Thrusters spat blue flames at Iron Lord’s back, sending him into a spin faster than an eye could follow. The cameras in his arms caught the tear in reality; his hands closed on Brood Lord’s neck, and he slammed the bastard into the wall with enough force to dent it. Drozna took a step, and the repulsion field slammed into his ugly mug, shoving him back and forcing the worthless minion to wipe tears from his eyes. With a clanking sound, turrets unfolded from the ceiling; industrial saws, three rotating blades the size of a flat, moved up from the recycling area, ready to assist their master in his hour of need.
The shoulder cannon spun, firing at the portal, and Phaser screamed in pain from the other side, hastily closing it. Brood Lord’s legs whipped, pushing the metal on Iron Lord’s wrist, but he refused to yield, activating the thrusters on his legs, and drove himself and the fool back a little from the wall, then rammed him again, drawing a groan from the freak.
“I’ve had enough of you!” Iron Lord punched Brood Lord; the hydraulics in his limbs sped up the fist to bullet speed, bleeding the lips. He glanced at the tense Drozna. “Step up to me and be dismembered.” He hoped the degenerate would ignore the threat to settle things, but his rival raised a hand, stopped his lapdog, and smiled innocently.
“So sensitive,” Brood Lord chuckled. “It was a harmless joke to test if you still had the courage to stand equal to me.”
“Try me again, and it’ll be your last,” promised Iron Lord, cursing at the reports of artillery aimed at his train. Remove the rival and break the promise to the Merchants. This scum wanted to see him back down. “In war, we go as a united front. My hands are busy coordinating this conquest. I have no time to babysit you. One more prank and I will chop your head off; consequences be damned. Are we clear?”
“Crystal, Iron Lord Khan.” Brood Lord bowed his head, not once stopping smirking.
Iron Lord choked harder, desiring to smash in this smiling face, to hear the bones cracking, teeth pulverizing, and eyeballs bursting. Brood Lord was an upstart, a mutated Malformed who had murdered and betrayed his way to the top, where he had wisely submitted to the Khatun, pretending to be useful as he built his little empire. Eyeing Iron Lord’s position and lands, he plotted to persuade lesser khans to join him, spending wealth and testing his limits. Alas, the little sadist had his uses.
“Father…” A voice groaned from behind the screen, and Iron Lord dropped the trash, turning to the frame.
It moved! Mehmed lived as nothing more than a brain, controlling the convulsing metal fingers with nothing but his thoughts! Legs moved, trying to stand up, restricted by the tendrils as the frame was still being assembled. The chest hatch opened and closed like the jaws of a cornered, desperate animal. The four arms moved, clawing at the torso, trying to reach for the brain container, stopping short, not daring to pry the fibers away.
The frame shook, swaying in the harness, trying to break free. Brood Lord pressed a finger to his lips as the noise came from Mehmed’s dynamics. Iron Lord frowned inside his armor, startled by the strange sounds. The stable connection between brain and machine should translate an attempt to speak into synthesized speech, just as a biological body would for an ordinary human.
Was there a malfunction of some sort? He ran the diagnostics and found no fault. Perhaps an infection? Impossible. By performing the operation and saving hundreds of bondsmen’s lives, he had produced practical proof that the programming of his medical-surgical automatons was up to the task. Why did Mehmed sound like he was about to swallow something?
“Mehmed? Son, how are you? Can you function?” Iron Lord asked, adding reassurance and confidence in his voice.
“I…” Mehmed forced out a word. “I… I…”
“Shit,” said Brood Lord, no longer smiling.
“Yes, you,” Iron Lord agreed eagerly. “Don’t be afraid; don’t worry; you’re alive; there will be no pain anymore. It’s over; you are saved…”
“Breathe…”
“What?”
“I can’t breathe!” Mehmed wailed, his synthetic voice echoing off the walls as his fingers tried to tear holes in the metal neck. “I can’t swallow, my lips… Body, body, body! Father, why can’t I feel anything?!” The frame broke free of the harness and stood up on two arms, legs dangling helplessly on the floor. “Anything, please, oh Sky, please let me feel something. Just a taste, a touch… Pain, warmth, cold, drool on my lips, anything, something…” His dynamics continued to spill pointless pleas. “AM I ALIVE?!”
“You are alive,” Iron Lord tried to reason with his son. “It is unusual, perhaps, but to save you…”
Walking on his metal knuckles, Mehmed approached the medical slab, his inactive legs scraping against the floor. Disconnected wires spat electrical sparks. Mehmed grabbed his former body with his upper arms and lifted it into the air, screaming as his three-fingered hand convulsed, shattering the empty skull and splashing some bone and blood against his armored corpus. Another hand crushed the leg, snapping it like a straw. Mehmed raised the body above his head, dripping blood into the open hatch.
“Flesh…” He said longingly and screamed again. “It’s me, right?! Why can’t I feel anything?! Father, father, I can’t feel a thing!”
“You have been reborn, Mehmed.” Iron Lord attempted to calm him. “Everything is fine. You are beautiful, a perfection incarnate. In time, you will come to appreciate the might of your new form…”
“Let me die!” Mehmed dropped his body and slammed his fists against the screen, cracking it. His synthesized voice broke over and over, trying to translate his emotions into words. “I beg you! Just end this!”
“And here is the reason,” Brood Lord chuckled and bowed mockingly. “My deepest sympathies, Iron Lord. The boy went mad. Do me a solid if I ever end up like him, just off me, will you? I mean, we have our differences and all, but surely…”
“Useless,” Iron Lord spat, hovering a finger over the self-destruct button. None of his children ever dared to interrupt him; he drilled that lesson into them with mother’s milk. Then he stopped. Why should he waste a perfectly good suit of armor? “Mehmed. Do you remember the one who ruined you?”
“Yes!” Mehmed bellowed. “She took my arm! She took my flesh! And her mutated, misbegotten kin bathed me in acid!”
“They are the reason you are now locked in a steel coffin. Will you let them be?” Iron Lord continued, and Mehmed stopped flailing; the lenses on his head focused on his father. “Mehmed, my boy. The Sky has given you a chance for retribution. By its will, you have been reborn, stronger, better, and faster than ever before. With this body, you can end their entire bloodline and be reborn in the Sky’s embrace! Will you refuse this gift?”
“N-nooooo,” Mehmed stretched out the word, breaking into a sob and trying to cover his ‘face’ with his arms. Iron Lord was disgusted by this sight of weakness. But he continued to stare at his son, burning him into his memory and warning him of the dangers that lay in cyberization. “No one else shall become like me.”
“Ensure it through your might. Brood Lord Khan will provide targets once your body is adapted. I’m sorry it ended that way.” Iron Lord said his last soft words and cut the audio feed and control away from Mehmed, trapping his boy in darkness as his frame was returned for assembly. “He is all yours,” he told Brood Lord, dropping him a remote control. “Toss him into a trash bin or pit him against the slave; I don’t care. I don’t want to hear his name ever again.”
“Didn’t ask, but sure, I’ll take it. Where are you going?” Brood Lord asked.
“To the front lines. Some of us have a war to prosecute.”
Iron Lord left the compartment, flanked by his personal guard. What did he learn? First, the procedure was safe enough. Second, the subject may go mad. Will he be affected? Iron Lord still had functioning reproductive organs and a functioning body, though augmetics had replaced several organs. He loved his wives and enjoyed the precious days they spent together. Whether it was cooking, caring for their useless children, or making new ones, it was difficult to give up those sensations altogether. His loved ones never judged him for not being a pureblood; to them, he was a man, a Merchant, not an Iron Lord Khan. Will this attachment scar his psyche enough during transference to a new state of existence? He could not sever his ties with his wives, no more than he could have killed himself. They were a part, the most important part of his life.
More tests were needed. He had the brainwave data from his son’s failed operation; he had the hard data on how to preserve the brain perfectly. After the conquest, it shouldn’t be problematic to procure enough willing slaves from any flesh market in exchange for freedom for their families. Then he will cut away limbs and organs from his voluntary test subjects, replacing them with augmentations to learn the exact limits of how a mind must be adjusted to ascend into a perfect union of steel and flesh.
Horkhudagh joined him on the ramp leading outside. The fiery khan had taken on the appearance of a burned victim. His skin was perfect black bark, cracking with every movement and spilling motes of dark ash everywhere. Hellish flames danced in the open cracks, licking the bark before it closed. The khan’s lips curled into a white-toothed smile, and his fingers touched the temple in greeting.
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“I take it Mehmed didn’t make it?” Horkhudagh asked, handing Patience to Iron Lord. “My condolences.” He bowed to the personal guard, and they returned the gesture.
“Beat it. He should have heeded my warnings. What is the situation?” Patience wasn’t overheated. The weird man controlled the temperature of his body and his surroundings to a frightening effect.
“Mungke’s troops bolstered our side, and warriors grumbled, annoyed at missing the raping of the town…” Iron Lord tapped the ramp with his glaive, stopping the pointless chatter of self-evident information. His sweetheart refused to become a khatun, preferring to stay and raise their adorable daughters and sturdy sons, but one of her brothers was not incorrigible and understood the value of cooperation. “Brood Lord’s forces are swelling with the parasites arriving from beyond the wall and the rabble he has found here.”
“Expected.” Iron Lord faced Horkhudagh. “What lands do you desire?”
“A forest,” the burning man answered instantly. “There was a legend back in my clan. Of a mysterious, bronze hut standing deep in the dark forest. A hag lived there, offering advice and training to the future heroes, but those who failed to impress her never returned from an inferno unleashed by a snap of her fingers.” He smiled, and the corners of his lips cracked. “There was no forest near my home. But I always wanted to live the legend.”
“Really?” Iron Lord was surprised. “No rich mines, no beautiful wives… Just forest?”
“Khan, there are less than two thousand men in my khaganate; what use are mines to us? Should we spend our years fighting to keep them?” Horkhudagh asked. “Forests mean an abundance of game and water, a perfect place for my clan to grow.” He glanced at the guard, and Iron Lord surrounded them with a force field, preventing any words from getting out. “And what woman would survive the thrust of my spear, eh?”
“Then your sons and daughters…”
“Adopted,” Horkhudagh scratched his head, unleashing a pillar of liquid flame that solidified in more black bark. “Love them to death, the little squeakers, but my three wives knew what would happen if we tried to have legitimate ones. We chose a few kids blessed with fire talents and added them to the wives’ children. And so I have heirs and an illusion of credibility. Surprised?”
“I didn’t expect you to be a virgin,” admitted Iron Lord. “If there is anything else you wish for your service, name it.”
“Reclaimers turned tail and ran.” Horkhudagh shrugged and let a cloak of flame envelop him. “Frankly, I expected more. Wanted more.”
“Fear not; the time will come when the Flame Whip of the Sky will grace the field with his presence.”
Horkhudagh nodded, satisfied that his hint had been understood. He craned his neck and said: “There is also another matter. I had a thought of solving it myself, but…” he pointed at the khan. “I have a master now. Your servants are causing a ruckus.”
Iron Lord listened to the news, neither exploding in anger nor approving. It was merely another situation for him to resolve, and he marched to the edge of the sprawling war camp, near the makeshift barracks that Slavetaker had occupied and converted to hold the prisoners. From a distance, they could hear angry shouting, threatening cries, and then a desperate shriek preceded by a whipping strike of a sword coming from a smaller camp near the fresh market. The shouting intensified, and Iron Lord heard rifles being cocked.
Pre-industrial tents and ritual ceremonies juxtaposed the advanced field hospital and mobile workshops. The Gilded Horde was a nation of contrasts. Several Purebloods sipped lazily from dirty mugs, observing the bondsmen cleaning their advanced power armors in the mud. Half a kilometer away, engineers laid new minefields, and patrols rode to the horizon, ready to repel any unexpected counterattack. Dirtybloods danced on cheap wooden tables, singing national songs in the shadow of hastily installed radar systems. Partially naked men and women tested their skills, slamming opponents to the ground to the cheers of the crowd. Doctors interrupted priests’ ceremonies to drag away the wounded.
The Khatun and Iron Lord’s inspectors visited individual war camps. Some were shielded by deceptively fragile wooden palisades, inviting challengers to test their khans, while stone walls bristling with artillery encircled others. The inspectors ventured in unopposed, buying off the enslaved doctors, engineers, and similarly valuable personnel, along with their families. After a period of loyalty training, these slaves were given their freedom and helped maintain the Horde’s efficiency. Nomads and city dwellers blended into one.
There were no visible tensions between the Purebloods and mutants. Even the abominable Malformed were ignored. It had less to do with tolerance; racism was very much present in the Gilded Horde. If a child was born a mutant, his parents would often discard the brat. But as long as the mutant was strong and useful, no one cared, and they often reached a khan’s rank.
This camp belonged to Skull Lord Khan, another rising upstart who claimed his share of glory after the untimely death of Sky Lord Khan. Though the Khatun had saved Sky Lord’s khaganate, Skull Lord had wedged himself in the dispute between Brood Lord and Iron Lord, skillfully exploiting the strife to secure the allegiance of several clans and build up his forces to become a threat. He sat on his thunder bull, wielding a shield and the electric claw he had taken from the dead Sword Saint, his beady eyes watching the scene at the center of his camp from behind a metal mask that had been welded into his own bones. Skin grew over the thing, distorting the man’s face into an ugly, intimidating scowl.
Slavetaker stood unmoved, his hands on the shoulders of the cause of the chaos, a pale and frightened young woman dressed in rags. The slave trader, known for his unhinged cruelty, was almost gently sharing some of his confidence with the girl. Widowmaker was nearby, cleaning her sword of the guts of a dead Pureblood. She nodded to Iron Lord.
“No one cheats Slavetaker,” the slave trader said.
“I will be the one to decide the limits of my troops,” Skull Lord whispered hoarsely, his gauntlet twitched when Iron Lord stopped, examining him as if he were a curious insect.
“Is that the meat?” Slavetaker kindly asked the woman, who barely reached his waist. He nodded at the nervous Dirtyblood near Skull Lord. “Who dared to spoil my goods?” He waited patiently as the woman swallowed a pain-filled cry and hid her face in her palms. “You have nothing to fear. Is that him?”
“”Slavetaker, we are adults; I am sure we can come to a beneficial arrangement. Come on, man, you can’t trust her over me; I paid, dammit!" shouted the Dirtyblood, but the trader paid him no attention, and the man turned to Widowmaker. “Don’t you hate that bastard?”
“Yep,” the freed slave answered.
“Join me, and we can cut off his legs and leave him crawling in the dirt, bleeding and crying as he dies!”
“Can’t.” Widowmaker ran a finger over the edge of her sword. “Hate scum like you worse.”
“Yes,” the woman said finally, and Slavetaker patted her on the back.
“You and your family are free as of now,” he told her.
The Dirtyblood began apologizing, offering the compensation, and trembled as Slavetaker raised his head and glared at him with the unhinged ferocity of a rabid dog. The ground shook with the thud of the run, and Dirtyblood and his comrades feverishly tried to reach for their weapons. Widowmaker was around them, ahead of her hated partner; her sword sang, opening people from belly button to throat, and she laughed as she collected her tally. Slavetaker was on the culprit in an instant, burying his cleaver in the man’s shoulder to the hilt.
Hands gripped the sweat-covered head, fingers penetrated the skin, and in a single motion the Dirtyblood’s face was hanging in the fat hands as he rolled on the floor, howling in pain. The leg lifted and trampled him into oblivion.
“The payment is acceptable,” Slavetaker said, pushing his trophy into his belt pouch. “Let this be a lesson to your khaganate if you are unwilling to teach them yourself.”
Skull Lord’s claws drummed against his armor-plated knee, rage boiling in his eyes. Iron Lord waited patiently, ready for any outcome. They were outnumbered a hundred to one in the middle of a rival camp. But with Horkhudagh at his side, victory was far from certain. Besides, there was a way to turn the unruliness of his servants into a profitable endeavor by showing the arrogant khan his place.
“This isn’t over,” Skull Lord promised.
“Agreed. You still have duties to perform. Go forth, brave warrior.” Iron Lord lenses focused at the enraged eyes. “These are foreign lands. Do not repeat the mistake of Mungke Khan.”
“I have no need in your lessons, Iron Lord.” The khan raised his gauntlet, summoning his army to war.
“The boy won’t forget this anytime soon,” Horkhudagh said as the hordemen left the camp and headed northeast.
“More woe to him, then. Our warriors are on alert, medicine, food, and water are regularly checked, and our patrols are ready. Send your men. Let’s see how many warriors and clans we can take from him now that they know he will not protect them.” Iron Lord turned to his servants, spreading his arms. “Be prepared. Things will change after the war. A transformation awaits the Gilded Horde. Old ways will die out.”
“It sounds like you want to civilize us. Make us more like the Merchants,” Slavetaker remarked, handing his cleaver to a soldier for cleaning. His eyes watched the Iron Lord calmly as the wind ruffled his cloak of flayed skin.
“Would that be so bad?” Iron Lord inquired. “To not have to worry about a possible raid, to have a nation that stretches from one dry sea to another, to have our standards proudly raised above every city. No vassals, no failed clans, no rejects forced to compete for scraps.” There was not a hint of anger in Slavetaker’s tranquil face. “No slaves,” he addressed Widowmaker. “Only the Gilded Horde, proud and evolved, fed, content, powerful, with us to lead it as we see fit. Are you worried that you will not find a place for yourself in the world?”
Widowmaker laughed and sheathed her weapon, while Slavetaker rolled his eyes and said, “We adapted once. We can do it again.”
“Iron Lord Khan, I have sworn to serve you, but I will not try to take on the Khatun,” stated Horkhudagh. “You treat us well, but there is a line between loyalty and wanton suicide.”
“I tread this line carefully.” Iron Lord nodded amiably. “The Khatun have little desire to rule. Once her goal is achieved, those who remain will shape the future.”
“Hate to break it to you, but there is still Dalantai. The fanatic is a bitch to contain and can’t be killed,” Widowmaker cautioned.
“Anyone can die,” Iron Lord assured her. “It is why we must guard our Khatun. She is the guarantee of our glorious future.”
Cheers from the looming building to the south of the town distracted him. Mad Hatter was already departed, roaming the land in search of a worthy opponent, or perhaps simply for her own amusement. In her former palace, Brood Lord’s warriors were gathering wooden planks and hauling in the famous golden bull, preparing for the night’s feast and eager for attractions. Slaves were bought to please the women and men of the Horde, and Iron Lord tightened his grip on Patience, well aware of the kind of fun these degenerates preferred.
He had killed countless people in his lifetime, often using cruel and downright gruesome punishments, either to uphold tradition or to instill fear and deprive his new subjects of hope. But his every act was for a higher purpose, to achieve his ambitions, and never for pleasure. He wasn’t… like them.
“Waste of fine meat,” Slavetaker said, expressing what they all felt.
“Should we stop it?” Widowmaker asked. “I don’t enjoy the prospect of fighting alongside the dog, but we all know the bout is inevitable. Why put it off until later?”
“Degenerates, junkies, and thieves are useless for the army,” Horkhudagh supported her. “Unless treated, rot tends to spread and poison the rest of the body. Not to infringe on the wisdom of our glorious khan, but I wouldn’t mind a roasted side of Brood Lord for dinner. Just nod, and I’ll serve it.”
“Ignore them,” Iron Lord commanded, hoisting the glaive to his shoulder. “We have a nation to conquer.”