Monty was continuing his walk towards Westminster, and had almost reached Charing Cross station. He could have been the model of an upper-middle class gentleman, smart suit with walking jacket, felt derby atop his head. But a closer inspection would reveal the overlarge collar and shirt cuffs, and a hint of gold waistcoat. These were all throwbacks of fashion to the Romantic period, where Monty’s heart lay. Then of course there was the sword in hand. That would be considered more unusual than a large collar.

Sword in hand, he looked towards Charing Cross station, and even through the thick fog, he could make out a train on the bridge trundling across, its smoky trail looking like a charcoal smudge against the grey fog. There should be a busy crowd of commuters at the station this time of morning, all of them ready to burst out of the station like a slime mould searching for food. He would have to make his way through that crowd, into Trafalgar Square and then take a shortcut through Leicester Square and into Soho.

But he felt a strange apprehension in him. Ever since that system message had floated before him, he felt a change in the air. His senses were more alert, he still had the unusual sword in his hand, and felt the ridiculous urge to keep it readied as if to protect himself. But what danger could there be on a jolly morning walk along the Thames embankment?

Apart from falling into the muddy banks of the river, or being trampled by a hansom carriage, he could think of none.

In fact the most dangerous thing in the area at the moment would be himself, sword in hand. He adjusted his jacket and shirt self-consciously. What a strange sight he must present, a fine gentleman strolling along not with an umbrella, but with an ancient sword. As if he could cut down every falling rain drop before it hit him. That would be a trick for the circus.

He felt a sudden pang of guilt. What if a bobby saw him, sword in hand and decided he was some kind of maniac? Perhaps he should get rid of this sword. He peered over the stone warding, down at the Thames. It was low tide and all he could see were the muddy banks disappearing into the mist.

He lifted the sword, but before he could swing his weapon over the edge, he spotted several figures pulling themselves up from the mud.

“I say! Have you fallen in? Do you need a hand?” he shouted down.

He had seen mudlarkers down on the banks, searching for coins and scraps of metal, sometimes they fell and coated themselves in the mud. But these figures looked like they had risen up completely from the mud. They lurched to the stony wall of the embankment, and threw themselves at it with a squelch. They left great streaks of mud as they tried to scale the sleek stone.

“I say stop that! There’s a perfectly good set of stairs over there.” Monty pointed over to the staircase, not ten feet away. Poor things were so mud caked they could hardly see. The group of unfortunates swung around and made their way for the stairs.

Monty came to meet them. He stowed his sword bashfully by his side, he didn’t want to frighten them. He knew that the poorer sort would search for scrap metal and the like to sell on the banks of the Thames. He should offer them some sound advice.

“You are all muddy. Perhaps the fountain in Victoria Gardens could clean you off?” he suggested.

In response one of them swung its arms, trying to hug him.

“No need to say thanks old chap! Anyone could provide you with that idea.” He leapt back from the muddy figures, but they kept coming for him, arms outstretched. One of them swung its arm and actually hit him across the face, sending him tumbling to the floor.

“Listen up, this is all a bit too much!” Sticky mud dripped from his face, all over his jacket.

Another one tried to slap him, and in pure reflex he lifted his sword and sliced clean through its arm. The arm dropped to the floor like a slice of spam escaping the buffet tray of a butler with the shakes.

“Oh by Jupiter, what have I done?” he cried out. What could be worse than seeing a whole arm lying on the ground, knowing that you just hacked it off? Seeing that arm disintegrate into mud. It left a brown stinking stain on the pavement.

Monty was frozen with shock, but his sword-arm lifted into guard position without him even thinking about it.

The movement brought him to his senses and he scrambled to his feet and tried to back away from his attackers, but they kept shambling towards them. These were no ordinary mudlarkers. Something rum was going on.

He gave one of them a poke in the shoulder with his sword. There was no resistance, his sword slipped straight through. In fact the brute kept walking towards him. Monty pulled his sword out, and another arm was lopped off at the shoulder. It fell with a heavy splat into a puddle of mud.

“Am I dreaming or is the stink from the Thames so bad it needs to get up and walk around? Stay back or I’ll have to defend myself!”

That slap across the face had really hurt him, but there were only three of the slow moving mudlarkers, he should have no trouble taking them down. All of his fencing training seemed to be coming back to him.

“You’re like the sticky doubts that plague us all. Slow moving but dangerous if unchecked.”

Words could not stop them, so he ventured a knee-slice to the lead figure. It was swiftly de-legged, and as soon as it tripped over its whole body disintegrated into a sticky pile of mud.

“One down, two to go! Do you surrender?”

There was no reply, and they continued their advance. He skipped backwards with his sword held out in a warning.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“I will slice you into pieces.”

They ignored his threat. The lead figure made another swipe at him. He ducked it neatly and sliced it in half, clean at the waist. It made a slurping sound, half moan half plunger-in-distress, as its top half slid backwards. Its legs and feet stumbled forward a few steps, and then melted into a muddy pile.

“Well then. A duel sirrah!” Monty felt himself getting into the role of sword-wielding adventurer. It was a most invigorating distraction from his heartache.

The last mud golem was easily dispatched with some hefty swipes. He was a bit out of breath, and still splattered with mud. He took a moment to compose himself. He scraped the mud from his sword against the stone and tried to flick as much from his jacket as possible.

As he stared at three muddy puddles, a sudden warm feeling burnt in his breast. He was a hero! Three figures of mud had pulled themselves into human shape, waltzed up the stairs of the embankment, and then he had hacked them to pieces with his sword. Not the classic fairytale, but it definitely had a whiff of the heroic about it.

He had defeated these monsters! Imagine what could have happened if they had walked on without meeting his sword. They could have wreaked all manner of turmoil on the embankment. They would have scared the horses, perhaps turned over the cart of a rag and bone man, maybe even attacked a lady.

He lifted his sword. Perhaps it had been meant for him in some way. Dash it, of course it was a foolish, silly idea, but... Monty was a romantic and a poet. Romantic poets come up with at least ten foolish and silly ideas before breakfast, and Monty had certainly not had his breakfast yet.

Here he was, sword in hand and wreathed in mist. Monty was well aware of the Irish myths of Fomori that came stalking up from the sea, whenever mist descended. This was close enough. Perhaps more creatures were going to emerge from the banks of the Thames. It would be unwise to linger here alone. He must find some help, and also warn those nearby. It could be an invasion of the Fey!

“I really should tell the police about this. There is a police-box in Trafalgar square, I’ll find a good old bobby there. Possibly there is one lounging around Charing Cross.”

A brisk walk through Victoria Gardens should take him there. He ducked through the nearby gates. The mist was a little thinner in the park, although it could hardly be called a park. It was a thin strip of green, hardly more than a five minute walk longways. Still a nice enough place to spend time on a sunny day.

But today was no sunny day. He doffed his hat politely to the few gentlemen he passed in the park. “A rum thing I have to report to the police,” he muttered to each one. He didn’t want them thinking he was some sort of mudlarker who had fished a sword up from the Thames. They watched him pass by through the mist with confused looks.

Soon he made it to the front rank of Charing Cross, where the taxi rank was curiously empty. There was the stone cross outside, standing tall. More of a stone pillar, tiered and with statues of Eleanor of Castile in its upper niches. Usually there would be a newspaper boy lounging against its base, along with motor taxis and the occasional horse-drawn hansom cab waiting for custom.

“Most peculiar.” Monty turned to the entrance arch of the station, but more floating words were hanging there.

“Configuring: Please Wait for this Dungeon to Open.”

Green light skittered across the open archway, obscuring his view of the inside of the station.

“Configuring? That’s progress for you!”

The whole building of the station was glowing with light, as if the whole building had been turned into a gas lamp that burned green. He poked at the words with his sword, which scraped sideways as if they were steel. He pressed his hand against them. There was a wall of impenetrable force across the entire archway.

Monty took a step back, squared his shoulders and then tried to ram his sword through the barrier, just in case it was a penetrable barrier. But it wasn’t. His shoulder bore the brunt of the discovery, almost dislocating as his sword froze in mid air. He pulled it back and clutched at his right shoulder.

“Configure yourself, you dashed words! Has everything gone barmy today.”

He stroked at the barrier more carefully. It resisted like metal, but felt silky smooth. It could have been stone, but there was nothing there apart from curious green light making patterns inside patterns. He couldn't find any hint of a crack or handle.

“What is going on here? This is certainly some sort of enchantment. I know Julie would laugh at that idea. She would come up with some sort of scientific explanation for why words hover in the air and entrances to stations are blocked. But this could be a story from Grimm's Fairy Tales, an enchantment falling over the kingdom.”

He crossed his arms as his last argument with her came into his mind.

“Good gravy, Julie!” She was somewhere in Chelsea, West of him. If there were strange goings on like this in Chelsea he should make his way there quickly as possible, it would be the gentlemanly thing to do. Even though they had argued, of course, he would bear no ill will about that.

He strode out onto the Strand, looking for a cab or omnibus, and there in the far mist, he spied the large form of an Omnibus puttering down the road towards him.

“Good show, stop please, old man!” he cried out.

It made a shuddering revving sound and accelerated towards him.

“Ah, you should be slowing down. I wish to board you.”

The London bus. It can trace its origin to 17th century Paris, where horse-drawn buses were launched by none other than Blaise Pascal. The famous mathematician and philosopher who wrote about conic sections when he was only sixteen and famously created Pascal’s Wager, which states that it's probably better to believe in God, just in case.

If you had asked Monty about conic sections then he would have assumed you were talking about an ice-cream stand. He was vaguely aware of Pascal’s wager, but assumed it was something to do with how to win at Penny-Up. He was certainly unaware of Pascal’s connection to the London bus, but then again Pascal was unaware that a Dungeoneering System would one day transform the London bus into a rampaging beast with enormous frowning snout, intent on hoovering up pedestrians into its gaping maw.

Monty was privy to this information, in view of the fact that an enormous snorting and revving bus-beast was now charging towards him.

He saw its front windows, bulging like glassy eyes, and its front grill, chomping and gnashing. He had no time to take in further details, deciding that his heroism was over for the day, he must make a hasty retreat.

He sprinted back into Charing Cross forecourt, but there the maddening floating words reminded him there was no escape inside.

The cross! He dropped his sword so he could clamber up the octagonal base, making it to the second story.

The bus-beast was close on his heels. He felt the ground shake through the stone. For one terrifying moment, he believed that it would smash headfirst into the cross, perhaps even dislodge him. But it skittered past him and then began circling him, growling hungrily.

He thought he could spy people inside at the windows, but they were steamy and the whole thing was writhing up and down like a bucking horse.

His only escape was down, and if he dropped into the taxi rank he would certainly be trampled by the mad thing.

Then came a sound at once painful to the ears, yet music to his soul. The familiar reassuring whistle of a constable, coming right for him.