“Is that all, John? Well then, keep on doing what you’re doing,” Mzilikazi bid her close friend’s son away in English, before reclining in her throne, eyebrows furrowed in thought.

Robert Moffat was a human that was unlike the other humans, he didn’t judge nor criticize how things ran in the Matabeleland. Then again, that man was probably fearing for his life when her Matabele appended him.

The trashing that the Boers gave to her in her settlements in Transvaal was a heavy scar in her heart. For once, there was an enemy that outmatched them so greatly. Their firearms were a force multiplier, and they had abilities that nullified whatever elven witchcraft they had. Even with superior numbers, they were unable to send the Boers back to where they came from. Being thoroughly humiliated by the Boers made her desire to obtain the very same firearms that gave them the ability to fight opponents that heavily outnumbered them.

Thus, she was very welcoming of every human, though most of them were missionaries. They refused to provide their guns or ammunition. But they did provide conversations that were privy to the outside world. Elfrica was small. Her kingdom was small. The men hailed from a globe-spanning Empire, holding territories in places like Canada, India, and Australia. She listened to their tales of the outside world, and their nonsensical sermons.

There were good stories, but they won’t provide her with firearms. No trader was willing to give her Boer firearms, and even the Boers won’t give up theirs since they were enemies. The annoying Tswana have even begun using them.

“My Queen, what is it that bothers you?” Gundwane Ndiweni, one of her many generals asked, stirring her from her thought about the Westerners.

“Although they don’t say it, in their eyes, they see us savages. But put them in my place, and they would do the same,” Mzilikazi frowned, and Gundwane nodded sheepishly.

“Indeed. We are foreigners in these lands, and the locals refuse to accept our rule. What else are we to do?”

“Gundwane, don’t think I have forgiven you for appointing my own daughter Nkulumane as Queen while I was gone. I have only stayed my hand because you’re my mother’s sister. Do not think fawning over me will win my forgiveness. Prove your worth to me, and justify why I should keep you around, instead of throwing you off the cliff,” Mzilikazi smirked, and Gundwane shuddered.

“Now then, we have some fools who dare to oppose my rule. Well then, Gundwane, let’s have a good look at how they plan on surviving. It may prove useful to you in the future, my aunt.”

Mzilikazi stood up, and bid her aunt goodbye, heading off with a detachment of Matabele towards the Ntabazinduna or hill of the chiefs.

There she stood, as the detachment of Matabele surrounded Gundwane who followed along. It seemed she was a stubborn one.

“Gundwane, if you’re truly afraid of my wrath, then you should have followed Princess Nkulumane when she went off to the Zulu Kingdom to escape my wrath. Why bother staying?”

Gundwane stayed silent, and Mzilikazi frowned.

“Well then, today we have some Rozvi nobles who led a border raid against me. I decided to change up today’s execution. Beheading is boring. Nor is death by a thousand spears. Let us see if they could handle being splattered against the cliffside. If any of these women live, let us say it is a sign from our ancestors that they ought to live,” Mzilikazi grinned maniacally, as the Shona rebels cowered before the cliffs.

The Matabele soldier shoved the first one off the cliff and her yells could be heard before she turned into blood paste.

Schick! The sound of flesh kissing the branches of the various flora made a splendid sound as the next Matabele in line looked towards her.

Gesturing with a hand, the Matabele shove the next one off the cliff.

“Gundwane, some of your followers should be with these Shona, but the wolves must have eaten the meat off their bones. Perhaps you might find some of their bones lying around?”

Gundwane clamped up, thoroughly cowed by her Queen who continued to watch the show continue to unfold.

The Rozvi Empire was the old power in place. Mzilikazi and her Matabele’s migration into the region led to conflicts with the Rozvi which consisted of mostly Shona elves. However, she and her Matabele were Ndebele elves. Being of different ethnicity, although the Shona nobility accepted her overlordship, the local Shona elves did not recognize her authority. The Queen running the Rozvi must be fully subjugated before the Shona would lose all faith in the Rozvi, and finally, submit to her.

Until then, all Shona who resisted her will have their spirits broken, until they learn who is the new master of these lands.

“My Queen!” Gundwane began running towards her. She leapt before Mzilikazi and took a dart shot by one of the Shona nobilities.

Her maternal aunt Gundwane was struck by the dart, and Mzilikazi watched as her Matabele began raining blow after blow on the Shona who dared to launch an attempt on her life.

“Gundwane!” Mzilikazi has her Matabele escort her maternal aunt to her Sangoma’s hut, where hopefully she was able to be treated. This was all she needed for her faith in Gundwane to be restored.

She went to the Shona, whom the Matabele almost beaten to death, cursing and swearing their name. Mzilikazi had to applaud her men’s ferocity because she would put them to death if they did otherwise.

Looking down at the pathetic Shona who could only see with one eye, for the other was pierced with a spear, she grinned.

“How pathetic. If you thought such a ploy would work, you should have employed a local San to help you out. But too bad, such weak poison wouldn’t have killed me even if it struck home. I am not someone who will collapse from a mere dart. You will need a spear, a large one if you want to take me down.”

Mzilikazi raised the Shona. Staring deep into the elf's remaining eye that glared back in resentment, she lobbed the noble off the cliff, letting the Shona taste what was coming to her.

“You did well. But next time, remember to check them for weapons. Even if she is a woman, there is no need to hold back,” She glared at the surrounding Matabele before heading back to her throne. There the proceedings continued, the screams of Shona were shouted to the heavens, but the heavens never came down.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

A Matabele came over to her and reported, “Gundwane has perished. The poison was identified to be San.”

Mzilikazi was momentarily surprised but regained her confidence. San poison? It would have killed her if it struck home. But it shouldn’t matter, the one who carried out the deed was dead. She had dispatched a couple of her Matabele to check the corpses.

“Well then, I heard her daughter is a good witch. Keep a good eye on her.”

She sat on her throne and watched the proceedings.

“Commando Jan, Mzilikazi has sent a letter,” The Anglican priest handed him a letter and Jan opened it.

Dear Boer,

I assume you’re an intermediary of Andries Pretorius. If you’re not, then don’t waste my time with stupid proposals. I am willing to join your little coalition against the Zulu Kingdom, but there needs to be something to sweeten the deal. You see, I want firearms. And you need my word. Gift me a steady supply of firearms, then we can talk.

1. Fuck you and your people. If you’re in contact with the man Hendrik Potgieter, could you have him shot as a favour to me? Thank you.

With love,

Mzilikazi

“Is she not willing to negotiate?” Jan asked, and the Anglican pastor was tight-lipped about it.

“I don’t know. It’s hard to tell via a letter since I haven’t met her personally.”

“You missionaries aren’t providing them firearms, right?”

The pastor nodded.

“Then I believe we have room to negotiate. I will pen the next letter, have your missionaries send them.”

When the Boers went to their Dutch Church, they had to deal with the newcomers to their congregation. Their skins were dark, and their ears were pointy. The two looked at one another, and the Boer gave strange looks to the Dutch pastor.

“Fok! I don’t want to sit with an elf! Ask them to go to the Anglican Church instead of dirtying the seats here!”

The Dutch pastor shot a glare at the Boer who uttered such words, but the man became only more passionate about his words. Too bad the pastor’s name wasn’t Sarel Cilliers because such blatant disrespect would bring one a beating by other Boers.

“Yeah, later all the seats become black!” Another Boer agreed with him.

“Shut the fok up!” The pastor yelled the loudest, silencing any other Boers from chipping in.

“They are also God’s creations, so why are you treating them like this?” The pastor frowned. At this rate, the Anglican Church was going to completely convert all the elves to their faith, and all he had was this Boers with barely any change in the congregation count.

“They are the son of Ham; their skins are black and that was why they are our servants!”

The pastor was already pre-emptively prepared for what his congregation would say. Thus, he proposed his prepared compromise.

“Very well, the Church is now divided in two! One section is for the elves, the other is for you. You might say, but there are not enough seats! Well then, you can either stand throughout the sermon or sit with the sons of Ham!” The pastor bellowed. And the Boers, being the epitome of the tough guy in the Wild West, stood at the back of the Boer aisle, whilst the elves enjoyed the large space they had. Some of them kicked back and lay down on the benches.

Today was going to be one of the longest sermons he ever had because he planned on making those men sit with those elves whether they wanted to or not. Since the men were very stubborn, he could only play the same game and outlast their stubbornness.

Late afternoon, many of the elves were dozing off in their benches, and the men who were so tough now had to deal with their legs begging for a seat. They sat on the ground, a dirtier place than the benches the elves sat on.

The pastor threw in the towel. And ended it right then and there.

And so began the racial segregation of the Church, where the Boers sat on the left, and the elves sat on the right. The same could not be said about the Anglican Church, where the English have no choice but to sit with the overwhelming number of elves in the congregation.

But most of the elves were only there to receive free baths from the pastors and their assistants when they dip them into the water for their religious rituals. And the free bread and wine. It was a very nice spa, and a lot of elves go there to be treated like Chiefs. All they had to do was to sit there and listen to whatever nonsense the pastors were saying and get free stuff. The pastors didn’t know it and were extremely pleased with the rate of conversions.

When they realized it at a much later date, they handed out their baptisms, the bread, and their wine with much less fervour than before.

Due to this, a lot of bakeries sprouted up in Port Mpande to feed the ever-growing supply of bread the Church needed due to the large congregation size.

Wineries were established as well, and they sought to fill up the undistilled alcoholic drink space that the distilleries failed to feel.

And the baths? More odd jobs for people to bring buckets of water into the Church. Also, more jobs for them to clean up the inevitable spills of water that these buckets left.

Zulu craftsmen also began crafting crosses for the various elves who went to the Church. It was a necklace one wore around the neck. Much to the aghast of the Boers and the Pastor who could do little to convince them otherwise. A rumour began going around how such crosses gave one priority to receive the free baths, bread, and wine first, so everyone began wearing it.

The Anglican missionaries were all too happy to write reports about their efforts in the Natalia Republic, and how they couldn’t see this much success anywhere else. They sent such reports back to the headquarters of the London Missionary Society, which was right in London.

Their superiors were all too pleased to allocate more funds to the missionary effort in South Elfrica. And the Zulu Construction Companies were all too pleased to help them renovate the Anglican Church. The only one not pleased was the Boer pastor feeling somewhat depressed that the Anglicans get to have all the good stuff while he was barely scraping by.

By now, some of the Boers were reluctantly sitting on the elven side of the Church, deciding that sitting on the floor every time was becoming rather stubborn on their part. Though there were some holdouts, who steeled their expressions and looked at the Pastor calmly reading the book. The Pastor waggled his eyebrows, peeked at the stubborn Boers, and continued to read.

When the sermon was over, he asked the elves why they came over to his church instead of the newly renovated Anglican one.

“Oh, it takes too long for me to get my wine and bread. That’s why I come here instead,” The Zulu explained in Elfrikaans. Around his neck, was a cross.

The Dutch pastor sagely nodded. Turning around, he rubbed his forehead in frustration. Turning to face the Zulu, he put on an understanding look and remarked,” I see.”

It didn’t matter what they came to the Church for, Sarel would only be pleased to see all these new converts. And hopefully, he could justify to Sarel about changing this wooden Church to a stone one, so it wouldn’t burn down in the event of a fire. Now he wasn’t accusing anybody or something, but his only rival was the Anglicans, and God knows that those Anglicans could simply destroy his Church with a small fire.

One time, the Dutch Pastor decided to see what all the fuss was about regarding the Anglican Church. Why did so many elves go there? He could barely see any humans there. Disguising himself by changing his usual outfit, he had his assistant man the Dutch Church on his behalf and snuck into the Anglican congregation. What he saw was perhaps hundreds and thousands of elves all streaming into the building. Any human was a minority, and he could see the English being rather nervous at the realisation that they were the minority.

Some of them greeted the elves who greeted them, entering the building with them. Inside the stone building, the congregation benches were like a chocolate bar but with white spots occasionally found on its exterior.

Some even had to stand up in the back. And the Dutch pastor was one of them, and he could watch the Anglican pastor reading to the large congregation he had before them. Forgive him for sinning, but he was extremely jealous of what the Anglicans had.

The crowd began cheering when the wine and bread were given out as volunteers scurried out with their baskets of bread and a chalice, made of simple iron that was full of wine, was given out.

It didn’t look anywhere like how a Church should look, but the pastor decided he shouldn’t judge. If it works for the Anglicans, then he should copy their methods to get a bigger congregation.

He headed back to Church and doubled his orders of bread, doubling his orders of wine.

And so started a charity race between both Churches on who could give out the greatest number of bread and wine.

The bakery owners all cried with joy as they borrowed more and more from the Port Mpande Central Bank to fund their expansion. Whilst the wineries began buying up more plots of land to grow grapes on.

Jan could watch this insanity play out in real-time with a sigh.

“This is another bubble. If any of them stop buying more bread and wine, most of our bakeries and wineries would collapse. They’re even borrowing money from me, so it’s going to hit me as well.”

“I doubt it would collapse. It’s not as if the Church would stop buying. Their pockets are deep.”

“That’s what they said of Lehman Brothers. Oh, it couldn’t collapse!” Jan remarked as Russell was left scratching his head in confusion.