by Lee Bond
“Hush, damn your eyes!” Eric motioned for Garth to follow at a snail’s pace, creeping along towards the mouth of the alley as softly and as quietly as his damnable ‘feet’ could do the job.
The wet slapping resumed, followed this time by chilling laughter.
Fear hammered Eric’s heart out through his chest. “Nope. Different path altogether, says I. You’re on your own from here, squire, takin’ the long way around. Nowt ‘neath The Dome including King Hisself can get me down that alley!”
The sounds of explosive violence were hard to misinterpret, but Eric’s waxy, ashen expression hardly befit a gearhead, even a fallen one. “Sounds like some dudes hitting some other dudes, except you look like you pissed yourself.”
Eric said nothing, merely gestured with shivering hands towards the alley.
Garth obliged, craning his head until he was staring straight down the mouth of the alley. DarkEye popped and fizzed and spat until a meager smidgeon of Kingsblood powered illumination lit the scene better.
What he saw was … messed up.
Eric saw straightaway how Garth flinched, tightened his posture. Aye. That was how the most demonic of Ickford’s citizens affected everyone, even the hardest of the hard. The gearhead whispered softly, “May I present to you Young Luther.”
Garth watched in wide-eyed revulsion as the titular ‘man’ danced and played in the hot, sticky mess that’d once been a … no. The remains of three gearheads. “That is beyond. Just. Fuck. What the fuck!”
Eric remembered his foul encounter with Luther and his coterie with reluctance. Them Golems didn’t care for gearheads one way or t’other and were set to extract revenge for centuries of unkind treatment whenever they could. They owned a tendency to make things e’en worse for themselves as had a rough time of things already, as they were nowt but vicious cats playing wi’ mice. Had it not been for the Queen stitching a poor back alley thief together again with some of her own supply o’ Kingsblood, well, he’d be Long-Armed Eric, a creepy fiend with limbs twice as long as he’d been born with, wouldn’t he just?
“Look away, squire, please.” Eric pulled Garth away from the alley’s mouth and squatted against the grim wall, fingers gripping the stones behind his back. “City be split, squire, ‘tween Queen and that which you saw in there.”
Garth followed suit, dropping down so he could look Eric in the eyes. “What I saw in there, Eric, was a fucking five year old boy in a white fucking toga dancing in the remains of a pile of dead brothers.”
“Aye, well, you can’t spell slaughter wi’out laughter, now can you?” Eric chortled mirthlessly at his own witticism. “He were alone, then?” When Garth nodded, the gearhead continued. “Lucky, that. He’s out for a bit o’ fun on his own. Tends to keep to himself a bit more, then. Were he with his coterie, it’d be a different story. He does like to show off for his people, and they laugh and clap him on. His Golems do evoke a terrible darkness.”
“You’re telling me that’s a fucking Golem?” Garth shut his eyes. “Like the Queen?”
“If by that you mean, are they the same species, then aye, yes. Young Luther is as the Queen.” Eric wanted to run, but if there were any chance at getting hands on Garth’s suit, proper warnings needed giving. “If you mean by temperament, then our Queen is like the snow as never melts. Icy cold, yet capable of crushing you if you be in her way. Everything she does is measured ‘gainst her needs, e’en … especially … when it seems it hain’t.
Luther, now, Luther is summat awful. Not even the opposite of our Queen. Not fire. Not … not like nothing. We here in Ickford hain’t a clue where he come from or how he came to be and we hain’t interested, neither. He’s got his fans, a double handful of Obsidian Golems as worship the devilish child. They fill him with praise and look onwards like proud mums and dads as he swims through rivers of blood. Him and Queen circle one another, knives drawn. Luther wants Ickford for himself, see?”
“Yup.” Images of that devil-child, all in white, playing in thick black blood hammered at his eyelids.
“Do you, squire?” Eric grabbed hold of Garth by the forearms, gripped him tight and stared fiercely into the cold blue eye. “Young Luther’ll take one look at you and decide to do for you. Like as not, friend, you will be torn to shreds. He may look a child, but he’s stronger than near anyone save Queen Agnethea herself. You want to live out your days and nights here with nowt save arguments that lead to hot violence with your competitors, avoid the child at all costs!”
This.
This was more like it. Eric’s terror –well-deserved in light of what they were discussing- mirrored Old Meechy’s in form and cadence, almost to the point where the wee gearhead looked like he was going to prostrate himself on the filthy road to prove his point.
Understanding the sway Agnethea held grew clearer. If this Young Luther was capable of doing for three solid Ickfordian gearheads, then the eldest of them all had to be a destructive force unrivaled ‘neath The Dome.
Garth removed Eric’s hands gently, then hauled the broken man to his tottering feet, saying, “I get it. I really do. You want me to avoid Luther no matter what, and I see no reason to go against that suggestion.”
Eric nodded quickly, then nodded again. “Good. Good. Goo… Now then. Head down Hooper here, left on Cricket, left again when you come ‘cross Rennow Street, then quick as you please you’re in the square. One thing before I take my leave, squire, on final word.”
“Oh?” A sick part of him wanted to look down the alley again, to get a better sense of Ickford’s own special nightmare.
“You see any regular lookin’ lads or lasses with queer colored eyes, you mind your manners no matter how rude they be or how hot you run. Them as show their eyes are Luther’s.” Eric started hopping away. “Them with the veil be a mite friendlier, but ‘tis like … gods bein’ friendly to ants.”
“Totally will, dude.” Garth nodded quite assiduously. Idle Eric shot him a look suggesting he found this to be the worst sort of lie then bound away over a gawping crowd of norms with quite an impressive leap.
Garth looked around, then thought better of it; Barnabas hadn’t been kidding when he’d pointed out that gearhead-kind in Ickford flaunted their Kingsblood-derived mutations like participants in particularly LSD-driven Pride Parade.
Fixing Eric’s directions firmly in mind, Garth trucked off to see what the fuss was all about.
***
High above the city of Ickford, balanced on a rooftop, Queen Agnethea watched Garth’s passage through the crowds with distinct interest. Whether the man knew it or no, he swept through them like a shadow, with men and women, geared and ungeared, cresting around him.
No matter where he went, a sphere of emptiness surrounded him.
What was he then, if he weren’t a new kind of monster from their King? She’d met hundreds of outsiders ‘ere now, but never once had any been like this. So … raw. So … vital.
The Queen of Ickford made up her mind. Though she was mighty displeased with Luther’s nocturnal habits of late, she couldn’t dismiss the fact that they couldn’t have come at a better time, or in a better place: Garth’s instant and immediate reaction to the foul ghoul’s atrocious behavior spoke volumes about the man’s character.
Perhaps not King’s monster, but there was something of the beast in him all the same.
“Well now, Master Nickels,” Queen Agnethea said to no one in particular, watching as the Geared outsider disappeared from view ‘round a corner, “I do believe me and thee shall have summat to talk about after all.”
Garth wished there was some he could talk to. Really talk to. Traveling with Barnabas had been a prison sentence! From the very beginning, Barnabas had never struck him as the most trustworthy of people, a sentiment that’d only grown over time.
Still, even with all that mistrust and secrets, it really would’ve been nice to just … chat. Y’know, shoot the shit, two dudes hauling a ridiculous claptrap train over the next hill in a s
eries of hills.
Only … only every time he’d started up with one of his long-winded yarns or paraphrased superhero stories, the cranky sourpuss had interrupted over and over again, demanding explanations over this word or that phrase or –when the smith had a certain set to his jaw- shouting ‘none of this makes no sense, lad, hain’t you never got nothing on your mind save silliness?’. Then off he’d stalk, into the confines of his tents, doing what-the-fuck-ever a guy like that got up to in the dark.
The point, Garth thought bitterly as he moved in and out of the crowds, keeping an eye on anyone that struck him as potential danger or ally, of traveling with someone –even if you’d like to see their eyeballs pop out of their head like in the cartoons- was you told stories. Barnabas had done his fair share of story-telling, truth be told, but all about Arcade City and here, again, Garth couldn’t help but suspect that not everything coming out of the older man’s gob had been legit.
“This point,” Garth muttered sullenly as his eyes fell on a sign pointing him towards Tinker Square, “I’d even talk to fucking Chadsik. Crazy as he was, still, the guy had a sense of humor. Pull a guy’s tongue out and waggle it around like it was a dick kind of humor, but still.”
Agnethea’s face wandered into his mind, and Garth wanted to punch himself in the side of the head.
He focused on Naoko, the smell of her perfume, the scent of her shampoo, the feel of her lips on his. They’d never really had any time together, and it ached. Things had gone so wrong, so quickly. If only she hadn’t reached out to that asshole, or, if only she hadn’t burned him so thoroughly.
Garth chuckled. A Specter-worthy burn, that whole thing with Morgan. She’d scorched that pedophile bastard to the blasted earth beneath his horrid feet and he’d deserved all that, and more.
But still. If she hadn’t done that, they would’ve slept through the night together, they would’ve woken up in the morning, she would’ve been there through … through everything that’d followed.
Garth looked up into the darkened sky, fervently wishing for a moon to stare solemnly at. If she hadn’t done the things she’d done, there was every chance he wouldn’t be here.
Garth shook his head and cursed so violently that a woman standing next to him chatting with a friend started. He flashed her an apologetic smile and moved on, heart broken in his chest.
If she’d stayed, he wouldn’t be here. And here was where he needed to be.
Tinker Square loomed.
***
It was just another night in Tinker Square as far as Shackled Al was concerned. Every day and every night was the same these … days and nights. He shook his head at his own lapse in thought. They were coming more and more often these days, and he was beginning to suspect that boredom could make you stupid.
It was all the fancy men in their actual storefront shops that was the problem, see. Al looked with barely disguised venomous jealousy, first at Twisted Mickel’s brilliantly lit store with its flaming huge steam pipes belching white hot steam into the sky by way of advertising his presence then on to Havilland Harvard’s more restrained but nevertheless still over-the-top signs full of whirring jigsaw gears and spinning hypno-plates that made a man feel like the world was flipping end over end.
They were geniuses of their craft, true enough, making it hard for a smith with less talent to make those tricky ends meet.
On the one end, you had Mickel, who could build you a weapon of deadly efficiency in the twinkling of an eye that was also damn near a work of art. That was why he had those huge steam pipes belching all the time; first thing a gearhead wanted to do when he or she strolled on in to Ickford was … well, no. First thing was a trip to a hard palace with soft pillows. Second thing was getting them weapons all fixed up and ready to go or to employ the man to design summat new and deadly for them Kings and Bolt-Necks and all.
The other end was Havilland Harvard, a well-educated gent who, if you listened and believed, come from all the way other side of Arcade City. A might smarter than Mickel, who was all flash and shine and dosh and them twisted smiles of his, Harvard was a pure artificer born. Intricate machines for the discriminating shooter. Fiendish designs for lobbers and bombers. Everything from wind gauges to things as what allegedly figured out the weaknesses of Kings just by peeking through the glass bits in the middle.
Al didn’t know much about any of that. He knew how to bang bits together, knew how to build some guns and some hammers and the like, knew how to cobble together a few tricky bits, but blokes like Havilland and Mickel … they’d changed the face of Ickford’s smithy-trade in a hot flash, oh yes they had, and the whole of old smiths had suffered, hey?
The only one to turn her hand to smithing and artificing to also remain untouched was Agnethea herself, only she did nowt for no one or nothing save herself and the grand city she’d built for them all.
So in the grand scheme of artificer wars, Agnethea didn’t count.
No, when it come to who was who and what was what, it started with Twisted Mickel and ended with Havilland Harvard, and all them other smiths as were caught in the middle took what they could like them fishies as fed off the scraps of the bigger ones.
Shackled Al realized that –in the middle of his evening ritual of wishing doom and ill will on the flash bastards who’d ruined his trade- someone had wandered up and into his little area of the world. Moreover, this oddity were that very second flicking through his ramshackle bins of spare parts.
“Oi!” Al shouted, bolting up from his little three-legged stool, brandishing the metal bonker he had close to hand when the young rapscallions breezed through his shop like a thieving storm.
He moved in closer when the intruder didn’t budge, waving his Little Discourager about wi’ a little more exuberance. “You don’t want none of this, friend. Even those as got the crude in them don’t want none of this.”
“Slow your roll, there, hombre. I’m looking for some pieces.” Garth didn’t look up from the bin. He was being a bit rude, he knew, but after walking through the square …
Well, okay, he’d more sort of sidled around the corners and edges because he wasn’t a complete idiot, but doing so had allowed him the luxury of writing both Mickel and Harvard off his itinerary; one look at their blazing storefronts and the kind of things they could craft screamed ‘top of the game, mate’, meaning both of them would recognize the telltale signs of someone wearing Geared Armor in one shuddery beat of an Iron-tainted heart.
After that, the script would follow predictable patterns and frankly, Garth was trying to avoid that kind of shit like the plague.
Thus, ‘Shackled Al’s Iron Emporium’, a shop with a proprietor who looked as though they’d both seen better millenniums; of those ramshackle artificers and rundown tinkerers remaining, Al was perhaps the best of the worst. Al may recognize the armor beneath the heavy robes, sure, but he wasn’t so far gone he’d reach out to people better left alone, nor was he skilled enough to take it for himself.
Al frowned at the words, tried to figure out what they all meant, then gave up, choosing instead to focus on the parts that did make sense. He slung his hammer through a belt loop, and, trying to keep the hopefulness out of his voice, leaned on the counter, “You … you lookin’ to have some work done?”
“I didn’t say precisely that, but sure, that works.” Garth rattled through the other drawer, heart beginning to drag at the prospect of rooting through this man’s garbage when his eyes fell on two square tubes that might work.
Al watched his guest haul out two square tubes, lay them down on the workbench with a noisy clatter, then go back to the first bin where he kept all the ‘good’ pieces. Only they weren’t so good anymore, not when the bastards across the way had themselves some of the best pieces anywhere in the whole of Arcade City. Just once he’d love to have the dosh to hire one of them grey crews, hey? Send ‘em out to do for a King or a Bolt Neck or what have you! Oh, the wealth of gears and other bits and bobs that blokes like M
ickel took for granted would be just the sort of thing to bring a failing business right back to the top!
“What did you mean then?” Al walked up closer to the man and stared into the bin as gauntleted hands sorted through the stuff inside like lightning. Eventually, one of the man’s hands seized on a circular chamber big around as two fists and that, too, went on the workbench.
Al tried to envision what you could do with two square tubes and a big circular chamber when the man interrupted.
“How much to use your equipment?”
“Well, I usually charge by the…”
“No, dude, how much for me to use your equipment?”
Al narrowed his eyes. A long time ago, back when Mickel had first come ‘round to Ickford to see what all the fuss was about, he’d started off trying to be friendly and what not. Al had suspected the-then ‘new’ smith of gearing up for some good old sabotage but had changed his mind when he’d learned the level of skill he was going up against. Al didn’t mind that there were better smiths out there. That was the way of the world. It was the same for everyone. There were gearheads out there who made the men and women he saw on a daily basis look like schoolchildren fighting over an apple in an Estate playground.
The man standing in his shop waiting impatiently for an answer didn’t seem interested in sabotage. In fact, from the way he was dancing from foot to foot and looking out through the tent and across the street at Mickel and Harvard’s places, Shackled Al got the distinct impression that if he was a blacksmith –which was implied by his question-, he were trying to avoid the scrutiny of those two.
Garth rolled his eyes and pulled out a six ounce cylinder of Dark Iron. He tossed it at Shackled Al, who caught it deftly enough. “That cover it?”
Al felt the greasy warmth of the Dark Iron leaking through the thick copper and glass container and nodded, though not too quickly; with the state of economic affairs being what they were right now in Ickford, technically speaking, the man with the brass hands had just bought his little smithy shop, eyeing everything in it, and a fair bit more besides all that. He held the cylinder up to the light of his torch and watched the roiling liquid before answering. “Reckon it’ll have to do. Only for a bit, mind. I ain’t letting you be here all night.”