Metaworld Chronicles

Whabpuz Gyli.

In the once-great palace of the once-alive Elemental Prince Nin-Pak, Gwen Song, the Pale Priestess, Regent of Shalkar, Handler of Worms and the Great Devourer of one City, sat on her recently acquired throne, levelling her will against Sarkonnian, daughter of the Great Manta.

With the palace's surviving guards retreated into the shadows, the room was split two-thirds between Sarkonnian forces and one-third the Priestess’ staunch defenders. Unfortunately for Sarkonnian, the Mage’s intimidation factor was supplemented by the literal, looming shadow of the monstrous catfish from the Neither Planes, reminding every living being in the room that they were all just food.

“Sister Sarkonnian?” The Pale Priestess’ voice spoke in the tongue of those who lived on the land, though by the magic of her erstwhile Master, all understood the meaning behind the human female’s utterances. “Are we in agreement?”

The Daughter of the Great Manta studied her counterpart, the churning thoughts of her head visible across the shimmering patterns of tremors deforming her impressive, bejewelled frill.

Nin-Pak, her direct rival of almost twenty Vel-cycles, now rested in pieces.

It was a spectacle that should have filled her two hearts with gladness.

Yet…Sarkonnian felt only a sense of emptiness and disquiet. Was it sentimentality? Sarkonnian loathed the possession of such a weakness, for Nin-Pak was neither a sibling nor a compatriot from the First Vel. The Clan of Nin were slaves in their Kingdom, with the best of them serving as Sea Witches and Warlocks attached to the nobler Mer. If so, why should she feel sad for the passing of a Mer of no particular bloodline?

Or was it… Her body shuddered at the thought. Was it the fear of extinction?

For a creature as noble as herself, whose lifespan was measured in aeons, the notion of being suddenly extinguished at the prime of her rulership was…

Sarkonnian halted the thought—for the alternative was unthinkable.

“Our agreement holds,” The Princess of the First Vel spoke, though her voice emerged sharper than expected. Even though they were in the palace, the feeder-scavengers used by the Mer to keep the water free from scum were ever-present, and already, they were feeding on the remains of Nin-Pak. “As the victor of our agreement, you may demand your share.”

Sarkonnian did not anticipate that the human girl knew of the Mer’s accords—though undoubtedly, her minions would inform their mistress of her rights.

“Good, then I desire Whabpuz Gyli,” came the promised reply.

Sarkonnian felt a small quake ripple over her body.

The audacity! She ought to demand her Champion tear the human female by her lower appendages in half!

The currents in the room visibly changed.

The hulking Crab-men brought by the Pale Priestess raised their clawed implements—many of which had the addition of dark tentacles that resembled those used by the catfish.

It’s not that I don’t wish to subjugate the human… Sarkonnian told herself. But she had no idea what would happen if she tried.

After all, she had gotten a clear head start on the hunt for Nin-Pak. Her forces had broken through the defensive line of their old foe with the ease of a Kraken through a pod of dolphins and had cleared layer after layer of Zityupdul’s carapace. They had penetrated into Nin-Pak’s palace, a place Sarkonnian had never dipped fins in—

Only to find the Pale Priestess and her ilk holding a dangerous-looking implement at Nin-pak’s neck. And then, when Nin-Pak had surrendered to her, the only being worthy of his servitude, the female had skewered her rival like a sponge kabob the Mer of the lower quadrants ate for sustenance.

The moment when her rival’s body split…

“Princess—?” The human female's voice drifted across the space created by their mutual army of creatures.

Sarkonnian realised too late that she had yet to respond to the Pale Priestess whose hideous lower appendages were entwined like two stalks of dead coral.

“… You would demand the Ancient?” Sarkonnian raised her voice to hide her embarrassment.

“Indeed,” the Pale Priestess replied. “Whatever your feelings, I am taking Whabpuz Gyli. What we’re deciding is if we can remain friends… So, as a friend, does Princess Sarkonnian object?”

Of course, she objected! Sarkonnian wanted to retort—but again, something pressed against her hearts, and she found herself nodding instead.

“Then the First Vel will assume control of Bright Reef,” Sarkonnian controlled herself with the knowledge that while the remains of an ancient Leviathan were precious, there was merit in controlling the Vel and the city that housed its billions of adherents. In the coming Vel-cycles, if she were to elevate the useless souls of Bright Reef into her Shoal, they should be able to return with a far larger force to Whabpuz Gyli and force the Human female to release her claim.

As her decision settled, so did Sarkonnian’s nerves.

Once more, she assumed her regal self. “Is that fair to you, Priestess?”

“Fair,” the Priestess replied from her throne. “And what of this Leviathan?”

Sarkonnian felt a snicker coming on. “Nin-Pak may be dead, Priestess, but Zityupdul is not. It will return to the Fifth Vel’s kingdom of origin, in the Emerald Expanses of Igih Nin-Iyizm. You can attempt to stop it if it is your will.”

From behind the Pale Priestess, her twin Sea Witches whispered beside her fleshy facial fins. If the Human desired the Leviathan, those upstarts from Igih Nin-Iyizm would hunt her down to the end of her days, even if it meant moving their home vessels.

“I see. For my second pick, I shall offer shelter to the survivors of Nin-Pak’s Shoal,” she spoke so that all in the palace’s shattered chamber could hear. “They are free to join the Great Shoal Forward if they wish to find purpose and place.”

Sarkonnian took a deep breath. “Then I, too, shall offer my Shoal to the schools of Mer that make up Nin-Pak’s peoples! Join me, the Daughter of the Great Manta, and I shall elevate you into the middle and upper spires of Qiuh-bwuzi’s boundless body!”

Unlike the offer made by the Pale Priestess, hers caused a visible ripple in the throne room.

Most survivors, some of whom had bloodlines Sarkonnian perceived as useful, shifted away from the black catfish toward herself and her shimmering, armoured troops.

“Ha…” Sarkonnian felt her back straighten. “What do you say to that, friend?”

The Pale Priestess stood.

Sarkonnian felt her throat reflexively swallow.

“I say that we take the willing and vacate the Leviathan,” the Human female announced to the palace and its crowd. “Are we finished, dear Sarko?”

Sarkonnian felt her gills relax. “We shall part as companions then. The First Vel will remember your generosity this day, Gwen.”

“And I shall remember your kindness, always,” the female replied, then moved to direct her troops.

Sarkonnian turned her eyes away from her adversary and back toward her men. “Gather our new allies, Lord Izsha,” she commanded her second. “Let us return in triumph to Bright Reef and finally take possession of what is rightfully ours!”

It took Gwen almost six hours to re-navigate through Zityupdul’s normal exit route, looting as she went.

While Nin-Pak was a regional enterprise poorer than the Vanderbilt fortune inherited by Sarkonnian, she saw no particular reason to leave behind precious materials to be returned to this Igih Nin-Iyizm.

Precious jewels, pearls and various Cores were among the most self-evident of her new hoard. Beyond that, some of her more worldly followers also discovered industrial caches of mithril, orichalcum, and even raw nuggets of adamantine, which the Clan of Nin had kept for trade.

And as Humanity possessed no mines this deep underwater.

And as the Dwarves avoided the watery realms of the Murk like the fungal plague.

It stands to reason that operations akin to Whabpuz Gyli was not the end of Whabpuz Gyli. After all, labour was cheap and plentiful in the sea, lives were worthless, and the materials extracted could be exchanged for all kinds of goods and services made by land-bound Mages.

But to who?

Gwen had a few villains in mind, the chief of which was an arm of Grey Market traders with links to Spectre, while the other was their ghastly friends from the Cult of Juche.

Such was the train of Gwen’s thoughts as her cavalcade of roving crabs pushed past the citizens of Nin-Pak’s ownerless kingdom.

No doubt, some of its denizens may wish to join her Shoal.

A good number may defect to Sarkonnian.

And those who remained could enjoy the long voyage home and murder each other until a new Captain emerged to pilot the Leviathan back into the Emerald Expanse.

When they were finally met by the blooded bodies of her vanguards, who had cleared a passage tunnel back to Aristotle, Gwen counted her fishes and realised that a little more than two-thirds remained.

In the metrics of Mermen warfare, this was an astounding victory. However, that her magic could not provide for all—and that thousands still perished in the chaos of the grand melee—made her victory hollower than she had hoped.

A single death is a tragedy, a million deaths a statistic. Yet, the numbness of her realisation that she felt no turbulent waves of torment nor suffered the burden of conscience made her a little self-conscious.

Addressing the survivors and dispensing globes of Golden Mead, it took another rotation of the numeric crown on her Message Device before Gwen finally set foot onto the purring shell of her living cityscape.

The miasma of the “Defilers” was now erased from the body of the Ancient, and the three Leviathans were each content in their own way.

And speaking of Leviathans… Gwen welcomed the distraction with wholehearted glee.

THE CORE of her new TOWER!

By the Bloom in White’s dainty little toes!

Once her forces made their way down into the Core Chamber of the Ancient, they could cleanse the Core of its rituals and invest in her endeavours in Shalkar. And unlike its previous possessors, so long as she wreathed the Core in the nourishing, natural energies of the World Tree, the Mer would perceive nothing but worship and awe.

Of course, the extraction would be a labour-intensive ordeal.

Then, transportation to the surface and then again to Shalkar would be another ordeal.

But the potential outcome was enough to make her break out and sing, transforming herself into a Pale Princess in a Disney musical.

If Gunther had the Core of an adult Leviathan built into his Tower—What could she do with the Core of an Ancient, albeit second-hand?

With the superstructure of her World Tree stationed upon a node of the Axis Mundi…

And with an Ancient’s Core’s unfathomable capacity to store mana…

Would her Tower be capable of Teleporting itself into an Elemental Plane? Could its shielding even be exhausted by mundane means?

What would the Mageocracy say of her new Tower?

AND Oh—Gwen reminded herself. If Lei-bup’s intelligence held true, there were also smaller Cores in the Leviathan’s two-dozen fins and a final whopper in the rear, where the gut flora filtered the sea and made food for the billions.

But she was getting ahead of herself. In no world would the Mageocracy sign off on creating a flying Armada in Shalkar.

Upon the “deck,” her triumphant entourage was welcomed by the tens of thousands of citizens assembled to repel the attacks from Nin-Pak’s forces.

“ALL HAIL THE PALE PRIESTESS!” The voice of Lei-bup rippled across the depth of the murky sea. “ALL HAIL THE DEVOURER OF NIN-PAK, ”

Very quickly, the guilt of her dead Mer and the joy of her new Cores was drowned by the rip-roaring surf noise of her worshippers. There was a clear misunderstanding of events on Zityupdul, but Gwen was in no position to refute the claim, for the entire assembly erupted in a long, lush prayer.

“Weee—Weeee—“

“Gweee—Gweeee— Gweeee—“

“GWEEE—GWEEEN— GWEEENGH— GWEEENGH—“

Aristotle’s purring intensified, and a maroon miasma of vitality spread among her people, illuminated by the glowing brands that marked her Glyphs of Essence-sympathy.

As before, the sheer Faith of her people seemed to penetrate the meniscus of reality, and against the lobes of her brain, she felt the intrusive presence of the Shoggoth, drawn by the communal imagining of its descent.

Forcibly, drawing up the tethers of the Axis Mundi provided by Almudj, she suppressed the presence of the ten thousand tentacles caressing the tender skin of her consciousness, eventually bringing to a close the fervour of her sycophants.

When she finally moved past the adoring crowds and into the quiet of Aristotle’s body, Gwen felt a tier of tiredness that put the confrontation with Nin-Pak to shame.

There was a danger here. She acknowledged. She had been too neglectful of her presence among the Mer-people. To give them a visible object of worship was akin to providing them with what Elvia would dub a “Relic”. And without a means to channel and soothe the psychic desires of so many sapient beings, she felt a little paranoid that one day, Shoggy might just pop in for a Sunday brunch like a drunk uncle.

Back in Aristotle’s throne room, she could finally and proverbially breathe.

“You have done very well, Mistress,” Lei-bup was on all dozen tentacles as he prostrated. “We could not have achieved a greater outcome, especially with Sarkonnian's withdrawal.”

“Do you think she’ll be trouble?” Gwen asked because she genuinely wasn’t sure. In the heat of the moment, all she knew was that another all-out battle would mean coming home with far less Mer than she’d left.

“She will, though not until her forces are reintegrated and the middle echelons are refilled with factions she can control and bully,” Lei-bup swam up from the floor. “The city will change hands, and that alone will take a few Vel-cycles to bring under control. Those in the ruling spires are still Nin-Pak’s loyalists and would not take to the First Vel’s rule kindly or without recompense.”

“What about us?” Gwen rested against the hard coral, glad her dress was soft and cushioning. “How would we fare once we re-establish the algae and kelp farms?”

“There is an abundance of untapped resources here,” Lei-bup confidently confessed. “We haven’t even accessed the flora in the Ancient’s old digestive systems. I am sure there is an entire…” Her High Priest made a sound that even her Translation Stone struggled to divine. “…e-colon-gy? Yes. it’s an entire world waiting to be uncovered, together with the potential dangers.”

Dangers in the deep were a fact of life. Gwen nodded to convey her understanding. “Lei-bup, there’s something else you need to do. If things are settled here, and we have uncovered and thwarted the work of Spectre, then I must return to the surface to warn my kin.”

Lei-bup bowed, as did all of her generals and advisors who had followed her for the better half of a year. They all knew that her presence would not be permanent—though she could see from their body language that their dearest wish was that it was. Her pretty twins, especially, seemed distraught.

“We loath to see you go, Mistress, but know that this is your Queendom,” Lei-bup used the same phrase the Seven Kingdoms utilised to ascribe to their Matriarchs, a title that inspired goosebumps to travel the length of her arm.

Her High Priest turned to her council of followers. “Do not fret, fellow comrades of the Great Shoal. Our Pale Priestess is immortal. Though we may part for some time, what is that in the face of eternity?”

Gwen hardly felt immortal—though she was connected to a World Tree and, therefore, the Axis Mundi, which presented the perspective that she certainly needed not to worry about the trivialities of ageing. She could be killed, certainly, murdered by the many means available to her foes, but the cause of her ultimate end would not be time.

One by one, her generals, advisors and acolytes gave their murmuring consent, each offering their bodies to eternal service under her watchful eye.

“Thank you, Lei-bup,” she informed her fishy followers with a smile of benevolence. “I am not leaving immediately, of course. We will observe how Sarkonnian functions over the next few tides of the Vel, and I shall guide the Shoal in recovering the Ancient’s many hearts. For now, however, we need to break the surface for a moment—for I must relay a Message. A very important Message.”

“As you wish.” Her followers lowered their heads. The twins openly wept.

With her moves mapped out, Gwen arched her neck to look toward the ceiling. Beyond Aristotle's many layers lay the unfathomable depth of the Elemental Plane of Water and, above that, the shallow dimensions of the Yellow Sea.

For how long was I gone? She pondered the accuracy of her Divination Device. Hopefully, the Planes did not distort time nearly as absurdly as the fable of Urashima Tarō.

Qiuh-bwuzi.

The Palace of Pearls.

Sarkonnian, daughter of the Great Manta, stared at a reef city that, after the absence of its masters, was no longer so bright.

“Kar-Nym,” she spoke to her navigator, simultaneously sending an alarmed ‘Qiuh-shallha?’ to her Leviathan. “Are we in the right place? Is this the Fifth Vel?”

Kar-Nym, a Sea Witch of almost two hundred Vel-cycles, also stared at the projection of the city will into being by her water magic. “I am certain… your highness.”

Sarkonnian was witnessing not the brilliant luminance of Bright Reef but the aftermath of a cataclysm that had inexplicably stricken the city of a billion Mer.

Before they left, the city’s soaring spires housed the Clan of Nin, and its upper echelons were rich with crystalline architecture wrought with living coral sung into being by the Sea Witches.

Now, not a single spire existed beyond the middle layers, and the controlled chaos of the reef city that made it so vibrant was reduced to an ocean of ultra-violent carnage.

Of particular alarm was the severed half of a collapsed spire, the branching design Sarkonnian recognised as the residence of the city’s former Warlock Lord. It lay on its side as their Leviathan drifted closer, and from the hundreds of arms of cobalt emerald that made up its intricate exterior, the Manta Princess saw tens of thousands of Mer—noble Mer—impaled and skewered.

“That’s… Nin-Gyn’s Clan’s matriarch,” her navigator managed to draw her vision close enough to recognise some of the embroidered, bejewelled clothing still remaining on the carcass. Without a doubt, a large group of Mer had taken to feast on the enormous cephalopods’ limbs, leaving only a pale stump to be displayed as a trophy.

“By the Deep Mother, that’s…” The others in the throne room recognised more of their compatriots, companions to many dinner parties and jovial conversations where they feasted upon the caviar of the lesser fishes.

They were all there. Sarkonnian felt her flesh frills shrink. Almost all the noble houses were impaled on the spires… and eaten to certain degrees. If she squinted, she could see the scavengers nibbling on the stumps, lapping up the rare blood of a high-born Mer like so much scrap from the flesh yards.

“Princess,” another of her navigators, a junior Witch, turned to her with glimmering eyes rich with horror. “I think… I think some of the matriarchs are still alive.”

“MISTRESS—!” Her War Master, a retired champion of her Father’s endless hosts, drew their attention to a sudden stir of activity from deeper in the murky city. “We must retreat—enemy forces are gathering below us!”

Sarkonnian relayed her thoughts instantly—as usual, there was nothing instant or immediate regarding her Leviathan’s reactionary manoeuvres.

From the murk, the head of a Great Shoal emerged, the body of which was without number.

“Are those…” the War Master relayed his alarm even as he ordered the Wave Riders to scramble from their roosts. “A Great Shoal of slaves and miscreants?”

Sarkonnian’s hairless brows furrowed as she tried to understand what her general was attempting to relay. She recognised the unclad bodies of those rising from the deep as the wretched creatures that lived in the dark spaces of Bright Reef, but never in her life had she seen so many of them in one place.

Were there even that many to begin with? Her mind struggled to comprehend the throng of Mer that stretched from one extreme of the city to the other. She had never seen more than a thousand in one place, and most importantly, she had never seen them perform any act other than terrified prostration.

Only now, the teaming masses were no longer on their fins with their heads lowered into their chest. On the projected watery screens of her palace, she saw more Mer than she had seen in the entirety of her Vel-cycles overseeing Bright Reef.

“READY THE DEFENCES!” Her War Master was screaming at his assistant Witches. “SEND OUT ALL AUXILIARIES! KEEP THEM FROM THE LEVIATHAN!”

A sea within a sea of roving, angry bodies streamed from the city’s muddled depth toward her floating fortress.

Peasants, some wielding the implements of their former masters.

Slaves, unchained from their coral cages, their bodies fuming with rage.

Strange priests in uniforms of olive-coloured kelp hollering alien slogans as they drove the Shoal before them.

Ponderously, slowly, with the pace of a glacier, her Qiuh-bwuzi turned, unwary and unalarmed by the approaching tide of mouths chomping at the water for the flesh of the nobler Mer.

Would her city hold out? Sarkonnian felt strangely calm as the first tendril of Mer made contact with her forces.

She slunk back into the deep recesses of her divan, feeling suddenly tired beyond belief.

“HOLD THE ENTRANCES!” Her War Master’s voice gave her a splitting headache as he swam to and fro, shedding scales as he went. “ALLOW QIUH TO ESCAPE AT ALL COSTS!”

London.

Westminister.

While deep in another dimension of space and time, a Shoal of fish sought to hold against the inevitable tide of a people’s revolution, Mycroft Ravenport, the Duke of Norfolk and the Lord Marshall of Her Majesty’s Mage-at-Arms, was holding the fort against a foe no less malicious.

In the imperial confines of the private office of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, he was given the unhappy task of entertaining a pack of wolves from The Federation of Russia.

Chief among the men who took up the interior of the ministry’s primary place of negotiations was a blue-eyed Magister from the ruling House of Popov and the Master of Moscow Tower, the esteemed Vasili Popov.

Sitting beside the Tower Master and in order of rank were the top Magisters of the Federation: Oleg Zinichev, Mikhail Barsukov, and his twin brother Viktor Barsukov. Standing behind them was their final member, a Mind Mage ‘aide’ with the moniker of Natalia, a blooming flower with the mind of a pit viper.

Ravenport sat alone, though the enormous raven perched atop his high gothic chair informed his opponents that the Duke was anything but unaccompanied.

Line by line, his eyes scanned over the printed proposal made by the Russian Federation, feeling the vexation in his chest being stoked by each increasingly audacious proposal.

The Russians were here because they had lost the Trans-Siberian route into their largest and richest Frontier. They were also here because they hoped to recover Yekaterinburg and the Ural Frontier. To achieve those goals, they desired the return of the Yekaterinburg Tower. And by that same demand, the return of an insignificant oasis that once belonged, some hundred years ago, to an Empire their own government dismembered and discarded to the wind.

The name of that insignificant territory was Shalkar, and the reason for their uninvited presence was self-evident.

The ‘girl’ has now been absent for just over a year. The unassailable possessor of the World Tree, the Regent of the Commonwealth Protectorate of Shalkar, had not been seen for three hundred and eighty-nine days.

Rumours unrooted in reality had been sprouting since the first month of her truancy, and now, it was a daily discussion in the streets of London where the METRO, the Sun and the Telegraph jostled for space inside the imagination of the city’s men and women.

“THE PRIESTESS HAS PERISHED!” The naysayers had celebrated with sickening banners of red-lettered titles. “THE VOID WITCH IS DEAD!”

For months, those who had failed to profit from the IoDNC had sprouted from the Murk like Goblins from an uncovered seam, hollering for the withdrawal of the Commonwealth’s military from the Black Zone known as Shalkar.

Naturally, their desire fell on deaf ears; the empire’s highest minds all understood the significance of the World Tree the girl had planted and the centrality of that arboreal spectacle in Britannia’s alliance with its immortal neighbours.

Nonetheless, the fervour had gained a foothold via the amplification of nebulous misinformation, hyperbolic fake news and finally, the treasonous act of inviting Siberian wolves onto the rich loam of Albion’s shores.

Of course, Ravenport was confident the girl was not dead.

And with less confidence, he hoped the girl wasn't tearing into the fabric of reality.

The Foreign Affairs Ministry had opened its secret branch atop the pinnacle of the World Tree at Shalkar, and their neighbouring Dragons had shown no alarm for the absence of the female. Likewise, the tree’s growth had persisted unabated, growing to such a height that it was now clearly visible on the horizon. Shalkar itself had likewise been terraformed by the stabilising presence of World Tree, shrinking the Fire Sea’s portal by some eighty-five per cent and turning a hundred kilometres of arid land around the city into verdant fields of grassland abundant with wildflowers.

Indeed, the newest jewel in Her Majesty’s crown had been burned and tarnished—only now, in the absence of its Regent, it grew richer and brighter than anyone could have imagined—allowing greed to supersede fear.

Mycroft’s only solace was that the girl had left a legacy even he found impressive.

Of the Shard’s Factions, he headed the Grey Faction and could suppress the members of his party chomping at the bits to take a greater share of Shalkar for themselves.

Of the Middle Faction, Lady Grey, Astor, and the ever-looming threat of Gunther Shultz paying its loudest members a personal visit kept even its most agitated delinquents silent.

And of the Militants, the Hollands had made it clear that any enemy of Gwen Song was going to be exorcised from the Boxing Day gift list with extreme prejudice.

Likewise, there was no disturbance from their allies in Tryfan, who remained cordial and optimistic in overseeing the role of their newest “Guardian” of the Axis Mundi.

Nor from the girl’s earliest allies, the Dwarves, who had now connected London and Shalkar through the Dyar Morkk by creating a network that spanned from Cotswold to Frankfurt, Prague to Kyiv, and finally, her shining city on the hill.

Of course, the low-way’s true extent was only known to the highest members of the Commonwealth and their central-European allies, of which the Federation of Russia was not privy.

Therefore, Ravenport was genuinely surprised by the selective nature of the Russian members sent to his office.

Popov was, and is, the puppeteer behind Moscow Tower’s aggressions. The Barsujov twins were likewise the Russian equivalent of England’s Hollands, though without the prestige of history. Zinichev was the odd one out. As the speaker of the Middle Faction, he was the weak link in the chain, albeit possessing the vote to propel the militant’s proposals without needing the Grey Faction’s input.

And the Mind Mage…

Ravenport’s eyes narrowed.

Her official presence was to protect Russia’s important Magisters from manipulation—though all understood that the Enchanter-Diviner’s primary purpose was skimming information from those unprotected by talismans and wards.

For Mycroft, there was only one reason why Popov himself was here.

War.

Or at least, war under the pretence of defence, autonomy, and preservation.

“So,” Popov leaned back against the heavy chair provided for the guests. “Your thoughts, dear Duke?”

Ravenport filed the letter, then decided to test the waters.

“Russia’s claim for the Aktobe Oblast does not hold water, I fear,” he spoke with a measured tone that revealed no hint of his internal ridicule. “Your country relented on the region when they burned down the Winter Palace in a fit.”

“Why does that matter?” Popov’s smile revealed a mouthful of pristine enamel that clearly wasn’t the long-time smoker’s original teeth. “We’re here now. We say it is.”

“Do you seriously believe that?” Ravenport laughed, eliciting a bemused Caw! from Morrigan. “Without paperwork and without evidence, how can ownership be claimed? What are we, farmers whose forefathers had agreed with a handshake? Not to mention, you tortured, then hung your predecessors in the Red Square.”

“Mycroft, Mycroft, brother.” Popov remained untouched by his British sardonicism. “Do you not have a copy saved in your precious vault? How else would you manage the traded territories of your merchant monarchy?”

“Mori,” Mycroft turned to his bird. “Do we have anything of the sort in the vault?”

“CAW—!” the raven bobbed its head. “CAW—CAW—!”

“Ah—“ Mycroft opened both hands as if exhausted. “No luck… dear Popov.”

“You’re walking a dangerous line!” The rebuke came from the dark-haired visage of the elder Barsujov, whose Slavic features had turned the colour of cured beets. “The Federation will not stand to be so insulted! The territory is ours! You had no right to claim it!”

“The Mageocracy does not need the permission of the Federation to claim a No Man’s Land beset by Fire Elementals and Centaurs,” Ravenport answered with the same coolness as a minty cucumber sandwich.

“Let’s agree to disagree.” Popov waved away his younger compatriots. “We’re not here to vex you, Mycroft. Return to Russian what is rightfully hers, and we will have a kindlier opinion of all involved.”

“Hers?” Mycroft allowed his fingers to touch, making an arch. His eyes met that of his opponent’s. “Well, it certainly does belong to her…”

“This dog-faced politician!” Barsujov, the younger, barked. “This Duke of Smiles! Popov, we should…”

“Viktor! Silence!” The Master of Moscow’s Tower schooled his fellow Magister like a hunter with a disobedient hound.

Viktor clamped shut. Ravenport knew it was all an act, but he played along because that was the decorum. Unfortunately, there was no wiggle room for their longtime partners against the Undead Tide this time, for the Russians were trying to dip their slippery fingers into pipping hot pies too precious to share.

“Mycroft, I am begging,” Popov put on the voice of a wise and well-meaning weasel talking to his friend, the cynical fox. “Sharing is caring; is that not the catchphrase of your young people?”

“We’re unabashed capitalists, actually,” Mycroft interrupted the Magister. “Vasili, I am being serious here. Shalkar isn’t something you want to push your nose into.”

“Yet, you’re a part owner of this… enterprise,” Popov retorted. “A conflict of interest, is it not? Should your loyalty not be foremost toward your Queen and her fattened citizens?”

“Her Majesty does not oversee the mortal matters of the Commonwealth.” Mycroft controlled his irked attitude as best as he could. “I am warning you, Vasili, mention her Highness again, and we’ll no longer be friends.”

“I apologise.” Popov bowed his head. “Ours lost his head if you recall. We former farmers are not versed in imperial decorum.”

“I concur. Nonetheless, Yekaterinburg does not belong to me,” Ravenport repeated himself, knowing that he would need to repeat it endlessly. “It belongs to Shalkar. It’s a spoil of war.”

“Don’t be so medieval.” Popov loomed. “Mycroft, let me be frank for a moment. We’re not leaving without the Tower.”

“I can’t give what’s not mine,” Ravenport repeated. “The Mageocracy cannot give what it does not own.”

“She is your Regent,” Popov insisted, his hands resting on the table. “She answers to the Q—to the Mageocracy and you.”

The Great Gwen Song, answering to me? Mycroft wanted to stand up and laugh out loud. The day the girl did something to the specifications of what I had wanted, I would waltz through Westminster and holler a holy Hallelujah!

“No,” Mycroft replied without allowing his trauma to overwhelm him. “She will not.”

Popov grunted. “Mycroft, Moscow will not allow Yekaterinburg to be repurposed by your kukla. This is a bridge that cannot be crossed.”

“It’s a bit late for that, I am afraid.” Ravenport felt genuinely sad for the Magister. “From what I’ve heard, the Dwarves have already excavated the ownerless Tower and have begun retrofitting it with a design she had left them.”

“We’re not averse to the hobbies of the industrious, stout people,” Popov smiled. “Just the ownership.”

“I know.” Ravenport felt it too tiresome to find the right words. “If repeating words made things true, we would still be in control of the Niger Delta, and YOU the Urals, as it were…”

The ensuing silence was interrupted only by the scratching of The Morrigan’s claws against the ancient wooden handles of the armchair.

“You can be so unkind, dear Duke. But—there is another matter,” Popov continued. “A more serious one, depending on how much you care for your people. You see, Mycroft, when the Urals fell, many of our citizens had to seek refuge in our former Oblast.”

Mycroft Ravenport forced himself not to roll his eyes.

“They’ve found a home there, and many now enjoy the fruits of their hard-earned labour. Recently, I received a petition from their Union President, whose name I shall omit for now. My lost people, Mycroft, desire to return to the arms of Mother Russia.”

“They are free to return.” Mycroft read the ploy even as he answered the arctic weasel sitting opposite. “Shalkar will not miss them.”

“Ah, my brother, you are thick sometimes.” Popov rubbed his hands together. “This is their Oblast, and they have now made a home there with families. They have tilled the hard soil with blood and sweat, dear Duke. How can we separate the farmers from their land? Are we imperialists? The age of Colonisation is long past, is it not?”

“What do you propose?” Mycroft knew refuting the claim would only lead to more hours of talking in circles. “Speak earnestly, Vasili, even if it pains you.”

“We suggest… something of a democratic vote,” Popov shrugged. “Let the people decide, yes? This is what you’ve been selling the workers of the Commonwealth since the Great War, no?”

“That’s the Americans.” Mycroft feigned a slight yawn. “But I digress. How do you propose to vote when your people make up less than ten per cent of the population of Shalkar?”

“Duke—Dear Duke,“ Popov made a face that seemed amazed at his suggestion. “Name a single city in all the domains of Humanity where the Demi-humans are allowed to participate in the election of a Human Government.”

Well, there’s bloody London… Mycroft forced his twitching eyes to stop lest he confessed Tryfan’s involvement in the Mageocracy’s cycles of power. “Good try, Popov. The answer remains NO.”

The Russian Magister nodded. “I see our avenues are exhausted.”

“Norfolk,” the elder of the twins spoke up once more. “The Federation will not be bullied.”

“He is right,” Popov made a deep, regretful sigh. “Dear Duke, I must inform you that we have decided to take action, with or without the Mageocracy’s blessing. If you will not return the Tower, our people, or our land, you are asking for conflict.”

Mycroft said nothing. “Caw—! Caw—!” Morrigan hissed at the Russian Magisters.

Popov stood, as did the others. “I must inform you, therefore, that the Federation has decided to defend its sovereign rights to people and property as defined by the Kyiv Accords. In the coming days, both Novosibirsk and Nizhny will prepare for a special operation.”

“It’s war, then?” Ravenport loathed the fact that he shall soon call an emergency meeting and debate the particulars of Russian incursion into a Mageocracy Protectorate, but what he loathed more was the careful knowledge that the Parliament would be paralysed by parasites sucking on Popov’s crystal-encrusted teats.

“No, no, no,” Popov shook his head. “What do you take us for? Warmongers?”

I take you for fools. Ravenport studied the smug Russians with their half-crooked smiles. “So what is it then?”

“It’s an operation,” Popov stated like a man reciting a mantra. “The Federation cannot abandon its citizens. We have a duty to show them the love of their motherland.”

“Like when the Urals fell to the Undead?” Ravenport cocked his head.

“Caw—!” Morrigan gave her two cents.

Popov shrugged.

“If it’s war, then the Mageocracy should be the one to declare it, being the aggressors who took our people, our land, and our Tower,” the Tower Master delivered the retort with a tone that should have infuriated Ravenport. Yet, all Mycroft felt was annoyance at the Russian Magister. “But of course, Britain has no Towers close to Shalkar, and the Federation will deny transit to any troops and Towers you wish to relocate across Eastern Europe.”

Ravenport waited for the man to finish.

“Ergo—if your sweet little kukla is still contactable, let her know our demands.”

The Duke of Norfolk nodded. His patience was at its end, for he had places to be and people to meet. “Is that all you wish to relay? That the Mongols are at the gates, meet our demands or we will raze your city, rape your women and spear your goats?”

“Ha!” Popov snorted. “Your tongue is sharp, dear Duke, but I know your parliament as well as you do. The girl will face us by her own merit, Mycroft. All she needs to do to avert the worst is to meet us halfway.

“Or else?” Ravenport retorted with a snort of his own. “You’ll gift her two more Towers? Threaten her with more territory? That’ll show the little minx, eh? Besides, did you forget her Brother-in-craft, the Morning Star?”

“Caw—!” Morrigan gave her most mocking opinion. “Caw—!”

“The antipodes is a long way away, and the Morning Star is a busy man.” Popov’s lips stiffened, his unhappy hands betraying the truth that Gunther would remain a problem. “We have our ways to deal with the Shultz family. He won’t be the first to have died on Russian soil.”

Ravenport felt a secretive smile creeping up the edge of his mouth. “Okay. I wish you luck, Vasili. I know it’s cliched, but by Her Grace, you will need it.”

“I hope you will find your humour still,” Popov said coldly, finally losing his temper. “When we return your kukla and her cousin back to the Empire in a suitably compact box.”

Perhaps to punctuate the point, Popov led his delegates toward the exit, where they would enjoy unimpeded travel back to their nation.

Her cousin? Mycroft experienced a minor moment of genuine confusion until he recalled that the girl had a cousin who studied under Popov. Not this particular Popov, but one of his sons. His eyes once more wandered to the striking Mind Mage with enough comeliness to incite a minor riot in the local barracks.

Trailing after the men, the young woman also noticed his interest. As their eyes met, he felt the probing touch of her mind graze past the many-layered magics Morrigan had woven around himself and those in his agency.

How typical of Moscow Tower to hoard grudges like Dragons hoarding gold. Ravenport mused. Even he barely recollected the name of Gwen’s cousin, a Mind Mage who had changed professions into a researcher of Dwarven Rune Magic. Perhaps the girl’s defection was more personal to the Popov dynasty than the reports had known.

Now, he must ready the Ministry for the incoming calamity.

“CAW—!” Morrigan let loose an excited squawk just as Ravenport pondered passing Popov’s threat to Gunther Shultz. If Gunther were to immediately teleport over to Heathrow and pop off Popov’s corrupted head with a blast of sanctified light, he was willing to testify in parliament upon the grace of the Almighty that a Gunther look-alike from Spectre was responsible. “CAW—CAW—CAW—!”

“Speak English!” Ravenport snapped, his mind too stressed to comprehend avian speech. “What’s gotten you so excited?”

DING!

The chime of an emergency Message interrupted the need for Morrigan’s vocalisation.

Ravenport listened for several minutes, his complexion growing paler with every word.

“She did what?” He spoke into the glowing Glyph, feeling his chest constrict, the pit of his stomach falling into the abyss. “She needs a fleet to transport…a what?”

As the agitated voice from the Glyph delivered the final few details, the Duke of Norfolk, Marshal of her Majesty’s Men at Arms, felt himself suddenly the victim of a very genuine and enormously sympathetic feeling… for his dear friend, Vasili Popov.