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

by Blodwedd Mallory

  Other agents came in and out of the Crucible throughout the day to practice their weapons and spell work. I didn’t pay much attention because I was too tired from the workout Lethe was inflicting. Currently, he had me practicing falls on a mat. I was damned sick of that and was about to tell him so in no uncertain terms.

  As a result, I didn’t see the blind woman approach until she was standing right in front of me.

  She was tall, nearly six foot by my guess, and towered over me since I was not quite five-and-a-half-feet tall. She had snow-white dreadlocks, which she wore pulled back into a short ponytail. Her skin was dark brown, kind of a warm umber shade. She stood very straight, with her shoulders back, wearing a loose set of all-white workout clothing, and her eyes were covered by a blindfold.

  “Wedd,” Lethe said with a grin. “Meet SnowDrifter. She’s going to help you work out for a bit.”

  Apparently, the all-white was a theme to match her name. Nope, this didn’t bode well at all.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Wedd,” she said in a lyrical tone. It sounded sort of English, but I wasn’t sure, because her accent was slightly different than what I heard around Ealdwic.

  “You as well," I replied cautiously, trying to be gracious, yet wary of what was in store.

  “Drifter here is from Wales,” Lethe added. “But don’t let that fool you. She’s plenty tough despite it.”

  Drifter’s face pulled up into a wry smile at his words, apparently accustomed to his manner. “Aye, and someone has to teach the English how it's done, we do.”

  She cocked her head toward me, listening. I moved subtly to the right on the mat, and she tracked me. I dropped my left leg back, and she mirrored me.

  I now had a sense of impending doom. This was definitely not good.

  “Now, when I first met Drifter, I made the mistake of underestimating her because she couldn’t see,” Lethe said. “I advise you not to do the same thing. Drifter, your job is to put Wedd on the floor. Wedd, your job is to stay off the floor. Good luck to you both.”

  Drifter nodded at Lethe. I looked at him and then back at Drifter.

  “Ready, then?” she asked.

  I nodded, then realized she couldn’t see that and responded aloud that I was.

  “Brilliant.”

  In the blink of an eye, she crossed the space between us and grabbed my right arm. Then, turning the back of her body in toward me, Drifter pulled me forward and off balance, bent at the waist, and rolled me over her hip where I landed with a slam on the mat, the wind whooshing from my lungs.

  Lethe looked at me gasping for air on my back and guffawed. “Well, that went about as well as I expected. Drifter, good job. Wedd, see if you can stay on your feet for a least five seconds next time.”

  I scowled at him as I climbed to my feet. Inspiration struck, and I edged toward the side of the mat, figuring that maybe I could run away from Drifter to avoid being thrown again since she couldn’t actually see me.

  “I’d advise you not to leave that mat,” Lethe said dryly, noticing my movement. “She’ll still find and throw you, but the marble floor will hurt.”

  He laughed once more, then moved away to talk to a short, dark-haired agent who had a question about a weapon in a nearby crate. I grimaced. The mat had hurt plenty.

  “So, I see he’s brought me here to teach you a lesson of sorts, eh?” Drifter asked me. “Complain or cause trouble once too often, did you?”

  I grudgingly admitted that was the case.

  “Done much close-quarters combat, then?"

  I told her no and gave her a little background on my limited combat experience. We bonded over our shared love for chaos magic, and she told me a little bit about herself. I was amazed to learn that Drifter was a relatively new agent as well and had only just finished up her own training with Lethe. That said, she explained that she had a black belt in judo, which she’d earned well before ever swallowing Gaia’s bee.

  Ah. I’d had no chance whatsoever of staying on my feet. I said as much to her aloud.

  “Quit chit-chatting and get back to it, you two!” Lethe hollered from across the room.

  “Let’s go through a few basic moves then, shall we?” Drifter offered with a bright smile.

  By the time we were ready to knock off for the day, I was tired and sore, but more than that, grateful. Drifter had been a patient, effective instructor, although I longed to wipe the smug look off Brigadier Lethe’s face. He’d been right to call her in. Because of her lack of vision, Drifter demonstrated the moves slowly and precisely, and described them in terms of proprioception, literally helping me get a feel for how to defend against an attacker standing in my personal bubble. When she attacked, it was a like a lightning strike, but the more we practiced, the more I was able to see the telegraph of her body, preparing for a particular move. By the end, I’d actually been able to avoid one or two of her attacks.

  Sure, I’d been on the mat a lot, but I also had some confidence now that if I were attacked, I’d know what to do about it. I reflected between bouts of instruction and falling that I could have used some of this knowledge when I was battling the familiars lurking around Innsmouth Academy or in the temple, avoiding the rusted custodian. I couldn’t wait to write Gypcie. I wondered how her training was going in New York.

  I pulled my backpack onto my shoulder when Lethe yelled at me again. “Not so fast, soldier. Sonnac wants to see you before you leave.”

  My face grew bright red. Oh no! I thought I’d endured the rest of my consequences in today’s training, otherwise known as the ego beat-down from Lethe. I was both mortified that Richard Sonnac wanted to talk to me more about it and terrified that the panel had levied a decision about my further training that I wouldn’t like one bit. I covered my face with my hands.

  Lethe coughed uncomfortably at this but urged me on my way. “Go on now,” he said. “Bad news doesn’t get better with age.”

  The bartender held up a bottle of whiskey at me, a question in his eyes as I walked past, but I shook my head. There was no balm for this. I needed to face the music.

  I stepped out the doors into the marble-floored hallway and rounded the corner to the north door to Sonnac’s office. I stood there a while in silence and watched him while he worked, pondering the right approach.

  “Come in, come in,” he gestured when he looked up from his desk.

  Richard Sonnac set aside the papers he’d been reviewing and stood up, tugging down his slimly tailored suit. He stepped around his desk toward me.

  “Your smooth transition into the Templars is among my top priorities,” he began in a calm, even-tempered voice. “Certainly in the upper percentile.”

  He steepled his hands in front of his mouth, then added, “Should you be unsure of the correct conduct in any situation, come to me in the first instance. We can speak in confidence and largely without judgment. I will take pains to understand.”

  Contrite, I nodded, my face sober.

  Sonnac considered me for a moment, then moved away from where I stood in the doorway and looked up at the painting of Saint George, which hung over the fireplace. “I accepted this position because I saw a new way for the Templars to achieve our old potential. Ours is an organization with no shortage of history.”

  He gestured up at the painting. “Some might say too much history.”

  Sonnac turned back to face me, a stern expression on his face. “But you are our future, Ms. Mallory. Don’t squander it.” His eyes pierced me to the quick before he returned to his desk and sat down.

  He turned back to his papers. Once again, I was dismissed. This was definitely not the impression I had intended to make on Richard Sonnac. I hung my head in misery and turned to the door to leave.

  “As you know, there are others,” he called out behind me, “who do not regard your trespass as lightly. They think it’s a bad sign of your fit for the organization. I have their agreement, for now, to give you another chance. This is information worth thinking upo
n in the future.”

  The world was moving in slow motion as I dragged myself back through the marble hall, headed for the large doorway that led to the front vestibule and out of Temple Hall.

  “…utterly lacking in any sense of propriety or duty!”

  I heard the woman’s shrill voice echoing across the main court floor. Forgetting my self-pity, I glanced around to see if anyone could see me, then dodged behind a large pillar to check out what was happening.

  At the far end of the hall, I could see Sevenoir’s telltale bunny ears and platinum blond hair as he stood at attention in front of Dame Julia, who was clearly in a froth. Her voice was loud enough that I could hear it across the room. She was giving him a sound scolding.

  At first, I felt some schoolgirl glee at hearing him dressed down, but very quickly felt ashamed as I realized that he was probably in trouble because of what I had done. Sevenoir didn’t deserve criticism for trying to look out for me down in the Roman temple. Of the two encounters I’d had with him, that was the most helpful he’d been.

  Around the court area, the other agents on duty were doing their level best to pay no obvious attention whatsoever to what was happening. I could make out words like “recalcitrant” and “ungovernable” and a particularly loud screech of, “You’d better take this assignment seriously, or else!”

  I debated approaching to defend Sevenoir, but remembering Richard Sonnac’s words, I decided that in this case discretion was the better part of valor. I whirled around and fled out the doorway and down the front stairs, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping.

  June 19, 2012

  As I walked into the Crucible the following morning, still smarting from the dressing down I’d received from Richard Sonnac as well as the soreness of my muscles, I was caught up short by an unwelcome sight.

  “What are you doing here?” I blurted before I could catch myself.

  Languishing on a stool at the Crucible bar was none other than my old nemesis and new partner in crime, Sevenoir, nursing a glass of whiskey (at eight o'clock in the morning!) and glowering at me.

  He was dressed in a ripped, but stylish, pair of jeans, a white T-shirt and leather motorcycle jacket, wearing a pair of heavy-duty boots, his white-blond hair spiking out from his head like he'd just come from a Billy Idol concert. Ms. Usher had introduced Gypcie, Carter, and me to Billy Idol last year, saying he was required listening when she was a girl.

  Around his throat was a spiked leather collar and, of course, the flopping white bunny ears sprung from his head like antennae.

  I put my hands on my hips and gave him my darkest scowl.

  “Could you lower your voice just a titch?” Sevenoir winced, his blue eyes bloodshot and tired-looking. “Hair of the dog this morning.”

  The bartender smirked and grabbed the bottle of Drambuie from the back bar and topped off Sevenoir's breakfast tonic.

  I shook my head in scorn and bewilderment. Did he not care at all for propriety? For the dignity of the Templars? What was he doing here drinking—drunk?—at this time of the day? Some of us were dressed and ready to put our best foot forward.

  “Let's get started, Wedd,” Lethe yelled from the lower floor. “Daylight's burning.”

  I gave Sevenoir another dark look and marched by him with my nose in the air. Today, I was going to learn footwork, and I couldn't wait to get started. Thank the gods Miss Plimmswood had had some Epsom salt I could borrow last night. I'd soaked in the tub for hours and wasn't feeling too horrible given my workout the day before.

  Using the stairs as a prop, I began to carefully stretch my sore muscles. My shoulders and back were in tight knots from all the “falling practice” the day before, but my legs didn't feel too bad. But, I took the time to stretch out my thigh muscles, my hamstrings, and my hips nonetheless, because I knew that I'd be using those muscles today.

  “Today, we're about your footwork, soldier,” Lethe announced, as I joined him when I finished my stretches. “Blade work relies on control, and control requires solid footwork. With proper footwork, you can maintain balance as well as sufficient distance from your opponent.”

  Lethe guided me into the stance in the middle of the marble floor, with my right leg forward and my left leg dropped back. My right foot was pointing forward with my left foot perpendicular. He had me lean forward slightly with my weight centered between my heels. After adjusting my stance in a dozen minute ways, he was finally satisfied.

  “Good. Now, hold your right arm up and out. You'll practice the movement until you start to build muscle memory.”

  “Do I need a blade?” I asked, anxious to have a chance to feel one in my hand.

  “Don't get ahead of yourself. You'll thank me later when your thighs are aching.”

  Back and forth across the marble floor, he made me move, forward and back, advance and retreat, as he watched, yelling: “Stop sticking your backside out. Quit trying to take the weight off your thighs!” or “Don't pick up your whole front foot when you move, just your toes. Then move your heel forward.” Or “What, are you a horse, galloping across the room like that?” And, “Take discrete steps and keep your back straight!”

  Back and forth, I went, for what felt like hours. Actually, it was probably only ten minutes. I wondered if a person could actually die from thigh pain.

  “How will I learn how to use a blade doing all these dumb drills?” I finally asked, exasperated. Apparently, I hadn't learned my lesson about complaining the previous day.

  Lethe arched his left eyebrow at me menacingly and told me to get my arm up and keep practicing. I shut up and focused again on moving up and down the floor in a line. It was then that Sevenoir decided to catcall from the bar to “cheer me on.” I was torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to punch him in the face.

  “Go, go, go, get him!” he shouted, like a World Cup announcer calling out an attempt to score a goal. “Oh, bother, you missed. Better luck next time.”

  “Ah, you got him! Skewered him right through the heart!”

  “Point to the red-headed girl. Wedd, one. Demon, zero.”

  “And the match is on. It's exhilarating footwork we're watching from newcomer Wedd Mallory. Up and down the floor she goes! The crowd goes wild!”

  It was absurd but entertaining, and after a while, I began to enjoy his play-by-play, as it distracted me from the pain in my thighs. Brigadier Lethe ignored Sevenoir entirely, and before I knew it another few minutes had passed.

  “That's good, soldier. Take a break and walk it off.” Lethe called finally, raising his hand for me to stop. As I walked off the ache in my legs, he shouted up to the bar. “Sevenoir, get your arse down here. It's clear you want to help out.”

  Sevenoir waved a hand in protest. “No, no. I'm good, General. Having a fine time spectating right here from the stool.”

  My mouth dropped at Sevenoir's cheek.

  “That wasn't a request,” Lethe barked. “Get down here double time, or I'll get Dame Julia to drag your ass down here.”

  Sevenoir stood up, drained his glass, and then tipped it to Brigadier Lethe.

  “To argue with a man who has renounced the use and authority of reason, and whose philosophy consists in holding humanity in contempt, is like administering medicine to the dead,” he said, adding, “That's Thomas Paine, for the dilettantes in the crowd.”

  “Soldier, shut your mouth and get down here or I'll show you some pain,” Lethe barked again, but there was no real anger behind his words. Then lowering his voice just for my ears he said, “Sevenoir is a good agent. He's angry right now and acting out, but he brings his game face in a real fight. You'd do better to not pick up his habit of flapping his jaws at authority, though. It gets him in a world of hurt.”

  I nodded tightly and watched as Sevenoir sauntered our way at his leisure. Lethe asked him to assume a blade stance opposite me on the marble floor. We began to skirmish, sans weapons, using only footwork and feints to mimic actual combat. I wondered how Sevenoir could mov
e so gracefully with a belly full of Scotch. It didn't seem to affect him, however, as we moved back and forth on the floor. I practiced the pattern Lethe had instructed, advance, advance, lunge, recover, repeat. For his part, Sevenoir just danced out of my reach, mockingly. He looked like a swan. I felt like an elephant stomping around on the floor, my muscles aching. I was quickly running out of steam.

  “Don't take your eyes off his torso, Wedd. Learn to anticipate his moves by watching his body. That way when your opponent has a blade in hand, you won't be distracted by the sharp, pointy thing,” Lethe instructed me.

  Finally, Lethe called an end to the footwork practice and came over to give me some more instruction. I was exhausted, bent over at the waist, panting and tired, trying to recover my breath as I listened, but couldn't help noticing with irritation that Sevenoir walked up to resume his seat at the bar. Didn't he have anything better to do with his time?

  “All right, take an hour for lunch and be back here. We'll work some more on shotgun this afternoon, soldier,” Lethe said.

  A break! I nodded and grabbed my backpack, groaning at my sore legs as I marched up the stairs to the entrance. I was famished. I'd been thinking of getting a ham sandwich from Carroll's Delicatessen, which was located right off the square where the Fallen King preached. I wasn't looking for trouble, just a quick and satisfying lunch, and the advert on their awning said they catered tea parties for Queen Elizabeth. I figured I'd give it a try. Here was hoping that it wouldn't cost a queen's ransom.

  I walked carefully down the steps from Temple Hall as my thigh muscles screamed, and waved at the guards stationed at the entrance as I stepped out into Temple Court heading for the gateway onto Redcrosse Circus, and broke into a light jog.

  I made good time down to the square. The usual crowd of onlookers pointing and laughing were there taking in the Fallen King's end-of-the-world shtick. I was just about to enter the delicatessen when I saw him pause and look directly at me.