Dark Iron King Volume I: Thy King's Will Be Done (Unreal Universe Book 1)

by Lee Bond

  Garth looked at Barnabas, who had this expression on his face like he knew goddamn well what was running through the younger man’s mind, and found the whole situation amusing as hell.

  “You try and have something stuck to your goddamn face by some kind of fucking weird Dark Iron magic, asshat!” Garth shied away from Barnabas’ hands when the man tried to hold his head, pushing away from his work table, knowing full well that the whole event had been arranged so Barnabas could get an unhindered look at the contraption on the table.

  “We’ve been over this before,” Barnabas followed Garth as he stormed out of the tent, wishing the blasted fool would stay put, “we have, my friend. Dark Iron takes many a weird and wonderful twist. I’ve seen a thousand different things in my life that’ve prompted me to say ‘I shall never see anything so strange as this again’ and then, a day or two later … something new. You, with your … what did you call them … augments? Whatever you call ‘em, they’re interacting with Dark Iron in a way never seen nor imagined. The Iron is hungry, lad, hungry to complete the task set to it by The King’s Will, so naturally it reached out to the lens.”

  “Yeah,” Garth booted a fire log out of the way to sit on a stump, “but it’s fucking gross. I look like a cyborg. Cyborgs are nasty weirdoes. I want this thing off.”

  Barnabas joined Garth at the fire. It was small for now, barely large enough to slow cook the two game fowl they’d trapped earlier. Later on, as dark set and the wild things came out to play, it would grow, though not as large as an ancient king preferred; with everything as was going on up above, it was getting more and more difficult to delay or otherwise slow the Gearmen hunting Specter, and a large bonfire would have them metal-cloaked men down on them like a shot, and that couldn’t be allowed, no sir. “And how do you propose I assist you in the removal of said unwanted lens if you keep running away from me every time I ask to look at it?”

  “I don’t want you poking at my eye anymore.” Garth said, inhaling the delicious aroma of barbecued meat. “Or getting all googley-eyed over my damn Iron tattoos. I’ll come to my own conclusions from now on, thanks.”

  “You want to change the terms of our travel arrangements?” Barnabas demanded, popping the jeweler’s loop from his eye. Had he misplayed his hand somehow?

  Losing the ‘luxury’ of traveling with Nickels would be unfortunate; the King felt it were well important he be right on hand to track the course of interaction between Kingsblood and Garth’s Trinity-forged augments, because if the machine mind had at last done the impossible, destroying the Spheres of Existence might become more difficult.

  The King scratched at a jowl. If the lad were really hinting he might like to travel on his own … well, he supposed it were a case of ‘six of one, half dozen of the other’. Being on his own again, Barnabas reckoned he could focus on dealing with Erg properly and do some proper spying on Nickels, hey?

  “I do.” Garth couldn’t help but distrust Barnabas. They’d been traveling together for almost two weeks now, and not once during that time had words like ‘trust’ or ‘trustworthy’ –really, anything trust-based- popped into his mind when thinking about the man.

  For the most part, Barnabas wasn’t bad. Under normal circumstances, you couldn’t ask for better cover: the asshole was well-respected and universally loathed. People seeking him out did so because of what he could do for them, and hung around just long enough to gossip their damn heads off before fucking off as quickly as possible. Thus far, they hadn’t come across a single gaggle or Estate-member that wanted to hang around and, like, exchange baking recipes.

  That being said … there were moments when the blacksmith thought he was unobserved, moments when a crafty, very sneaky look crossed his face. Shit like that had Garth’s teeth on edge. If this were the outside world and he wasn’t jammed up with quadronium circuitry that interfered with his natural abilities, Garth was willing to bet the farm that his old Spidey Sense would tingle like mad every time he stood near the blacksmith.

  Who was to say that when all was said and done and the man had lost interest in trying to separate the Dark Iron from his blood that Barnabas wouldn’t contrive of a way to toss him in the melter?

  “It’s the melter, isn’t it?” Barnabas worried at a tooth for a moment. In retrospect, never had there been a poorer decision made.

  In his own defense, though, there weren’t a smith nowhere in Arcade City as knew the best way to farm precious gear in such a manner who’d let such a bountiful treasure go to waste. Barnabas admitted to himself that mayhap he’d been playacting the role of smith on and off for so long now he’d gone and done it without even properly thinking.

  Nickels’ squeamishness was just as out of place as his own foolish actions, though. The man had stomped Quick Wit’s head flat as a pancake –amongst other vicious activities- and now he were moping about the melter?

  Preposterous.

  “Amongst other things, yes.” Barnabas’ melter was very near the top of the ‘holy fucking shit’ category, beaten out by the Bruush and their conversion chambers. But not by much.

  Barnabas sat down beside Garth, felt the man stiffen a bit, then shifted further away. The smith said nothing and did his best not to give the maneuver too much thought. He wasn’t entirely dismayed, but this was … disconcerting. There was a definite connection between the Nickels’ subconscious need to keep distance between the two of them at all times, and that link were the lad’s ever-growing proficiency with proper Dark Iron smithing. The more skilled he became, the more prone he grew to shifting this way and that, almost like he were protecting himself.

  Barnabas looked sideways at Garth, who was occupying himself with tending to the fire, ancient mind awhirl in a sea of conflicting but equally necessary needs.

  He needed to get himself to The Dome’s inner workings. There was no two ways about it. The half-assed sneaking peeks he managed every now and then weren’t getting him anywhere and fleeting snapshots yanked from the ether seemed to suggest that Erg1 –in his terrestrial guise as Kant Ingrams- had somehow known Nickels.

  Getting more Dark Iron into Nickels was also a high priority. It would be the only way to draw Specter –that devilish warrior- fully into the light, whereupon the totality of Trinity’s underhandedness could be revealed. Revealed, and hopefully redirected. Beyond that, though … the King hadn’t seen a warrior like Specter in a terribly long time. The sight of that geared warrior tearing through those pathetic gearheads had been delicious, a reminder of times long ago when them with the Kingsblood in their veins had been worthy. With that one about, destroying the Spheres would be that much easier.

  Barnabas fumed silently. Both options had their merits. It were all down to Nickels and his moodiness.

  “Well, lad,” Barnabas drawled slowly, “strange as you may find my regrettably cavalier attitude towards the melter not so long ago and my inflamed curiosity as to what makes your particular flesh, ah, tick, I have no desire to toss you into the soup.”

  Garth spat into the fire. He knew his skin wasn’t itchy, that the friction he felt wherever the gears turned was only in his mind, but being aware of something meant precisely zilch. He scratched idly at a gear on a bicep, watched as it jiggled at his touch. He fought against the urge to take his buzzer and start carving. “No reason to believe you, Barnabas. None at all.”

  “Truth be told, were you an ordinary gearhead, like as not you’d be in yon melter the very second you bothered me more than you were worth, apprentice, but, like as not, you aren’t. These Iron tattoos of yours are unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Now, I know I keep saying this, but it’s true. There’s never been a recorded case coming anywhere near.”

  “And you know this for a fact.” Garth stated bluntly. “Over thirty thousand years, there’s never been a guy with liquid metal artwork that gives him the strength of one of your gearheads. How is that believable? I saw a fucking guy with a fucking motor coming out of his goddamn head. You ask me, that’s way we
irder.”

  “Ah!” Barnabas raised a finger triumphantly. “But that’s just it, Garth. Mental Marc’s affliction was crude. Nasty. But yours? Elegance personified. I’m certain that I would net myself nothing but a gooey corpse were I to toss you,” the smith jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the melter, which would need emptying now they were far enough away from the Gearmen’s persistence, “in there. Ain’t worth the risk. If I had my druthers, I’d druther watch you in action, see this Dark Iron do how it does au naturel. The King’s way is to work a lad or lass from worst to best. Them as make it all the way, so I’m told, gain powers unlike anything you or I can imagine, lad. What’s going on with you seems to’ve stepped past all that somehow. I warrant if our silent King learns of you, well, I assert he’d take an even keener, and far less hospitable, interest in you than I. Now look, out there, all alone, you’re an easy target. There’s them Gearmen as may or may not be hunting you, and you have you forgot them tattoos on your back? They’ll have hungry Big’Un’s after you in no time and there be a million other things as you hain’t imagined out there besides. And last, let us not forget your … alter ego, shall we say? Yon Specter lad deep in the furrows of your brain does seem keen to pop out when you hain’t expectin’ company. All alone, you may slide down the darkness, hey?”

  Garth wrinkled his nose. Harsh chemical stink flowering out from the melter’s air holes and the ever-present stench of hot metal kept clawing at his nostrils. The whole of Arcade City was a hideous grab bag of smells that should never come in contact with one another.

  Were he not forged from quadronium and stuffed to the tits full of Kingsblood, Garth was fucking certain his nasal passages would’ve melted clean off his face ages ago. How the old prick managed to ignore that monstrous stench was a secret the Engineer would love to learn. He grumbled low in his throat as he thought over what the smith was saying.

  As much as Garth hated to admit it, Barnabas was making a good case.

  “All right, fine.” For the time being, there was no other choice, and Garth hated his life for being forced to travel with someone like Barnabas. “But like you asked, I do want to change the terms of our traveling arrangements.”

  Barnabas pursed his lips worriedly and hid his whirling emotions best he could. No matter which way the coin flopped, shortcomings would abound.

  Their journey ends sooner rather than later, he could nip up and deal with Erg’s rampant spirit, but in so doing, it were possible all them secrets housed in Garth Nickel’s queer flesh would be revealed to some random Estate.

  Stay, and the improperly digested bit of energy that was Erg’s riotous spirit might burrow its way so deep in the machinery that even a King might find it impossible to root the thing out.

  Calmly, steadily, the King queried, “How so?”

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about this.” Garth said slowly, cautiously. The old bastard was gonna blow a gasket.

  “Do tell.”

  “Our original agreement, as far as I can tell, was a journey to Arcadia. On the way we would examine various methods of extracting the Dark Iron from my tissue so, you know, I wouldn’t be all grossed out all the time by my own fucking skin. Either we’d find an artificer or a tinkerer along the way -like in this Ickford place that gets on your tits so badly- who could do the trick or we’d risk an actual journey into the central city to find one of the King’s forges, which you claim should be able to do the trick. That about right?” Garth raised an eyebrow, waiting for Barnabas’ response.

  “No claims about it, laddie buck.” This, the smith managed to get out as pleasantly as possible. Inwardly, though, Barnabas was seething; he knew where this was headed, and didn’t like it. Not at all. “The King’s forges are capable of things you cannot imagine. We should do as we’ve been, visiting Estates to see what them stable smiths and tinkerers can do. Aye, we’ve met with no success yet, but you never can tell, hey? Naturally, we shall still be heading in the direction of the … of Ickford. Once there, a place which, by the by, you will hate more than aught else in this world, we should find an artificer to aid you, and if there be naught within that dread city as can do the trick, it is a dead certitude that I can, with our King’s tools at my command.”

  Garth twitched his lips from side to side. “The thing I came here to do isn’t something I’m comfortable having someone else along to witness.”

  “And what, pray tell, is this ‘thing’ you keep alluding to?” Barnabas asked lightly.

  “None of your business.” Garth shrugged nonchalantly at the smith’s sudden, blustery appearance and continued when the man said nothing. “From here, things change. We quit fucking around and we go to Ickford as straight as we can.”

  “Ickford or nowt, hey?” Barnabas stated frostily.

  Garth dipped his head, and resumed. “Ickford or nowt, where we’ll meet up with this artificer lady you mentioned once…”

  “Agnethea.” Where before his tone had been icy cold, now … now stars would cool and turn to blocks of frozen light. Overplayed or underplayed, no matter which, Nickels was truly done. The lad’s memory was perfect; the King reckoned he’d mentioned Agnethea but once or twice on accident, hastening to mention only smiths and tinkerers since then.

  “And she’ll either have a cure or not.” Garth took a breath and looked at Barnabas square on, something he’d avoided doing since that very first moment when he’d looked at the smith full on. There was something about the guy that screamed ‘untrustworthy’. The Kin’kithal lamented the loss of his Spidey Sense once more. If only Huey’s last minute alterations to the quadronium circuits hadn’t supplanted his intimate connection to the extra-dimensionality; it was bloody likely that here, under The Dome, the Heshii and his father would have no way of tracking anything, let alone ex-dee usage.

  “And if she doesn’t,” Garth carried on when Barnabas said nothing, “if she doesn’t … we need to part ways.”

  The words fell into the air and hung there, awkward and heavy. Garth felt absurd in how he felt about saying them; Barnabas had to know that he wasn’t a particularly likeable guy, and what mediating tendencies he did have were immediately destroyed when he opened his mouth or suggested that stuffing dead gearheads into a box so he could melt their skin off was something that was fun.

  Barnabas maintained a cool composure to the best of his abilities, but it took every ounce of his precious willpower to keep sitting there, staring into the fire. The last time someone had given him news he hadn’t wanted to hear, he’d gone a tirade, murdering the Platinum Brigade, the very essence of what he’d spent the last thirty millennia striving towards and heading for the hills to eke out an existence as a blacksmith.

  The blacksmith who was King thought he was doing a mighty fine job in not screaming and shouting and generally frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog as it was a mild embarrassment that he still reacted that way after so long. Temper tantrums were most unbecoming in a man who sought to become King of the Universe instead of merely King of Arcade City.

  After a goodly stretch of silence –and when he thought he was capable of speaking without accidentally hollering a stream of abuse culminating in the attempted murder of someone who might prove difficult to kill, Kingly powers or no Kingly powers- Barnabas laughed scornfully. “Preposterous. Ludicrous. We can’t part ways, my boy. Only people who can safely travel without packs of gearheads and wardogs and other lunatics is blacksmiths. Me. And you sure haven’t got the equipment to set up your own traveling business.”

  Garth looked at Barnabas, but quickly turned his head as another spike of pain lanced into his skull. The DarkEye HUD popped and spat for a few long seconds. Was it interference? Did the old angry blacksmith have something on his person that currently defied whatever was passing as an operating system inside his body? Garth figured it must be so, and could very well be the sort of thing that gave the ass such high confidence in his own survivability.

  Whatever it was, Garth knew Barnabas would ne
ver let slip what it was, even if the theoretical mystery object possessed the power to heal him of his affliction right there on the spot; since the old bastard hadn’t revealed it before now, there was no reason to imagine he’d become beset with a sudden case of ‘well, lookee here, mate, I did have this thing here in me pocket all this time’.

  “Not so much.” Garth replied firmly, if tersely. “Not so much ‘ludicrous’ as ‘gonna happen’. I’ve been around, blacksmith, seen and done things you couldn’t possibly imagine. Lots of what goes on here is worse, sure, fine, whatever, but I am far more capable than you know.”

  Barnabas watched Garth for rising signs of the Specter and saw none. The man was angry as hell. He could feel Nickels’ fear, anger, desperation, he could feel all of that and yet the Dark Iron boiling under his skin wasn’t reacting. How could someone exposed to more Vicious Elixir in a single evening than most gearheads properly tasted in their entire, miserably short lives run so hot under the collar and still maintain absolute control? A normal gearhead would be flailing around the camp by now, wrecking everything in sight before running off to the nearest Kingspawn point to work out the remainder of his anger.

  The longer that answer eluded Barnabas, the more he feared he would lose his temper, and that were a thing that couldn’t come to pass.

  Kingsblood, Vicious Elixir, crudey-crude … whatever the fools who took it called it, the stuff hooked itself directly into the addictive portions of the brain and made a link into areas responsible for the darker, grimmer moods a person can experience, generating a never-ending loop of anger and addiction to anger. A by-product of that cyclical frenzy was the need to vent, and with Kings and a whole cavalcade of beasts and monsters when doing for Kings somehow grew tiresome on every corner, it gave those hopping mad gearheads something to do, which in turn provided them with more Vicious Elixir.

  And so on and so on until the excesses of this most crude Kingsblood grew so great they had no choice but to begin the perilous trek inwards to sup on finer Vicious Elixir in desperation to be free of metal eyes, clawed hands, and so on.