Temple Hall that I had hoped for at all.

  What if I washed out and they decided I didn’t have what it took to a Templar? Where would I go? What would my mother think? I’d been so confident that I’d be a shoo-in here after successfully capturing the wraith back at Innsmouth Academy. Instead, I was treated like a child with no skills.

  Brigadier Lethe paid no mind to my reaction. He rubbed his face and chuckled. “Sevenoir better run for the bushes. There’ll be no love lost between the two of you for a while, I suspect.”

  I made a sound of protest. Sevenoir? I was the injured party here! He was the jerk who left me at the portal, and seemingly against his orders. All that struggle to find my way through Agartha…I wanted desperately to complain to Lethe about my experiences so far, and the downright unfairness of getting here only to be treated like a child. That, I realized, would have the opposite effect of what I intended. Complaining would show that not only was I immature, but that I could not roll with the punches, and neither of those was the impression I wanted to leave with Brigadier Lethe.

  I quelled my frustration at potentially being blamed for Sevenoir’s trouble. I didn’t need to be distracted from my goal, which was to prove my worthiness to become a Templar. I was resolute. It was time to get back to it. I would use every opportunity to show my fitness for the job.

  “What next, sir?” I asked Lethe, standing at attention.