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

by Lee Bond

  Or would it? The quadronium circuits and implants went all the way down to the atomic level and beyond. In essence, he was a quantum-level cyborg. Could Kingsblood –or the Cloud inside- tunnel through all that? What would happen then?

  “You listenin’, fishy-fish?” Nicked Jimmy clouted his fish across the back of the head, laughing loudly as the man fell forward into the dirt. Oh my, they were going to have to get some of that old Vicious Elixir in him sooner rather than later. Couldn’t have their blacksmith being soft, oh my no. Once the other crews found out they’d nabbed themselves a man who could work with metal, they’d come running. Jimmy didn’t like admitting it, even to himself, but there were crews out there along the outer circles that were just as good –maybe a bit better- than he and his current crop.

  In a world where Kingsblood –or crudey-crude, or Vicious Elixir, or, if you was particularly old-school, Dark Iron- was the number one commodity for trade and for barter, blacksmiths were the number two thing. If you had a man at your side as could fix your weapons, design new ones … well … you were in good.

  The only ‘problem’ –and it were a small one, as far as Jimmy was concerned- was that no smith worth his gear had anything to do with the old Vicious Elixir, save that which went to power that very same gear.

  None of the crudey-crude went down the gullet of artificer or tinker or smith, that much everyone knew, and if that happened, well. Another wardog destined to become a gearhead was born, hey?

  Jimmy was of the mind that his special fishy-fish with the flash moves and glib tongue would master the urge to drink more than was safe, and right quick. After all, hadn’t he just perked right up when the proper difference ‘twixt gearhead and wardog had been explained in full? Fella seemed to be okay with the notion of there being lads and lasses out there as could handle their drink, so to speak. The final trick then would be to make certain the fish kept that deep-thinking brain of his doing the right kind of thinking, hey?

  Garth picked himself up out of the mud gingerly; he’d thrown his hands out to break the fall and his broken hand was a throbbing pile of pain at the end of his wrist now. And he was covered in dirt. He bit back his retorts, clamped down on the anger. He was in no position to do or say anything to Nicked Jimmy other than ‘yes sir’ and ‘please don’t kill me sir’.

  Fucking humiliating. Of course, there was the Kingsblood, right? He could fill his body full of weird implants, surrender himself to the nefarious hidden purpose of the King, could become like Nicked Jimmy. Run his own crew of misfits and maniacs across forty thousand or so square miles of enclosed and ruined Old England, summoning up Kings and killing them…

  “I’m sorry, Nicked Jimmy.” Garth wiped his hands free of as much mud and muck as he could. “It’s this place. I’m not used to it yet.”

  “Oh that’s all right, fishy.” Jimmy gestured grandly, feeling quite lordly. “This old world of ours takes some getting used to, it does. Now, you asked me why I do what I do, yes? Why I’d risk unstoppable Kings and nasty Gearmen to punish a man who probably has got no idea what I’m doing, yes?”

  Garth fell back in beside Jimmy, legs remembering the old soldier’s way of just … swinging your legs to the man who was setting the rhythm. He’d walked thousands of miles that way and it came back quickly. “Yeah. Yeah I did.”

  Jimmy smiled. It was good to have a protégé, one who knew where his place was. “Back before I came through The Dome, fishy-fish, I were an accountant…”

  ***

  The land around their destination –Kingspawn Pub- was about as barren and desolate as Garth had seen in their three-quarter day journey from the Estate; the only free-standing structure anywhere within eyesight was the dilapidated three-story pub itself. Beyond that, all Garth could make out were a bunch of bedraggled looking trees dotting the hills in the distance.

  To hear Jimmy talk, this was how Arcade City’s outermost regions were, no matter which direction you went, nor for how long you traveled; land around Estates were generally lush with green and trees and all that, but everywhere else had been crushed flat by continual combat between crews or against Kings.

  Except where it wasn’t; Jimmy talked about fighting the King in urban settings far to the North like it was the worst thing ever. His new friend had an extreme dislike of trying to ‘do for a King’ in those shattered and broken cities, and for damned good reason: unlike where they were now, those ‘cities’ were often home to multiple gaggles low on fuel –so to speak- and more often than not you could fall prey to a pack of backstabbing bastards whilst in the middle of a kill. Moreover, out there in the deep forests and empty plains, Jimmy claimed there were ancient, half-buried structures, weird statues that made no earthly sense and other odd mysteries that gearheads of the day had no interest in whatsoever; they were there to kill Kings and other monsters, and that was it.

  Garth had an idea of where Jimmy was headed with his whole ‘blacksmith’ concept and hoped that the looker would accept the fact that there was no fucking way in hell he’d ever take a single drop of Kingsblood. From the subtle –and oftentimes, not so subtle- hints Nicked Jimmy kept dropping about the role a blacksmith played in Arcade City, the Ironed-up gearhead had great, wild plans.

  Plans that –apparently- at base involved moving further inwards, something no one had done in quite some time.

  It was getting over the crudey-crude hurdle that Garth wasn’t looking forward to.

  Smithing seemed like the best cover for someone who didn’t want Kingsblood fucking his body up. Probably the best one that was ever likely to fall into his lap. Jimmy’d been Kingkilling for what seemed like ever and was known as a man who could get the job done. So if –and it was a Kingzilla-sized ‘if’- that ebony nanotech liquid was taken off the table, traveling with the psychotic madman wasn’t a terrible option.

  The only worry about traveling further inward was Jimmy’s expertise; the man was a terror, but only in taking down the biggest beasts on the land. The smaller the King, the harder. And, again, Jimmy did everything in his power to avoid other crews.

  Garth flickered a smile at that; if only the idiot hadn’t been doing as he had, his exploits would’ve almost certainly already had him on the track to the inner parts of Arcade City.

  Alas, an addiction to revenge, his petty, small-minded thirst to punish a man who –as Garth well knew- either didn’t care what happened on the other side of the Geared Doors or had no clue had ruined poor Nicked Jimmy.

  From what the gearheaded leader had revealed about how the world of Arcade City worked, it was a truism –for whatever reason- that a man with Jimmy’s talent should always be moving ever inward. Unspoken in the man’s bragging tales of derring-do were some pretty serious reasons why he’d failed to make the journey before now, and it had less to do with the man’s revenge against Peemes and more to do with some place called Ickford.

  Something about that place kept Jimmy on his metallic toes, that was for certain, just as it kept him right where he was in the food chain.

  Maybe once they were at the pub, Garth would be able to do a little more digging. Get the lay of the land from someone who didn’t like the sound of their voice nearly as much as Jimmy.

  “But … I’m thinking I’m reformed now, fishy-fish.” Jimmy was happy they were close to the pub now. Trying to walk slowly enough for the fish to keep up had gotten harder and harder with each step. Oh, the lad had done well enough keeping pace for the time being.

  He needed to get some Kingsblood into Fishy-Fish the Blacksmith right quick, didn’t he just? A little drippy-drop, a tiny little dribby-drab, just enough to see how it took. If the man wound up being a full-fledged gearhead, alas alack and all that hogwash, but should he be as one of them lucky wardogs…

  “Which,” Jimmy continued, “is why I’m telling you all this about meself. So’s you can keep an eye for the old gleam in my eye. Old habits die hard. You can do that for me, can’t you?”

  “Why’s it called K
ingspawn Pub?” Garth narrowed his eyes at the watering hole. It was still too far away for him to be certain, but it looked like there was something strapped to the top of a pole just outside the door. He chuckled. Just like olden times indeed.

  Jimmy clapped his hands in approval at the question. His blacksmith was a quick one. “Used to be a Kingspawn point right there, right on that spot.”

  Just as he’d thought. “What happened?”

  “Oh, this were long before my time, fishy.” Jimmy shifted the canister at his waist around a bit, ran his many-fingered hand across the slick, hot glass. Would fresher Dark Iron blood have him this hungry all the time? Thinking thoughts of advancement had his mind racing with ideas.

  “Surely you’ve heard the story, though.” Far across the blasted plains behind the tavern –hundreds of miles in the distance- lightning flickered and spat, prompting Garth to crane his head until he was staring directly up. Weather. And sunlight. And, for that matter, moonlight. How did all that work? This wasn’t like a Dyson Sphere, where you used the never-ending power of the trapped sun to provide all the energy you could ever need or want to do things like create weather patterns.

  This was nothing like his Cloud. His Cloud had used the release of power each time it broke the bonds between atoms apart to fuel its never-ending quest to transform a solar system into machinery.

  Where in the fuck was the King’s Cloud getting its power? There was no obvious transfer, anywhere. A microcosm like Arcade City, riddled as it was with nanoparticulate … there should be overt signs of energy transferal everywhere.

  Jimmy went to slap his fishy in the back of the head, but this time the fishy stepped out of the way. He waggled a finger, grinning and laughing. “You had that look in your eye again, fishy-fish. Where do you go inside that melon of yours? Tell the truth, now. You’re a blacksmith right enough, you got big brains in there. I can see it. What’re you cogitating on?”

  Time for a bit of truth to leak out. It was the only way to get Jimmy to stop bashing him in the goddamn skull. “It’s … it’s …” Garth stammered, eyeing Jimmy thoughtfully through a façade of confusion, “it’s this place. None of it makes sense, Jimmy. I’m fresh from the outside and I’ve been around. There isn’t anything like Dark Iron on any world I’ve been to, or The Dome of Gears, or these giant Kings. I’m…”

  “Tryin’ to figure it all out, hey?” Jimmy grinned, then his face split into purest pleasure when music from the pub hit his ears. “Better men than you’ve tried, fishy-fish, tried and failed. The King don’t allow his secrets to be learned, no he doesn’t. Now, look, fishy-fish, I’ve wandered half a day and longer with you to this here pub when it should’ve taken me naught but an hour. My … our crew is inside, drinking and carousing and mayhap Staunch Mel is dancing with some of the other girls, and I’ve a mind to see some of that before they get bored. While we’ve been walking and talking and getting to know one another, they’ve been waiting for me to dole out the crudey-crude as is my right. Chances are they aren’t pleased. I’m going to run in now, greet my crew. You can take your toddling, baby steps up, yeah?”

  Garth nodded. A bit of alone time would be nice. Jimmy had pretty much hounded him every step of the way and he needed to see if there was any way to boot The Eye up.

  “But be warned!” Jimmy held a finger up. “You ain’t got any Kingsblood. Yet. You can’t get away from me or any of my crew, Fishy-Fish the Blacksmith, so if you run, we’ll find you faster than you can think. And besides,” he added as he picked up the pace, shouting to be heard as the distance between them grew, “only reason you made it this far is on account of all the beasties in the night are afraid of me. One step off the beaten path this far out of civilization and you’ll get eaten alive.”

  The moment Nicked Jimmy banged his way through the doors of Kingspawn Pub, hilarity and excitement filled the air. Now that their leader and looker was on the premises, they could get about the process of getting their prize.

  Garth stopped where he was, turned his eye back the way they’d come. The curve of The Dome was barely discernible. He could make out the clockwork that everyone just ignored, if only faintly. His mind whirred and he knew he’d give anything to have The Eye online; the ex-Specter couldn’t help but think that with it’s direct connection to the fundamental nature of the Unreal Universe it could solve this problem in a matter of hours.

  On his own, without ex-dee access fueling his creativity and insight or The Eye to do all the heavy lifting, the mystery of The Dome was going to take a lot of hard work.

  All while surviving a literal madhouse full of supercharged inmates.

  Every second in this fucking place brought more questions to his strained brain. What possible reason did the King have for his Dome? Was it a result of the Cloud-variant employed by the monarch, or did The Dome allow the nanotech to work? That was a goddamn chicken-egg conundrum, for sure. And that was only one facet of the problem. There were so many angles inside Arcade City he might as well be trying to solve a tesseract equation with a protractor.

  But those were Big Picture problems. There was one that needed dealing with before he started cracking those.

  Garth stuck his unbroken hand in his pocket, looking thoughtfully at the broken one. It was healing, sure, but when Jimmy’d smacked him into the ground, any gains had been lost. Without proper medical treatment, there was every chance it wasn’t going to set right.

  “Fuck me, man. They even got doctors in this place?” It didn’t seem likely, not with everyone all hopped up on liquefied nanotech!

  Morosely, the ex-Specter resumed trudging towards Kingspawn Pub. The racket had kicked into high gear and from the sounds of things, they were only halfway to partying their faces off.

  “They better have French fries in there.” Garth muttered to no one as he got closer to the door. “If this whole fucking place is one goddamn homage to olden times, and this is an actual English pub, there’d better be goddamn French fries. And gravy.”

  Shouldering his way into the got the broken remnants of the Kingspawn point clattering. Garth made a mental note to steal that particular bit of memorabilia when he and his fantastically super-awesome gaggle of loons and addicts took off for their next wicked cool adventure murdering towering Erector-set Kingbots.

  Getting a good, long look at what passed for circuitry in this place would help in determining if there was a way –any way- of manipulating the so-called Dark Iron or this ‘King’s Will’ Jimmy’d mentioned but once during a tirade on how their King managed to inflict order upon his people.

  King’s Will. Obviously a euphemism for how this Dark Iron King Blake controlled the tide of nanotech. Had to be. And as Garth well knew, Cloudtech was dodgy at best, utterly riddled with loopholes and backdoors and all manner of completely fucked up things that could –if you know where and how to look- let any old dude wander in and take control.

  Wouldn’t that be nice? If it was that simple? Just, like, find a way to access the Cloud control systems and start issuing command line orders, neatly preempting Kingly protocols? With that kind of access, Arcade City’s monarch wouldn’t be able to do diddly squat. Garth decided this whole adventure was gonna be over in less time than it took for Scooby et al to solve a mystery, and it was all thanks to the busted up circuit board.

  The overpowering odors of hot metal, stale beer and cigarette smoke washed over Garth the moment he got inside.

  Oh yeah, this was an old English pub all right. One full of nanotech-infested lunatics, to be sure, but it was still a pub. He’d spent time in bars and pubs full of soldiers and enemies before, long ago, when the world had been young and the War against the Heshii had been old.

  He could do it again.

  ***

  Garth grinned as his eye adjusted to the dim illumination cast by guttering torches set along the walls. He could use a beer. A river of beers. And answers. Hopefully some of the new crew would be able to stay on point long enough so that anything they
had to say on the nature of Arcade City would be coherent.

  But beer first. The last thing he’d had to drink had been a cup of tea offered by Captain Eck as one last apology for how Meechy had exploded all over him moments before being tossed out of the ship and into Peemes’ eager hands.

  Garth stepped up to the bar, feet tapping to the live music coming out of the corner; the band was playing some sprightly song or other that had a handful of men and women dancing like mad. It reminded him of Irish folk music, but only because of the tempo. None of the instruments being played held any resemblance to anything in the outside world.

  The final nail in the coffin of similarities between this pub and one thirty thousand years in the past ­were the musicians themselves; each one of the obviously Kingsblood-free men and women could stroll right into a Renaissance Fair and pick up work without any hassle at all. From the peasant dresses on the whirling, twirling women playing stringed instruments to the jerkins on the guys toodling away on wind instruments, it was entirely too fucked up and jarring a scene for comfort.

  “Which crew are you with, my fresh-faced fish?”

  Garth struggled to keep the sigh in and failed. Without looking away from the band, he spoke. “My name is Garth N’Chalez. Not fish. Or fishy-fish. Or Fishman, king of fishes or any other variation on anything that might be considered aquatic.”

  “Wotcha, Nickels. Name’s Dave.”

  Garth turned back to the barman. “Like, actually Dave? Because Nicked Jimmy’s actual and proper name is Jemalen something something. Yours isn’t, like, Devatrep or anything? Actual, proper Dave?”

  “Well,” Dave said, running a rag across the glass in his hand one final time, “no one’s ever called me Actual Proper Dave before, but yeah, mate, the name’s Dave. Not, er, Devatrep or whatever. I’m guessing you’re with Nicked Jimmy’s crew, then?”