Shalkar Al-jadeedah.
The Grand Forge.
If the Prime Material was a great tapestry that unified the chaotic strands of Elemental energies of the Planes, then the Dwarves were children who plucked and spun offshoot fibres of Elemental Fire from the great World Tree loom to empower their runic furnaces.
The unconventional method was a craft born out of necessity. Without Deepholm’s natural access to the imposing heat of the Molten Plane and the intense gravity of the deep Elemental Earth, the Dwarfs of the Himmsegg had to find new ways of manufacturing dark steel and iron.
To that end, the tragic assault by the Elemental Prince Zodiam, and the emergence of the Fire Sea had become a boon, wondrously warping the underground ley-veins of Shalkar to privilege the Planes of fire and brimstone, doubling the efficacy of the “young” forge.
Currently, the cacophony of multi-storey forge hammers pressing shaped plates into place was no longer the sole occupation of Golem-suited Dwarven artisans plying their heartfelt craft. Human Mages, Rat-kins in yellow visibility jackets, and even the occasional Centaur smith all plied their trade under the watchful eye of stout foremen.
Besides the district-sized Grand Forge, in a separate platform circulating cool and conditioned air, was Shalkar’s General of the unnamed Legion, Strun of Jildam and his troop from the Clan of Twelve.
With relish, the Commander inhaled the sulphurous air of industry. The acridness burned his lungs, though the Rat-kin felt only gladness. In a time distant from the city’s present prosperity, possessed by memories only a fraction of the Rat-kin now vividly recalled, Strun had been a malnourished Shadow Runner, the last of his Clan.
After his initial rebirth, the piebald General of the Rat-kins had barely reached his Priestess’ navel—now, uniformed in the crisp fabric of his battle suit, the Rat-kin stood upright and proud, potentially taller than his mistress—though Strun knew he should never rise higher than the Pale Priestess’ blessed brows.
“How’s the elbow?” The Dwarven Forge Master ran a diagnostic Rune over the rim of his black-clad plates of mithril alloy. “We’ve freed up as much movement as possible, though its defence has been weakened.”
Strun rotated both arms, first forward, then back, then in impossible angles and motions few Rat-kin could manage without mangling themselves.
“It’s good,” his whiskers nodded with approval. “But the other suits aren’t like this?”
“Material and Time,” the Forge Master fidgeted with an inscriber. “We’ve our Golems to forge as well, lad. The Hammer Guard and the Fabricators both, ya ken? Mithril lacing is used in all Shadow Runner suits, but yours has the highest tolerance for abuse, as per yer specifications. Go on, try yer teleport.”
With a thought, Strun dived into the shadows made by a Golem Suit beside him, then emerged several hundred meters on the opposite side of the armoury before reappearing in front of his armourer.
“The Shadow Step transfer is quite smooth,” he felt genuinely impressed. “How did you manage it? The older circuits were rather disorientating.”
“Some Humanoid alterations from the lassie,” the Forge Master implied her Paleness’ cousin, the scholarly Kuznetsova. “She said that a NoM working for the Regent has made a breakthrough in encoding our shared interfaces.”
Strun vaguely recalled the NoM the Dwarf mentioned, a William of sorts, but he had not spent enough time in the human city of London to truly get to know the thousands of men and women under the employ of his mistress. That such a talented individual existed did not surprise him, though he was sure that none would be as faithful as the Rat-kin in taking her Paleness’ desires to their natural conclusion.
“Stand still, yer Rat-ness,” the Forge Master commanded Strun to cease fidgeting while the rest of the suit slotted into place.
A rebreather.
A pair of Omni-Gauntlets with hidden Spellblades.
And additional magi-tech solutions for the dangers that lurked in the murk.
Not far from Strun, the Captains of the soon-to-be stormtroopers were likewise armoured for the trans-planar invasion.
Unlike Strun, the representatives from the Clans Plithf, Chuluu, Ix and Skaz were bred and trained to be her Paleness’ fangs. Like Strun, these had also been mortal Rat-kins once, humble warriors with only their bodies to defend their tribe from the ravages of the Sand Wolves, easily crushed by the Centaurs.
After the baptism, those who best adapted to her Paleness’ Elixir took on a new bulk, so much so that they became towering Goliaths compared to their small-framed brethren. Taking the opportunity, Strun had conscripted the blessed to form a Militia, which, after the formation of Shalkar, eventually evolved into the Regent’s elite Exterminators.
“Are these still Rat-kin?” Was the question the Chief Security Officer, Lulan, had asked of Strun. “Are you sure they’re not a sub-species of Trolls? We fought those, you know, in Amazonia.”
For this, Strun had no answers. With their Dwarven Golem Plates, even Strun felt the oppressive hostility radiating from their emerald-lensed eyes.
From head to toe, an Exterminator stood just over two meters, a height that met the standard of the city’s service tunnels according to a surviving schematic provided by the Deepdowners. Their prowess had already been proven when the Human Tower invaded, so Strun hoped they would be the first to breach Deepholm’s urban caverns.
Thunk—Thunk—Thunk—
An Exterminator testing the latest modifications to the suit thudded across the granite floor, pitting his gyroscopic enhancements against a simulated terrain made to resemble the “ruins” of Deepholm.
Unlike Strun’s agility suit, the Exterminator Plate consisted of a brutal geometric cuirass inscribed with Runes of protection as the centre core, framed by asymmetrical shoulder pauldrons with Spell-sword mounts and interlocking plates that met the seals of both gauntlets and greaves. Its servos differed from the Dwarven Golems in that the armour’s protection and assistance relied on HDM packs rather than liquid mana fuel.
Like Strun’s, their re-breather was slotted into a helm that offered full locomotion of the Rat-kin’s most fearsome weapon—a pair of ivory incisors attached to jaws that could chew through dark steel ingots.
With the blessing of her Paleness’ Essence via the blood-forged Mandalas burned into their fur, the select Rat-kin were largely immune to mundane toxins of nausea and paralysis. The rebreather, therefore, was present only because the Deepdowners suggested that it wasn’t strange for entire pockets of the Murk to be underwater or possess no breathable air.
While continuing the diagnostic of his Golem Suit, Strun observed the Exterminators as they came to rest.
A pale-furred Şöpter Shaman, dressed only in a diaphanous shawl, stood over the monstrous Rat-kin with a flask of Golden Elixir and a sprig of jade-green rye freshly harvested from the field above.
“May the Pale Priestess watch over this Machine and its Warrior,” the Shaman of the Cult, responsible for maintaining the Essence Sympathy that tied the Rat-kin to their great slumbering Worm Garp, dapped the armour with streaks of gold. “Undying are her flock, who shall mark her will with blood and bone.”
“Yer a bleeding superstitious lot…” the Forge Master noticed Strun staring. “I keep telling yer the suit’s waterproof. No amount of the Regent’s mead will permeate the fibre-mesh.”
As if in answer, the Exterminator ate the sprig, after which the Shaman materialised a new bough.
“Peace, Good master,” Strun spoke truly but with reserve. “It’s because our lives remain such a dream. Those of us who survived the phage and the Fire Sea still struggle to believe that this—all of this—remains real. The same applies to the Şöpter sisters, who volunteered their magic to the mistress. Under the Horse Lords, their lives were only marginally better because we Tasmüyiz were eaten first…”
“I see. The Horse-Lords.” the Forge Master cocked his head. “They won’t be joining the Expedition?”
“No. They’re happy to war against the Elementals, the Russians, and the ceaseless Undead,” Strun grinned, still trying to take it in. “All without worrying if their fawns will have enough to eat. Besides, their home is in the Himmseg. They would wilt and perish without the open sky, fresh air, and unlimited space. Comparatively, the Murk is as much a home to our kin as the open plains. It’s her will and design, I believe. That we should be so suited to carrying out her needs.”
Thunk—Thunk—Thunk—
“Aye, true that,” the Forge Master affirmed Strun’s observations. “Das ialdra’th nunoff—All are within the Ancestor’s designs.”
“How faire your Dreadnaughts?” Strun asked. “Will the ancient ones attend us as well as the Deepdowners?”
The Forge Master shook his head sadly. “I fear they will not. Milady Hilda does not trust the ancient ones to take the right… side… if we are to breach the domes of Deepholm. They are sworn to protect Dwarven-kind, but foremost, they are Gevorgun Avor Kkjielth—the Custodians of Lore. Unfortunately for the expedition, the Lore states that preserving the Ancestor’s Hall, its name plaques, and forge templates is a worthier cause than the life of any living Dwarf.”
Strun observed the conflict on the Forge Master’s face. Indeed, what made the Dwarves survive on the surface wasn’t the knowledge from their ancestors but the sacrifices made by rogue Engineseers who shared knowledge without prejudice across the castes. Likewise, it was undeniable that what had catalysed the Dyar Mokk wasn’t ancestral Lore but the decision made by one radical Deepdowner from House Kül-Hildenbrandt to join hands with a single sorceress.
Yet, the man was a Forge Master, meaning he had spent his journeymen days half a century ago in Deepholm. He had seen the great arches of the Ancestral Hall, the Grand Forge, the endless avenues of the Tinker’s Guild, and the grand central station that linked every strand of the low ways into its mechanised heart.
Thunk—Thunk—Thunk—
Together with the rise and fall of great hammers, a low hum began at the heart of the forge.
“Far over the Misty Mountains cold To low-ways deep— an’ caverns old We must away— ere break of dawn To find our lost and wayward home…”
Side by side, Rat-kin and Dwarf listened to the thrum of the workers’ baritone recollections. The ballad Strun had heard was originally composed by her Paleness; only now it had become a cultural anthem for the Faction seeking Deepholm.
To aid their allies, the Rat-kin Clans had pledged ten thousand of their best.
In reality, the elders of the Twelve Clans had been compelled by the living saints of Jildam, Plithf, and Chuluu to commit any number of lives necessary to achieve the Pale Priestess’ goal. This was because Stun had communicated with extreme prejudice that they were at war with an entity known as Spectre—the very same group who inflicted them with the phage.
To care about something as trivial as lives when a threat would send the Clans back to being Tasmüyiz, Strun had explained coldly, would incur the wrath of the three great Clans.
For this reason, reclaiming Deepholm, or its erasure as a threat, was inevitable.
“Walk with me, good master of iron,” the General of her Paleness’ legions gave the Golem-suited Forge Master a pat on the pauldrons. “As my kin will take some time, let us visit your Hammer Guards so that your faithful and mine can work on coordination and cooperation.”
image [https://imgur.com/2Q3gE3J.jpg]
Shalkar.
Dmitrovskaya Tower.
Natalia Volkova, agent of her Paleness, the Regent of Shalkar, sat with her legs crossed in the office of the Tower Master.
Opposite and seated at the end of an oblong table was the man who should have been her opponent, one of the many old men Master Popov of Moscow Tower had leashed to his perverse obsession with power.
Under normal circumstances, Petyr Shuysky would welcome her with wariness and disgust, smiling as foxes do when confronted by a fellow predator no less dangerous than themselves. Meanwhile, she would play the coy nurse while fully understanding that her role was to test the tenderness of the Tower Master’s hidden sores and welts. For hours, perhaps days or weeks, their waltz would continue until she received what she wanted, or in some cases, perish mysteriously by falling out of the Tower’s windowless exterior.
However, the two faced each other now with a sincerity neither could have fathomed a fortnight ago.
Their mutual amicability was due to the five golden vials that lined the tabletop.
One vial for one week.
These were not extensions of life, at least not to the degree that Petyr Shuysky would require to appear anything less than a desiccated skeleton held together with twine. To Natalia’s knowledge, the Golden Mead gave the Tower Master warmth, sleep, and a thankful cessation to the bone-deep ache gifted by his penal years in the depths of the Siberian Black Zone.
For that, the man had her genuine respect.
In her former circle, Petyr Shuysky was infamously immune to the transactional allure of HDMs, men, women, children, Magical Items, and power itself. His nickname in the shadowy world of Moscow’s inner circles was that of a tired Zmei who only sought to slumber.
That a panacea for joint pain was what finally moved the Tower Master would have sent shockwaves through all of Moscow. It was just as well, for only those who had experienced the existential salvation of the Pale Priestess’ bodily fluids could have realised its seductive potency.
Natalia habitually smiled as she spoke. For her purpose, she wore the Officer’s Uniform of the judicial branch, holding the rank of Deputy Aide to the Office of the Secretariat. The dress uniform was tailored to fit her figure, consisting of a double-breasted coat in obsidian tapered by a stocky, tanned leather belt, beneath which her ballerina’s figure extended from a thigh-length skirt ending in a pair of cobra-headed heels.
It was not a uniform a young woman in her twenties should possess—and for those who knew, they knew better than to question a young woman whose unofficial designation opened doors, mouths, and minds.
“Master Shuysky,” she purred. “Our mistress wishes to inform you that the Leviathan Cores will arrive in Shalkar within the next two days. She would like your advice on how we may… secure the procedures.”
Petyr Shuysky’s milky eyes, unlike those of younger men, older men, and sometimes the women in the Party, communicated no emotion that would indicate unrest or surprise.
“May we know your orders?” Natalia politely bowed her head. Originally, if Petyr Shuysky had rejected the offer of the Golden Mead, Natalia would have reported the man for receiving them anyway. Now, the situation on the surface was that it was “common knowledge” that Petyr Shuysky was receiving the Pale Priestess’ offerings, while Natalia’s report would relay the “truth” back to Popov that no such thing had occurred in the limited knowledge of the Sparrows.
The reversal of reality, Natalia knew, was the only way the Muscovites understood the world, for their trust in contrarian truth was always firmer than a convergence of overt and covert observations.
Conversely, having her soul shackled to a benevolent tyrant was strangely liberating, for she spoke the truth without reserve to her new mistress, and both understood, without a shadow of a doubt, that Natalia truly believed in her words. Trusting in one’s superior and being trusted in turn was a strange drug, one that even now made her fingers shake and tremble—assuming she hadn’t mistaken the euphoria for residual trauma from her forced liberation.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“The Towers are waiting,” Shuysky finally cracked a smile. “Eyes from up on high await the opportunity to take everything.”
“Everything?” Natalia was not privy to the minds of the inner circle.
“The city, we cannot take, but we can portion,” Shuysky explained by drawing a ring of glow mana in the air, demonstrating a mastery of the craft that Natalia could only begin to dream. “The Federation and its crony states have recognised the Workers Party, so the Mageocracy cannot deny that there is, at least, the possibility of a legitimate claim. During the invasion, both Novosibirsk and Nizhny will move to occupy the outskirts of Shalkar. We will, of course, avoid casualties and damage by broadcasting a message of peace—while the workers inside the city will answer our call.”
You mean, answer the call of Mind Magic… Natalia felt a cruel humour take to her chest. Originally, that was how they would have played it. When the moment arrived, a Mass Suggestion aided by the Colonel’s planted Party members will drive its people against the Rat-kin and the Centaur, using their unarmed bodies to clear a path for the entry of Moscow’s “peacekeepers”.
“One of our Towers will tap into the ley below the land, and the disruption of Shalkar’s Dwarven network will allow for more reasonable land negotiations. Of course, that’s only the beginning of our special operation.”
Natalia nodded. “The Cores.”
“Indeed, little bird,” Shuysky seemed in a good mood. “The true prize is the Cores, especially the news that the Core of a Mythic will soon arrive.” Natalia furrowed her brows. The Regent had said everything was under wraps and kept in the dark by the Duke of Norfolk’s Department of Foreign Affairs.
“Oh, don’t act so surprised,” the Tower Master snickered. “The Foreign Affairs ministry isn’t nearly as watertight as it thinks, no less thanks to creatures like yourself. Isn’t that obvious?”
Natalia conceded that, indeed, even with the Sparrows soon to be picked up and sent to the Pale Priestess, there was no way of knowing how many more there were in their decentralised network. Just as only Ravenport could operate the catacomb archives beneath Westminster, only Master Popov or henchmen like Oleg Zinichev knew the true extent of their half-century-spanning operation. If the rumours were true, it meant some Sparrows genuinely did not know their occupation.
“So we have casus belli to take the city,” Shuysky continued like a lecturer of upper-tier magics, marking each point with floating mana. “Now, we need casus belli to take the Core. Currently, this Core belongs to the Regent and, by technical extension, to the Mageocracy. This item cannot be robbed like some common HDM mine, little bird, do you understand?”
Natalia nodded, feeling thoroughly schooled. She might be an expert in her field, but her stage, she realised, was a plank in the dancing lounge of a mining town, while the Tower Master’s stage was that of the Grand Moscow Opera.
“But what if, as she fully intended, they were to put the Core into the existing superstructure of a Tower that’s been stripped and retooled? If you didn’t know, Yekaterinburg is one of the four creations the Regent’s Master, Henry Kilroy, crafted for Moscow to secure its allegiance to the global network. The materials contained therein, the whalebone, if you can imagine, is a product of time that your Regent cannot afford. Therefore, if she wishes to have a Tower to battle Elizabeth Sobel, her only recourse is to take the shortcut.”
“And therein lies the cause…” Natalia realised finally the great game of chess Popov had coaxed into being.
“Yes,” Shuysky willed one of the bottles to drift through the air and into his hand. Unstoppering the cap and taking a gentle sip, his face returned to its usual placidity. “Once that Core is installed into the Tower, but before the Tower could be operational, we will checkmate its creator. More important than the city itself, Novosibirsk and Nizhny will secure the newly constructed Tower and move it out of Shalkar and into Russian landholds. We will claim that we are retrieving our rightful property—and that if the Mageocracy doesn’t wish for a total war that would paralyse the defence of the Eastern Front, they should swallow their pride and blame it on the incompetence of their Regent.”
“That’s… very good,” Natalia felt goosebumps run up and down the length of her bare thighs.
“Of course, the Regent has rebuked us well, perhaps without even realising it,” Shuysky exhaled as each of the golden vials de-materialised into his storage ring. “I don’t know nor care how she came to overcome your Geas, but she did, and that’s all that matters. There will be no revolt in Shalkar to welcome Novosibirsk or myself…”
The Tower Master nodded with pleasure. “…and no Nizhny to play fodder for Novosibirsk when they march on the fabrication site. How would that play out, I wonder. Does your Regent have a plan to contain Moscow’s dismay?”
“I am… unlearned in the Great Game,” Natalia confessed, her face suddenly hot. “I do not know and cannot guess, but I think you know the answer.”
“As I should,” the Tower Master concurred with her self-assessment. “Has your Regent agreed to shelter this old man?”
“A residence decorated to your every whim will be provided at the topmost layer of the canopy,” Natalia confidently replied. “You will be neighbours to Dragons, my Duke, and enjoy every mote of rejuvenation the World Tree Tower’s country club and exclusive spa can provide its VIP residents.”
The words coming out of Natalia’s mouth made Shuysky chortle and snort. Natalia also knew how unnatural these capitalist buzzwords sounded when coming from the mouth of a former Sparrow. Still, those were the vernacular the Regent had picked to present her case.
“Let’s say I renege on our deal and Moscow preemptively attacks,” Shuysky continued to pry into her knowledge of the Regent’s plans. “What are your countermeasures? Nizhny will teleport in-between the city and the construction site, while Novosibirsk, I believe, will try to rob what it may.”
Natalia took a deep breath. For this, she had prepared a canned answer from the Regent herself.
“Esteemed Tower Master,” the Sparrowhawk recounted her Paleness’ words. “The Regent has asked me to relay, I quote, ’if Moscow dares to teleport into my city, they shall witness the firepower of a fully armed and operational battle station.’”
She even mimicked the strange cackle that her Regent had used to send a peculiar, otherworldly chill up her spine.
“… What does that mean?” The Tower Master stared at Natalia. “Are your defences ready?”
“Yes,” Natalia lied as easily as she breathed. In truth, she had no idea.
The Tower Master sat for several long seconds, studying Natalia’s face as if his gaze might peel off her skin so he could get a finer grasp on her involuntary facial twitches.
“I am satisfied,” Tower Master Shuysky said at least. “Tell your Regent I look forward to meeting her in person one day.”
Natalia stood and bowed.
“What will her people tell Popov?” Shuysky remarked as she turned to leave. “How long do you believe the man will remain fooled?”
“As long as our numbers are few,” Natalia spoke the truth. She understood the old pervert’s rage and insecurities as well as any Sparrow reared in his roost. “And when he does discover that your eminence has retired to greener pastures, I anticipate the Sparrows won’t even be a concern, for the Moscow shall experience a Purge the likes of which only Comrade Stalin could rival.”
image [https://imgur.com/2Q3gE3J.jpg]
Shalkar.
The outer districts.
Having seen the construction of Tonglv Canal and the Isle of Dogs, Gwen was no stranger to megastructures under her management. Nonetheless, the “canal” dock that the Dwarves had excavated to construct her Tower was an impressive footnote for future historians.
From the southernmost ingress to the thalweg and back to the surface, the “ship dock” was over two kilometres long, dipping almost two hundred meters at its sheerest pitfall and spanning just over three hundred meters at its rear.
Presently, an impressive delegation consisting of all of Shalkar’s key members, as well as the majority of the Engineseers who volunteered their time from the Citadel Beneath, waited at the northern end of the construction site for a critical component that has taken almost a month and a half to arrive.
From the depth of the Fifth Vel, the excavated Core of the unknown Ancient Leviathan had traversed across the oceans to Burma and, from the Dyar Mokk, traversed the rails of the low way across the compressed space of the Murk.
To service it, kilometres of cables emerged from their low-way node points, and hundreds of Golems, thousands of Golem suits, and tens of thousands of Rat-kin had been put in place by an army of civil engineers.
Even at a glance, the Regent of Shalkar could count no less than four Fabricator Engines, each made to look like building-sized isopods, crawling over the skeletal superstructure of her future Tower. In the wake of their passage, dozens of Golems and entire swarms of multi-specie labourers in Golem suits moved to rivet, weld and press plates and pulleys for the next stage of construction.
At every interval, Levitation Engines of Dwarven design used to move the Dyar Mokk’s transit systems hovered and sparked, undergoing rigorous testing procedures under the judgemental eye of their Dwarven Engineseers. Each was the weight of a dozen Battle Golems, and each, if taken apart and sold on the Grey Market, could satisfy the monthly budget of an Orange Zone Frontier.
Across the chasm, Rat-kin in wired suits drifted without weight through the Tower’s skeleton, floating like motes of shifting mana as they crossed the crescent arches of steel and alloy. In combination, the Rat-kin looked like they were strands of spider silk, slipping across space like mercury across a circuit board, their cross-crossing paths making the likeness of a Kandinsky masterpiece.
Concurrently, deeper in the recesses of the construction site, Spellblades akin to the artillery pieces installed on the Bunker’s perimeter rested in segments and pieces, waiting for the arrival of its energy source. These alone would have made the Tower of Shalkar unique, for traditional Towers emphasised their firepower via amplifying Mandalas, making Strategic Class magic such as Meteors Shower possible. Comparatively, the highly mobile, cruiser-like design of Shalkar serviced a multi-specie crew and a Tower Master whose Void Magic would likely kill her outright if amplified by a magnitude of a hundred through an offensive Mandala.
More impressive still, half-finished, was an experimental mass inducer fed by four giant rails. Once tethered to a Core of the correct Elemental alignment, its Dwarven artificers promised an effect similar to the Marshal’s Panzerschreck, whereupon a meteoric mass would be launched from the Tower’s midst in mimicry of the Mageocracy’s strategic staple, “Meteor”.
Finally, from the forecastle to aft, a set of rails that could have housed the infamous Schwerer Gustav lay oiled and humming, awaiting the floating cargo barge. At its end, a nest of cables connected to complex plates riddled with Mandala inscriptions laid like the splayed shell of an enormous ostrich egg anticipating the arrival of its yolk.
To Shalkar’s Regent, the work at the Isle of Dogs had involved more people, but none of it had been laid bare like this, and for that, Gwen could only bath in the surreal understanding that this was happening by her will and desire.
CRUNK—CRUNK—CRUNK— the great cog gate began to turn, heralding the arrival of an object uniquely possessed by Gunther and herself.
As the helix spiral shunted itself like the opening of a gargantuan mechanical iris, Gwen saw the familiar spear tip of her precious Superstructural Core, still engraved with half-completed Runes of Necromantic script.
Below, the strong scent of sea spray quickly invaded the dry air of Shalkar, followed by the unmistakable stink of fish and algae.
Lei-bup, Ambassador and leader of the Fifth Vel, emerged on a platform wreathed in coral, bathing in the light of a world that was the inverse of the Mer’s deep sea abode.
“Holy fuck, that’s Lei-bup?!” Richard blurted out in surprise at the imposing physicality of the grotesquely rotund squid creature that waved at them with all two dozen of its tentacles, some of which even had eyes of their own. “What the hell happened to the funny fish guy?”
“He found religion,” Gwen evasively explained, unable to find the Human words necessary to explain the exact occurrences that had led to Lei-bup’s ascension.
As she spoke, the crow that had been perched on her shoulder took flight, joining the great wheeling shadows of Harpies and a Thunder Dragon that patrolled the construction site, keeping an eye out for any wayward magical signatures that implied a Tower may be teleporting into range.
From either side of her High Priest, two Crab-kin who could give Dwarven Golems a run for their weight in Mithril stood side by side, each claw clutching a different death-dealing implement. There was also a small entourage of Mermaids—Sea Witches on exchange whose magic would link the space between her two realms.
“You spent a year with… Mr Lei-bup?” Besides Gwen, Slylth looked a shade greener than his usual pinkish self. “My God, its pustules are incubating something… I think an eye…why does it have your eyes…”
“Lord Lei-bup doesn’t look so bad…” Lulan appeared to measure the creature only by her knowledge of its loyalty.
Besides her, Petra winced, then redoubled her attention on the mountain-sizes Creature Core she would be working on for the foreseeable future.
In her white-gold Elven tunic designed for visual impact while in flight, Gwen signalled her fellows to follow her lead as she descended toward the encroaching platform. Upon closer inspection, she realised that the living platform was alive. Someone had fastened a set of rail lifts onto an enormous Rock Crab, including the repulser generators that made the platforms float, turning the ocean giant into an impossible cybernetic construct.
The closer and lower she descended, the larger her Leviathan Core seemed to grow until she felt entirely overshadowed by the imposition of its awesome presence.
“Lei-bup!” Her voice echoed across the canyon. “It is a surprise to see you again so soon, but on behalf of my companions and the people of our home, allow me to welcome the Fifth Vel to Shalkar!”
image [https://imgur.com/2Q3gE3J.jpg]
The welcoming of the delegation from the Fifth Vel took up the next six hours, a benefit Gwen had to afford her guests because the METRO would soon be releasing a worldwide exclusive on the creature known as Lei-bup, as well as revealing finally that the Mageocracy now has a foothold in the Elemental Plane of Water.
The revelation had been decided after much consultation between Shalkar and the Mageocracy’s Foreign Office, who eventually relented that their security was not as watertight as previously imagined.
Thanks to Natalia’s tipoff, Duke Ravenport secretly performed a Purge through the rank and file. However, no one could be exactly sure of the surviving members and their loyalty, for London and its allies respected the rules to limit the use of Mind Magic, believing that the seldomness by which they were forced to cross certain lines differentiated them from the barbarians to the east.
Nonetheless, the Office of Foreign Affairs had kept enough secrets under wraps that the naval segment of the Leviathan Core’s journey had been peaceful, and its Burmese transit point had seen no complications—though Gwen was sure that Ruxin, rather than the Foreign Office, was the one to be credited.
Now that the Core had arrived, it would take months to almost a year to be fitted, followed by a second year before the Tower would take its maiden flight. Gwen had no idea how much time she had until the next calamity orchestrated by Spectre, though between the dead Kirin in Tianjin, the obliterated city in the Deep Vel, and her expedition to find the Squid-lich and its tentacled ilk, she was confident of the wait she could afford.
At any rate, she had to be patient.
Then, assuming no Russians launched their assault, Sanari would arrive to layer a cocoon of the World Tree’s roots over the Necromancy scars lining the entire length of her precious Core. Where the original intent of the Followers of Juche was to flood the Core with Negative Energy, they would now fill it with Essence and Mana from Sulfina, transforming its interior into something of a pocket extension of the World Tree itself.
Therefore, her Tower would truly be a multi-species marvel armed by Dwarven Runes, fuelled by a Leviathan Core, infused by Elven Druidism, and interlinked by herself, a Human sorceress.
Ironically, when she questioned Duke Ravenport on why the Mageocracy had been so kind as to lend her such limitless authority over a floating vessel of mass destruction, the Duke explained that it was precisely because no one else could ever use her Tower.
“You think we would want to build a Tower like yours?” The Duke had scoffed. “We do, but who is willing to risk it? What if the Dwarves fall foul of your future actions? What if the Hvítálfar, as they ought to do, lose interest? What is the Mageocracy to do with the most expensive hunk of precious metal ever crafted? What shall we do with a spent Leviathan Core that cannot be repurposed?”
That and the fact that Gwen had proven beyond the shadow of a doubt that a force like herself was necessary against the machinations of Spectre. For all the harnessed power of the Britannic Mageocracy from its academia, men at arms and expedition fleets, theirs were the resources of a waning Empire.
Gwen’s Tower, meanwhile, was partially subsidised, majority self-funded, and Shalkar itself maintained the Tower’s upkeep. Most importantly, any member of her Tower that may lose their life was accountable to the Regent, freeing the Mageocracy from the burdens of its highly politicised veteran affairs.
“Magister Edwards!” Gwen held the hand of her right-hand man, feeling guilty as his hairless scalp reflected the light from the lumen globes. “You have done such a fine job, my good man. I am eternally grateful.”
Olly Edward escaped her feigned empathy, subconsciously brushing down his non-existent hair like a man experiencing phantom limb. “It was stressful at times, but I am glad we managed to make it. But what about our neighbours?”
“Ah, that’s why we’re here,” Gwen indicated to the cosmopolitan bodies that formed her inner circle. “Come, we will take a picture together, all of us. Once the junket is done, we’ll retire to the canopy for discrete discussions. A lot has happened in the month and a half, and there’s much to know.”
With Shalkar’s deep pockets, the pavilion set up to announce its new venture was a semi-permanent structure intended to be a public function hall. The outer structure was a construct of living wood in ash blonde, while between the building’s ribs, the panes were not glass but near-transparent foliage reinforced by Sanari’s Druidic magic to ward away or let in the weather. The interior was enormous, though largely unfurnished, perfect for housing the Mermen alongside Centaurs, Rat-kin, Dwarves, Junket Reporters and two Dragons.
The Dwarves, as expected, kept to themselves in their cliques, with only “Ambassador” Axehoff splitting from the multitude of armoured robes to give a speech on the Cores and the construction progress. The odd one out among the stout party was a striking human Magus, dressed similarly in the cog-themed fashion of the Engineseers, attending her teachers with rapt attention so that their flagons never stayed empty for long.
Golos and Slylth paced beside one another. One was a blue giant as tall as a Strider Golem, half covered in scales that glimmered, while his roughly chiselled face possessed a jaw that could grate Dwarf Bread. Compared to his Wyvern days, he was finely tuned as a Thunder Dragon, drawing admiring glances from the human females in the room. His companion was of nobler blood, though his human form was modest and unassuming, and only a few knew of the true identity of the scarlet-robed Magister from Scotland. Though Slylth desired to be closer to his Regent, the foetid scent of Elemental Water radiating from their guests kept him distant and impatient.
Further down and closer to the food tables was the city’s Marshal, the ever-stoic Lulan Li in a figure-fitted dress uniform, presently made less intimidating by enormous plates of buffet food. Besides her was her nondescript brother, who now split his time between Shalkar and Shanghai as a liaison between the trading partners.
Past the food table was a circle of admirers three bodies deep, forming a semi-circle around the tranquil, silent form of Sanari, Hierophant Druid of Tyfan. As a giantess mute, she answered every question with gentle nods of her elegant head, her metallic eyes seeing through rather than at her mortal audience.
Finally, the sunken dais with its conjured brine allowed the Mermaids, the Crab-kin and Lei-bup a measure of comfort out of the water, with Gwen, Richard and other visitors entering and leaving using levitation or flight.
And here and there, flittering like butterflies, were members of the press, stopping here and there to descend upon the city’s management as they delivered canned quotes to the printing press to be delivered to every continent.
The hours continued, and the junket continued until finally, the Regent closed the function with a question.
“This route to the Fifth Vel will change oceanic trade forever—!” the Regent of Shalkar promised readers from Sydney to Sweden. “Imagine for a moment, the potential customers curious for the goods and services of the surface! Imagine, for a moment, the boundless volumes of resources found in the limitless space of the Elemental Plane of Water! Yes—Shalkar has found a new trading partner. Yes—we’ve begun trading with a traditionally hostile foe—so let me ask you this. If one journey to the depth was enough to find a Leviathan Core for the Tower of Shalkar—who knows what other wonders may lie in the Vels?”
The point, as she strongly emphasised for the METRO, was that with the Fifth Vel acting as a trading station, facilities friendly to the physiology of Humans could finally be constructed in the Elemental Plane of Water, meaning for the first time in the Mageocracy’s history, private enterprises could fund expeditions, or organise trading hubs with the Mer.
Tired as the Regent felt, she understood that a new chapter would soon begin for her Shining City on the Hill. Her Tower, the Leviathan Cores, the expedition to Deepholm, the Russians… whatever happens next, she could only do her very best, knowing that whatever the result—it would change her world and theirs—forever.