Metaworld Chronicles

Shalkar al-Jadeedah.

The bunker.

At the highest floor of the Bunker, only a few strata above the levels used for administration, the Regent of Shalkar had spared no expense in building something close to her heart.

A Greater Cognisance Chamber.

It was in such a place, in a simpler time, that she had been introduced to the wonders of Spellcraft. With her Master’s hand guiding her motes of mana down each conduit etched into the metaphysics sec Astral Body, she had taken her first step into understanding the triptych construct of Arcanistry.

The mind.

The body.

The manifest.

The Sigil.

The Glyph.

The Spell.

Nothing on old Earth had helped her truly understand the mechanics of Spellcraft—and now she knew why. The “IMS” was itself inhuman. Its origins were not the arcane crafts of monks, Deists, Magi or warlocks of human history. Instead, Spellcraft was born from a reimagining of Elven Glyph-works, distilled and disseminated for the mortal mind. Its users did not stand on the shoulders of giants—but on the branches of a World Tree as old as the Prime Material itself.

“What?” Slylth Alexander Morden looked sheepish as Gwen inspected his Astral Projection. How curious it was, she wondered, that the two-century-old egg-turned-dude was the most humanised Dragon she had ever befriended, even more than Ayxin.

“Your… thing is more compact… than I imagined.” Gwen found the right words. “But damn, it’s nice.”

Slylth’s projection wasn’t just the fusion-induced celestial fire of Alesia de Botton. It was far more impressive.

Unlike her glassy sculpture of darkness and light, Slylth’s projection was a vaguely Draconic shadow surrounding a smouldering heart of flames. At its centre, the illusory creation of the Cognisance Chamber pulsed with life, each beat sending forth waves of radiant heat, illustrating a great, infinite furnace with an inexhaustible, self-sustaining fusion reaction.

Gwen wasn’t sure if this was a true representation of the Astral Body of a Dragon, but at last, it represented what Slylth the Red Dragonling envisioned of his interior world. And the heart was, she knew, in a dormant state. If Slylth needed power, the amount of Elemental Fire he could draw from his Dragon Heart, both in purity and volume, wasn’t on a metric any Human Mage could conceive. To a pure-blooded ancient Dragon, the notion of VMI, the maximum “pool” an Astral Body could sustain, was a non-notion.

Gwen seriously considered her other prospects.

What would Sanari’s interior appear as? A tree? A fruit or seed?

What would Ayxin’s Astral projection look like?

Or someone like the Bloom, or holy moly—Tyfanevius?

Once her fancies abated, Gwen looked to Slylth to see what the Dragon thought of the man-made interpreter of astrophysical matter. Coming from Morden’s Tower, his ilk did not possess a high interest in modern Magi-tech, preferring to rely on the refined teachings of Magi Morden, which was more intimately aligned to the Elven original than any other interpretation offered by contemporary Schools of Magic.

In retaliation, the Dragon studied her Astral Projection with equal intensity.

“Where is the Old One’s Essence?” he walked around her in a circle, his attention to detail like a keen tailor disrobing her bit by bit to get the best measurements for an expensive frock. In her new, state-of-the-art chamber, the reflection possessed extreme fidelity, meaning the silhouette was a translucent replica of her unclothed self.

Thinking of her oldest ally, Gwen called into being the energies of the Old One now nestled alongside her physical and Astral self.

Like a swelling noontide, vague “Druidic” motes filled the projection, overwhelming both Elemental Lightning and Void. In China and even in London, Gwen had made her projection glow like irradiated polonium. Now, she could transform herself into liquid fluorescence.

The spectacle was a welcomed surprise.

Was it because she now possessed the Scale of the Rainbow Serpent on her body?

Or was it because of other changes, such as the intangible energies of psychic “Faith”?

Or was it, on a more morbid level, the sheer volume of magicians she had consumed since her crusade against the Undead begun?

According to Cambridge, only the God-kings of antiquity had possessed Faith and Arcanistry in equal measure, but did they also have the patronage of the living land? Mayhap Almudj could know the answer—but like the immutable continent of Terra Australis, her patron remained mute in its unperturbed slumber.

By her will, the emerald glow lost half of its illumination.

Her partner’s eyes were vivid with awed respect.

“Impressive.” The scion of Morden reciprocated by contracting his Astral Projection until it formed a mimicry of her human conduits. Like a golf instructor, his polymorphed figure shadowed her until they were almost parallel. Slowly drawing the incantations of Conjuration in the air, he beckoned her to follow, tracing the faint conduits of mana through her Astral self.

“The true secret to the invocations of Morden’s Blade…” Slylth said as his non-dominant hand traced an invisible line from her belly button to her heart. “Is Evocation mana used in place of Conjuration…”

Richard Huang, self-appointed chairman of the World Tree’s Internal Communications and Security Bureau, or ICSB for short, presided over the reports from his Shadow Mages.

Two weeks after its fated decree, the planning for the historical moment in which Humanity would possess a World Tree was well underway.

Invitations had been sent out to every Tower worthy of consideration, with the expectation that their present partners in trade in the Mageocracy, China, Myăma, and Oceania would all attend. Outside the expectant parties, Japan, Korea, the United States, and Cuzco had replied, stating they would send delegates.

The World Tree’s planting, as expected, would raise Gwen’s reputation to an international level.

Richard felt his cousin’s choice of rejecting subtlety was the correct option, for even now, the Mageocracy heralded her deeds as the capstone of its historically hybridised approach to Terra’s Demi-human denizens. Divide and conquer: the Mageocracy had called it, altering between iron-fisted imperialism, cultural colonisation and subversive diplomacy.

But knowing what he knew now, how much of it was good governance versus the will of the Hvítálfar? After Gwen had disclosed a partial understanding of the relationship between the immemorial continuity of Elven intervention in Human history, Richard had felt that the Mageocracy’s gains since the IMS were akin to an old empire colonising itself.

Whatever the case, that their Mageocracy was “footing the bill” was enough to validate the city’s ambitions—especially after Gwen’s revelation that the Commonwealth’s Mages are welcome to lease a residence in the crown of the immortal tree.

Ergo, it was doubly important that no serious mishaps would occur during the plantation event.

First and foremost—he was under no delusions that he, a mere Magus from Cambridge, could rally the powers necessary to contain dangers capable of threatening the delegates. As one who needed help and possessed no shame, Richard spared no social capital asking for it, which was why he had enlisted many an ally.

For the purpose of military security, he had confirmed with Gunther “Morningstar” that the Tower Master would be in secret attendance. To the public, Sydney would announce that Gwen’s Sister-in-craft, Alesia de Botton, would attend on their mutual city’s behalf. In secret, Gunther would take a day from his endlessly busy schedule to provide his Sister-in-Craft with an unrivalled contingency.

Ruxin, one of their angel investors—would also send Mayuree and her brother, for the Thunder Dragon was deeply invested in his sibling’s welfare—meaning the existence of an abode at the highest level of the soon-to-be-grown Hilton World Tower.

From the Mageocracy—Richard had asked Charlene Ravenport for aid. Their other primary investor had not only promised administrative and security details; she would also request a proxy for the Mageocracy in the form of a flock of ravens whose identity only Gwen truly understood. That and the Factions had their Lords and Ladies in attendance, each being Maguses and Magisters well-versed in conspiracies. As a gesture, Richard had also contacted the Ordo Bath but was declined by Elvia’s polite and well-meaning apology. After all, Dragons and Trees were a sore point for the Cleric, and Gwen needed to focus on Sulfina, not mend matters with someone who would return to her orbit in due course.

As for China, Richard was both sad and glad that Gwen’s Uncle Jun and his wife could not attend nor would her grandparents. As a nation, China loathed the tiniest possibility their power couple may wish to holiday in Shalkar, which suited Richard, as his security details were already as thinly stretched as possible. As for their Babulya and Yeye, the wounds of Percy’s betrayal remained too fresh and shameful for them to take a spotlight in Gwen’s moment of transcendental glory. No matter what he said to dismiss the guilt, their well-wishes would not be in person. Instead, Mina and Tao would be in attendance, with nothing expected of them other than to enjoy the spectacle.

Finally, he had entertained the notion of asking Lei-bup to join them—but even Gwen baulked at the idea of a monstrously tentacled fish-man kowtowing on international Vid-cast, hollering his allegiance to the Priestess of Pale Flesh.

With the guest list filtered thus through a fine sieve, Richard laboured onwards, powered by energy elixirs laced with Almudj’s blessing, hoping the extra hands and beaks promised by Charlene would arrive before his brain encountered the heat-death of overwork.

“Comrades! Fellow Humans!” Fish, the newest member of the Shalkar Socialist Human Party, stood on a soapbox, handing out fliers. “Shalkar is born from the sweat of our brows! We should demand our share!”

For a few weeks now, he and the secretive members of Ivanov’s inner circle had been recruiting the scattered officers of the Federation and fomenting Shalkar’s first Socialist Party.

Their manifesto was simple—Humans who built Shalkar should have an equal share in the city’s prospects.

Of course, the exact implications of what their slogan meant were nonsensical. The Dwarves and their Fabricators were responsible for almost every major infrastructure in the city, while sole Human efforts only applied to the city’s many human comforts.

Thankfully, reality, as a rule, came equipped with a bias for those who saw only the privilege enjoyed by the few. Never mind that a million Rat-kin laboured out of sight down below in the Dwarves’ low-ways or milled about at night expanding the city. It was the few who wore suits, spoke common, and even had the audacity to rise in the military that truly irked the unhappy humans. The same also applied to the Dwarves, who rarely worked with their hands but were always encased in their Golem suits, yelling at the human’s incompetent work ethic and throwing them from Dwarf bars after half a mug of Stone Ale. And the Centaurs! Don’t even get Fish started on the Horse Lords. If one could forget the fillies that brought the men lunches or the bronze-skinned Adonises pulling stone blocks larger than themselves, it was easy to point to the brutality of the Centaur Guards who performed acts of unmitigated violence on Humans who dared to resist unjust law enforcement.

To avoid suspicion, his recruitment wasn’t overzealous.

“Equal pay! Better pay! We deserve it!” Fish called out in his thickly accented tongue. He could see the Rat-men in their uniforms watching from afar—and he knew they would do nothing. The Regent allowed many liberties in the city, and the free formation of associations and groups was one of the core tenets of the freedoms Shalkar’s Demi-humans enjoyed.

Already, there were Dwarven Malt advocates.

Dwarf Brew Lover’s Associations.

Golem Fancier’s Clubs.

Ale Appreciation groups.

The Rat-kin Unions are selling statues of a pagan God called the Pale Goddess.

Why should a bloke looking out for his fellow kind be any more suspicious?

Theirs would be a long labour, for as Moscow would say, Stalingrad was not built in a day.

Like the slow boiling of a toad in a witch’s pot, they first needed to construct the will and the way, a conduit to channel the natural grievances of men and women undeserving of Shalkar’s prosperity. In a city of riches, unrest was easy, for no matter how fair the Regent of Shalkar may seem on the surface, the pyramidal structure of Human society always meant the vast majority of its citizens could only gawk at the idle pleasures of the higher stratum.

Very soon, men happy to be safe and fed a month ago would feel jilted by ordinary happiness. And in time, thanks to Ivanov’s efforts, the Federation refugees of the city would look at the Demi-humans who came before them and tell themselves that they were better than these Rat-kins and Horse Lords, that they were equal if not more deserving than the Dwarves. This inevitability was a constant of the Human condition—the driving force that made Humanity reach for the Elemental Planes, the difference that made them challenge the Demi-humans in their rigid, paralytic societies.

First, he and the other Moscow Sparrows would establish the Human Union, with Federation citizens near the core and others at the periphery. The Union would fight for better rights, more resources, and better positions in the city for its members—the very picture of benign socialism.

And once the sons of the Federation made their stake in Shalkar… Fish coughed to clear his throat. His rank wasn’t high enough to know the next step.

“Humanity first!” His voice bellowed across the evening crowd going home to their habitat blocks, a few of which stopped to listen. “First dibs on the new positions for the World Tree’s staff! Join the Union! Together, we shall petition the Regent!”

Lulan Li, the Pale Priestess’ chief chastiser of sinners, watched the herringbone rows of cacti barriers crawl across the lowlands.

As anticipated, the newly labelled Ural Black Zone had digested the city’s survivors. And as expected, the new Necropolis was now in the process of sending long and unwelcome tendrils into the neighbouring landscape.

A week ago, when Lulan had first crashed into the fray, the locale was a kicked ant nest. Zombified corpses, the lowest tier of Undead, meandered in tendrils of linked flesh across the rolling lowlands of the southern Urals. From her vantage, they had seemed like fungi, with pools of Undead collecting into sickening pustules of Necrotic energy until, like the coiled guts of an undersea slug, the death spirals erupted, searching further afield for the smallest evidence of the living.

To her Mistress, the Undead teaser had been a long time coming. Shalkar’s response was measured containment and region-based Purges. Having fought the far denser hordes in the Auckland Campaign, the vast spaces of Aktobe’s rockscape were a natural defensive formation against the reaches of the Undead horde.

Via the Low-way dug by the Dwarves to transport refugees, the Iron Guards sallied forth from fortified operating posts to lay waste to the encroaching tide of Yekaterinburg’s erstwhile citizens with steel and fire, tapping into the rich Elemental deposits beneath their metal-clad stompers. The Rat-kin followed, a special troop fortified by the Pale Priestess’ Essence, setting the still-moving bodies ablaze with Magma Spellswords so that the pallid sky turned dark with black streaks of burning.

And once Lulan was sure the first wave was utterly erased from existence, a representative from Sanari’s Druid Enclave stepped through a Trellis Portal and coaxed into existence vast kilometres of spindly, desert-defying succulents native to the region. These ensnaring cacti, typically used by Shrike Raptors to make lizard kabobs, soon stretched from Aktobe to Astana. Though weak against the Necrotic aura of the Undead, their sheer volume nonetheless created impassable barriers that interlinked one Dwarven fort to another, forming semi-circle corridors against future incursions.

Shalkar al-Jadeedah was, therefore, a hard candy for their voracious neighbours. Even though the northern Necromancers knew that a morsel had made its home south, it didn’t change the fact that their military might rest in the terrestrial nature of their marching millions. The reason was simple—just as Humanity could never attain mastery of the vast open spaces of the air, no Master of Undeath could negotiate the same privilege.

Her main concern, therefore, remained the festival of the World Tree.

Would such a beacon of life draw the Undead from the festering hell hole that once stood as the Russian eastern industrial centre?

Or would Sulfina’s tree repel such interests, making their new home an antithesis to the Undead?

Of that, Lulan possessed no answers. She knew only her duty—to protect her Mistress’ city from enemies outside… and within.

Shalkar.

The ISTC.

Mycroft Ravenport, distant cousin to the Crown and Marshall of her Majesty’s Mage-at-Arms, translocated across time and space to arrive at a colony as alien as it was exotic.

Above his grey hair sat the interior of a great trunk shaped by the arboreal arts of Tryfan so that every age ring was visible against the smooth, honey-glazed surface. Around him were guests from the Mageocracy, blissful and happy under the nourishing aura of the Elven tree. He recognised many in the clamouring, well-dressed crowd, though most were too irrelevant to tax his memory.

“Milord, we are ready to proceed,” his guards announced after scanning the station and its guests.

“Caw!” The raven on Mycroft’s shoulder crooned, its eyes glimmering with curiosity.

The Duke of Norfolk stepped from the dais, acknowledged by every face in the room that belonged to a Human. In their made-for-occasion liveries, the Rat-kins also seemed to understand who he was—but their acknowledgement did not nearly reach the stratum of fear and paranoia attributed to the Humans raising their crystalline flutes of Elven nectar.

“Father!” a voice dear to his heart caught his attention. Charlene Ravenport, sporting a shoulder-length bob resembling his late wife’s younger self, endeared herself to his arm. “Come, Gwen has built a spectacle to rival the Isle of Dogs, and that’s with the World Tree yet to come.”

She passed him a flute.

Without fear of poison, the Duke sipped on the bubbly beverage, noting its distinct floral notes.

As they passed the crowd, Mycroft gave respect to those whose stations were similar to his own. There was Lady Grey, Gwen’s chief lender and original mentor. Lady Astor, who had grown far richer thanks to the girl, and joining them was the youthful face of Thomas Benedict Holland, a new convert to what Mycroft supposed, was the broad Church of Gwen’s sashaying skirt-hem.

Following Charlene, the honeyed ambience of the ISTC shifted to that of a cool, leafy alfresco plaza.

The Duke’s field of view widened. His nostrils filled with the overpowering scent of blooming canola flowers, manifesting as waving sunbursts in a marigold sea dancing under an aquamarine sky, stretching as far as his mana-trained eyes could carry, ending against the walls of a golden city atop a low-rising hill.

“Caw!!!” The raven on his shoulder took flight. Mycroft had half a mind to call it back, but the creature was gone like a star shot before he could raise his voice.

“Mori is keen to see her new home,” Charlene remarked, not surprised at the turn of events. “Don’t be upset, Father. It’s her first time outside the Kingdom since she took on her residence under Westminster.”

The leasing of his ravens was beyond Ravenport’s predictions. That a request would be made and that Tryfan would support such a demand was a puzzle his office dared not unravel. After all, the supplication of the Morrigan’s divine energies was a design of the Hvítálfar. For such a small loss in capacity, the Office of Foreign Affairs deemed it unwise to offend the delicate goodwill of The Accord. Besides, so long as the Morrigan remained in her Mandala prison, what her multifaceted eyes saw in Shalkar was effectively what would be added to the ministry’s archives. For this reason, Mycroft chose not to contest Morrigan's exclusivity—though he certainly wasn’t pleased by the “lend-lease” added to his House’s half-millennia contract.

Mycroft assured his daughter he was not upset.

A brisk distance away, sunken into the ground and hidden by the fields of gold, was the Brutalist entrance to the city’s internal transit system, the Low-ways. For their particular occasion, enormous banners had been erected to welcome the guests, and the city’s usual traffic was diverted elsewhere so that the esteemed guests could take in the full scale of the Dwarven “subway”.

Through the threshold of the three-storey tall entrance, guests were greeted by two enormous Golems nestled into the alcoves on either side. These were the Shield Golems of the Dyar Morkk, armed not with weapons but manipulators from the Fabricators. From what Mycroft knew, their sole job was to seal the Dyar Morkk in case of a Beast Tide from the Murk, expending all their mana reserves to create impenetrable walls that would entomb the foe. In London’s excavation of the Low-ways, the most evident indicator that a lost Citadel was near were the “carcasses” of Shield Golems and their pilots, wielded shut into self-made coffins, a final harrumph of the Dwarven spirit before their ancient network collapsed.

The station itself was more utilitarian than grand. Gargantuan cargo platforms, polished to a spotless shine and decorated with seating for the occasion, beckoned for the guests to embark.

“Come, Father.” Charlene looked to be an old hand at the experience of travelling to the city, even though she had arrived a week ago. “Here, we shall witness genuine Dwarven Magi-tech, far more advanced than what we managed to lease under the Isle of Dogs.”

The Duke and his entourage secured a corner, with the other guests politely putting themselves at least a few rows away. They were the latter batches of arrivals, but the open-aired transport remained inoffensive and spacious.

With a slight lurch, the barge-like platform began to traverse the Dyar Morkk.

Above them, Ravenport recognised the dull glow of Dwarven Glyphs, many of which had made similar appearances in the latest Magi-tech from London’s local Low-ways. The barge seemed to assume an illusory velocity as it moved, for Ravenport could see the Glyphs shuttle past leisurely. Yet, his experience in spatial magic informed him that they really were travelling at break-neck velocities, making him slightly queasy.

Charlene’s grey-steel eyes refracted the streaking lights from the Glyph. He could imagine what she was thinking—that this Magi-tech could be applied to their homes and cities, connecting Humanity in ways previously thought impossible.

With Gwen, that impossibility was no longer a fantasy—the only question that remained was what it would cost the Mageocracy to help the Dwarves relocate Deepholm and, once they found it, what they would uncover. From the Morrigan’s reports from the latest expeditions, Ravenport expected a fifty per cent chance of finding a tomb world, and the other half seemed to suggest a thriving hive of Sinneslukare welcoming the return of long-lost kin.

Ding! Ding! A cargo chime announced their arrival.

The main station in the Dwarven Sector of the twin-city was a daunting, multi-storey interior built with the purpose of supporting Golem to monster combat, housing a multi-level system of tunnels that lead to other points of interest. Mycroft had visited Dwarven Citadels before, and even by those scales, this was an enormous investment by the Bavarian branch of the stout folk.

Off the platform, the concierge assigned to the VIP parties met their guests.

“Milord Ravenport!” a row of Mages bowed from the waist, their voices in adequate unison. “Welcome to Shalkar al-Jadeedah!”

The leader was a young man Ravenport recognised, a certain Oliver Edwards from his old college.

“Magister, let’s not dwell on formalities,” he offered to skip the rituals associated with a peerage of his rare rank, as mistakes would only embarrass both parties. “How are the preparations? How early are we?”

“The Regent will officiate the planting of the World Tree at high noon, Milord.” Oliver was clearly relieved he didn’t have to resort to the archaic ritualisms taught by a supplementary class at Cambridge. “Shall I show you to your seats? Or would you like to take an escort and see the city? If you wish to utilise your time fully, we can arrange intra-city teleportation for yourself and the young lady.”

“I would like to see the city myself.” Ravenport knew his interest was peaked. With Charlene for company, there was no point hiding his curiosity for the sake of mystique. “Arrange the Teleporting Circles. Tell your Regent that when the time is right, she can be assured that the House of Norfolk will be in the right place.”

Shalkar.

The stage.

Boom—Boom—Boom— pumped the beat.

“Yo! Yo! Yo! It’s the century of mah CUZ and its time time to act!

Raise your motherfucking hands and make a pact!

Find an accord with da city—we’re planting a wurrrrrld tree!

Don’t matter yo species, make space for you and me!”

The voice of the one and only King of Fruits, AKA Peaches, reverberated within the halls of the stadium-sized cavern, leaping to and fro like Death Worm on wet sand.

Gwen was in no mind to allow Tao to live his dream of performing in front of an international audience—but in front of herself, the staff and other trusted, understanding individuals, she didn’t mind his well-meaning “soundcheck”.

“Reverb be perfect.” Her cousin leapt off the stage, his grin drawn from ear to ear. “These Dwarven dawgs know their sound engineering yo!”

“You know.” Eric Walken, her Isle of Dogs executive here to help with the arrangements, solemnly observed the hip-hopping Tao. “Of the many things we experienced in Shanghai, I do not miss this.”

“It’s catchy,” Gwen defended her cousin.

“It’ll cause a riot in the balcony sections.” Eric humoured her. “Speaking of which, your cousin’s mental fortitude is astounding. Even I felt intimidated when I first saw what you aim to achieve—in fact, I share that sentiment even now. For him to be so carefree as to be composing songs… I mean, you’re taking a step that would alter this history of Demi-human and Human relationships. Does he not understand the weight of all this?”

“Those with rare talents live in worlds we cannot comprehend,” Gwen acknowledged Peaches’ mental fortitude. She watched as he sang to the thousands of Rat-kin in the process of cleaning up, wrapping up, and finishing the final flourishes, completely at ease among the Demi-humans.

Walken regarded her blankly.

She returned his criticism with a confident smile.

“And our Regent going to take that to the States with her?” He changed the topic.

“I promised.” Gwen laughed. “I think it’ll be disarming when we meet our hosts from Stanford and Harvard.”

“No doubt…” Walken seemed to shiver. “When will… Master Shultz be joining us.”

“He’s having fun with Alesia in the market districts,” Gwen said. “It’s rare, you know, for someone like him to take a breather.”

“Then I shall keep my distance,” the Magister said nervously. “I know we’ve made our peace, but I feel…”

Gwen nodded and gave her Magister a pat on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Eric, I get it.”

Ding! A Message spell bloomed from Lulan. “Regent, is the stadium ready to receive guests?”

Gwen signalled the Rat-kin Foremen. Her men signalled back, indicating that they were done with the preparations.

“We’re ready, but let us do one more round of due diligence,” Gwen declared to her Head of Security. “Run a full check with Axehoff and Sanari. Once they give the okay, inform the Khan that we’re ready to receive him and tell Strun that he and the Elders of the Clan are ready to take their places.”

“Acknowledged.” The Glyph grew silent.

To calm her nerves, Gwen turned her attention toward the ecstatic Tao. Against her side, the seed pod containing Almudj’s Scale pulsed with anticipation.

Was she ready for this next chapter?

Was she prepared for this leap of faith?

Undoubtedly, Gwen told herself. She was ready to roll.