Despite all evidence to suggest their size, Roland couldn’t help but be humbled by the sight of the Dwarven Mountains. As the landscape took a turn for the vertical, he risked falling over simply by craning his neck to appreciate the scope of the so-called ‘anthills’. Their size made it impossible to see just how many there were, but Roland could guess from the columns of smoke rising up from behind the largest peak that there had to have been at least 20.
The Mountains’ various entrances were sculpted from natural cave formations, which over the course of centuries had been widened to accommodate even the most gargantuan creatures. Wrought-iron gates - practically settlements all on their own - were each staffed by detachments of Dwarven soldiers and their wicked implements of war. The enormous ballistae from before were present, as well as a number of oversized catapults constructed atop the iron battlements.
The refugees camping before the largest of those gates were of a different sort than the downtrodden commoners amassing at the border. They wore exquisite garments of dyed cotton and had armed escorts all of their own. Many of their wagons were in fact stagecoaches, favouring luxury over practicality, and from within the blood-tinged air emerged an unmistakable and oftentimes unbearable note of perfume or cologne.
Roland scanned the runaways thoroughly as the caravan was brought up behind the orderly line forming at the gates. As expected, most of them were humans - the escapees from Tonberg who were either wealthy enough or fortunate enough to have connections within the Dwarven Mountains. They were merchants, craftsmen, and nobles, each seeking unconditional entry into the safety of the north.
“We don’t fit in at all here…” Roland pinched the rags of his commoner’s disguise, “Best not to strike up any unnecessary conversations.”
Marché poked his head out from the flaps of the rear wagon and leaped down when he noticed all the commotion. His face was palid and sunken. It was obvious that the antidote he’d taken to expel the centipede beast’s venom hadn’t been the magical cure-all he was expecting it to be. With stumbling paces, he approached the front of the caravan and marvelled at the mountain face cascading up to touch the distant clouds.
“We’re here, then.” He swallowed, feeling cobwebs in his throat, “That’s a start.”
“I never would have expected to see this many humans here.” Roland replied, “What’s worse, they’re nobles and the like. I imagine they’ll have quite the tale to tell about the particulars of Lieze’s rampage through the city.”
“As long as they don’t recognise any of us, we’ll be fine.” He sniffed, “Are we supposed to wait until we’re allowed past?”
“It seems that way.” Roland crossed his arms, “Now would be a good time to-”
The rest of his statement was drowned out by the claxon of a grand and deafening horn from somewhere behind the gate. It was so unbelievably loud that the two of them were forced to place their hands over their ears. One or two less-prepared nobles lingering ahead simply fainted from the noise.
“This is a decree from Lord Alberich, tallest of his name and master of ceremonies!” A gruff voice was somehow broadcasted over the landscape, as if amplified by some strange magic, “Please form an orderly line and await the judgement of the guards! Those who harbour the particularly old or young or sick may approach the walls and request early entry! Please note that those who are found to be taking advantage of this decree will be promptly arrested!”
“Briar’s thorns… could he get any louder?” The ringing in Roland’s ears made it difficult to hear his own voice, “...Did you hear that, Marché?”
“How couldn’t I have?” He sighed.
“The sick. The sick are allowed entry.” Roland said, “You’re still ill, aren’t you? If we cut the line and spin a tale of how you’re on death’s door, we won’t have to wait out here for hours.”
“-And we could also be arrested for the trouble.”
“But you are sick, aren’t you?” Roland asked, “Your antidote will work in our favour. We’ll tell them that we used some herbs to ward off the worst of it, but you still need the touch of a healer if you’re to survive. They won’t have any choice but to let us in.”
“I can already tell you’re set on this, so I won’t try to argue.” Marché coughed into his fist, “I wouldn’t mind something to take the edge off, if I must be honest.”
“Let’s be on our way, then.” He beckoned for the wagons to follow him, “Go and get that letter of reply Baccharum sent. We’ll probably need to flash it before they’ll let us in.”
Marché did so, and the wagons eventually came to run parallel across the disgruntled procession of nobles and merchants, some of whom weren’t shy about casting their frustrated glances in Roland’s direction. Like that, they rolled over to a portcullis flanking the gate - obviously some kind of internal exit connecting to a barracks or armoury.
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“Halt!” One of the Dwarves standing guard stood forward to greet them. His accent was heavier than those at the border, “This entrance is reserved for-”
“The young, the old, and the sick, yes.” Roland interrupted, “We heard. A deaf man would have heard.”
The tiny, bearded man lifted his visor and gave Roland and his group a good once-over.
“None o’ yous look like children or orderlies to me.” He commented.
“No, but we have a man who was bitten by some kind of venomous monster on the journey here.” He replied, turning his head, “Marché! Where are you?”
The curly-haired necromancer stumbled his way out of the wagon with a curled parchment in one hand. It was obvious at a glance that he wasn’t well, but to what extent, it was difficult to say.
“A monster?” The Dwarf repeated, “What kind?”
“It looked like a cross between a giant centipede and an earthworm.” Roland answered.
“A Crestworm?” He placed emphasis on the creature’s name, “Yer friend would be dead if that were the case, son.”
“We were able to stave off the worst of its venom’s effects with a natural remedy.” Roland replied, “-But as you can see, he’s still not feeling well, and I doubt he’s going to get better without a healer.”
“Mhm…” The Dwarf nodded, “-And on whose authority do ye be seekin’ entrance into the Heart? Forgive me for soundin’ a tad presumptuous, but none of ye seem like nobles to me.”
“Baccharum Silas.” He turned his head, “Marché.”
The addled boy stumbled forward to hand over the parchment, which the guard took with gusto and unfurled to examine its contents. His eyes scanned the handwriting with slow, deliberate scrutiny.
“...Aye. Seems to all be in order.” He rolled the paper back up and returned it before rapping his plated fist against the portcullis, causing the iron to shudder, “Oi! Open the gate!”
The latticed blockade protested with a metallic screech as it rose from the ground. The guard gestured for Roland’s caravan to enter, and he gladly took the opportunity to dive into the safety of the Mountains, where there weren’t any nobles casting disgruntled looks his way.
Shadows dominated the interior of the gate, where a short passageway looped down and around to the tunnel leading in from the main entrance. Inhospitable iron forts flanking either side of the path could have been prisons, for all Roland knew, but it was more likely that the soldiers called those iron boxes their homes while on duty.
The trend of iron fell out of fashion as the caravan descended, replaced with carved stone walls of immaculate quality engraved with Dwarvish parables, limericks, and depictions of their past victories. Of particular interest were the carvings of a heavily-armoured Dwarf sporting a beard that ran all the way down to his knees, which appeared to have been recently chiselled over other pieces of artwork like a form of strange vandalism.
“Must be Alberich…” Roland lowered his voice to avoid an echo, “Can’t say I know much of him. Can’t say I know much of the Dwarves in general, secretive as they are.”
Soon enough, they approached a kind of sanctum which levelled out at the bottom of the subterranean hill. Activity was more pronounced there, with Dwarves collecting in droves to marvel or, in most cases, to jeer at the influx of human refugees, who seemed to have claimed the hall as some kind of enclave.
“Those poor souls outside are going to be surprised when their gold and connections can’t buy them a mansion underground.” Roland said, “Personally, I would have chosen death over living inside a mountain for the rest of my days.”
Their caravan found a quiet spot in the chamber to settle down and unpack. Little tendrils of carved stone illuminated by the orange light of firefly lanterns split off from the room in every imaginable direction, but none of them were large enough to fit a wagon - but then again, they were barely large enough to fit a human, nevermind an Elf.
“We’ll use this place as our base of operations while we’re here.” Roland swivelled his head from hole to hole as he considered their next move, “Finding Baccharum should be our first priority. He can bring us up to speed on what’s going on here in the Mountains before we take stock of the country’s defences.”
Marché clenched his eyes as a terrible headache pounded against his skull, “Would it be too much to ask for us to drop by an apothecary on the way?”
“If you can find one, then certainly.” He replied, “-But that’s a big ‘if’. I can’t wrap my head around how this place works. How do the Dwarves know which tunnels lead to where?”
Runes had been carved above each passage. Roland could identify the language as Dwarvish, but didn’t have the first clue of how to read them. As if expecting such an eventuality, Marché disappeared into one of the wagons and popped back out with an amulet in one hand.
“Look here.” He said, “Lieze lent it to me right before we departed. It’s a magical item that allows you to comprehend various languages.”
From Roland’s perspective, it appeared to be a mundane, if slightly gaudy, trinket. But with nothing else to rely on, he took the amulet and wrapped it around his neck, feeling a pleasant coolness as the impossibly small chain braced against his skin. Once more, he took a look at the engraved signs above one of the tunnels, surprised to find himself extracting meaning from a seemingly random jumble of runes.
“Well I’ll be…” He muttered, “I haven’t learned a lick of Dwarvish, so this will come in very handy.”
“Where do you think Baccharum will be?” Marché asked.
“He’s an Elf, so he’ll have set up somewhere dark and inaccessible.” He replied, “Unfortunately, this being a mountain, I imagine there are plenty of places that fit that description.”
“If he already had connections to the Dwarves before he arrived, wouldn’t it be natural to assume he’ll be found somewhere in the upper-class areas?”
“What defines ‘upper-class’ when you’re underground?” Roland asked, “Well… even if we can’t find him, I’m sure he’ll be able to find us. He already knows we’re on our way, after all.”
The carving that read ‘Commerce’ sounded like a fine place to start, both to search for Baccharum and to find a more permanent cure for Marché’s ailment.