The first time Roland tasted Dwarven ale, he came close to spitting it out. Never before had a brew so foul and caustic crossed his tongue. He swore himself off from ever trying it again, only to find himself with another drink in hand not a week later. Marché watched him polish the foam from his second mug that night, already so accustomed to the idea of midnight boozing that he didn’t bother to question the ethics of it.
“I see the mountains are starting to rub off on you.” Marché said.
Roland brushed an arm across his mouth and set the mug down on the table, “It’s not so bad once you get used to the sensation of your gums melting.” he replied, “Plus, what better time is there of a celebration than tonight? You’ve heard the news, haven’t you?”
Marché looked from side to side before leaning forward, “...About the border?”
Roland nodded, “It won’t be long now. Not at all. It’s a good thing we’ve only got the finishing touches to apply on our own plans, or else we’d be in danger of lagging behind.”
“Are you sure it’s really going to work?”
Roland tapped his finger against the table, “Have you seen the foundries? The barracks? These people are preparing for war, and labour is ramping up as a result. But here’s the interesting part - do you remember those barrels of black powder we stole from that mine? You pointed out that they looked a little different.”
“They weren’t sealed properly.” Marché nodded, “Normally, they keep the black powder in special barrels to stop any contaminants from entering and causing them to suddenly explode, but the ones we found looked like any other.”
“It has to do with how fast they’re making it.” Roland continued, “Supplies of lumber are running low ever since the southern trade routes were cut off, so they’ve been forced to store it in the same barrels as everything else.”
“I’m not sure I follow your logic.” Marché said, “Why is this so interesting?”
“Earlier today, I noticed that the guards were placing these blue barrels in some of the major passageways.” He answered, “I asked what they were for, and it turns out that they’re going to be used as emergency water sources during the siege in case a fire breaks out.”
“Sounds logical enough. Water is a rarity down here, after all.”
“Well - how would you react if I told you that one of the Deathguards just so happened to come across a few buckets of blue paint, and may have ever-so-illegally stored those buckets in the same place where our barrels of black powder are being kept?”
Marché allowed the proposition to linger in the air for a few seconds, “...How many?”
“25. More if we can be bothered to source some, but I think 25 is a nice number of barrels to have.” He answered, “I already have the Deathguards painting over them as we speak. Once the guard changes, we can move in to swap the water barrels, leaving them none the wiser. Then, when a fire coincidentally breaks out on the day of the siege, the soldier responsible for dousing it will be in for a very nasty surprise.”
“An explosion like that could force the passageways to collapse.” Marché ran a hand over his chin, “If we place the barrels strategically, we could cut off access to certain areas.”
“Armouries, barracks, kitchens, workshops… the Dwarves are a productive lot, but even they’ll be hard-pressed trying to cope with fractured logistics.” Roland said, “Lieze will have an easier time pushing through to the Royal Delve, but that still leaves us with the problem of the siege weapons.”
Marché had spent the better part of his entire stay within the mountains dreaming up a strategy for sabotaging the emplacements at the main gate, but the high security made it impossible for any human to get close. With news of the border’s fall spreading like wildfire, restrictions on free movement were tighter than ever. There was no way of infiltrating the gates without taking an enormous risk.
“...Could Baccharum get us inside?” Marché wondered.
“Considering he hasn’t spoken to us in weeks, I’m reluctant to believe that he’s willing to offer any support.” Roland stared into his mug as if expecting it to magically fill up again, “Frankly, I think he’s becoming too confident. He may have been a useful pawn in Tonberg, but without Lieze to rein him in, he has the potential to throw our plans into jeopardy.”
Marché paused, “...Do you think he’s going to betray us?”
“Revealing his affiliation to us would see him thrown out of the country - if he isn’t placed right next to us on the gallows, that is.” He replied, “No - he has nothing to gain from opposing us. But if he could - without consequence - then he would have done so already. I’m certain of it.”
Saying that, his voice rose from a whisper to a shout as he raised his mug, “Bartender! Give me another one of these, whatever they’re called!”
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Marché crossed both hands on the table, “You should drink some water.”
“It’s my first time stepping beyond the arid Deadlands since the day I was born - where we ate nothing but frogs and newts for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every night - and you’re telling me not to enjoy the pleasure of a stiff drink and a warm meal for a change of pace?”
Marché shook his head, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you when you have a headache in the morning.”
A waitress came by to drop off another foaming mug. Roland couldn’t help but notice that her skin was deathly pale, even by Dwarven standards, and that her arms were trembling despite the intolerable warmth of the mountain. “Are you sure you should be working in a state like that?” He asked, “You look like you’re about to keel over.”
The waitress didn’t answer. Marché could see it in her gaze - the girl’s mind was elsewhere, relying on pure muscle memory to locomote her body. There was something familiar about her shambling gait and hunched posture as she wandered back to the bar.
“Strange…” Marché muttered, “What was that all about?”
Roland wasn’t paying any attention to him. He was turned in his chair, both hands upon the spine like an inquisitive child, following the woman as she stumbled back to the counter. Marché had a mind to point out that he was acting inappropriate, but then it happened - with a clattering of wood and tin, the woman’s platter fell from her grasp as she collapsed, garnering the attention of every Dwarf too drunk or distracted to notice her strange behaviour.
“Oh shit.” One of them exhaled through his nostrils, “Someone’s had a fall.”
“Go and help her up, you ungrateful clot!” A drinking partner shoved him by the shoulder, “Someone go and get a healer, for fuck’s sake! Don’t just sit there!”
Marché tried to make himself as small as possible within the ruckus. The last thing he wanted was for the woman’s poor health to be blamed on a pair of humans. Roland reoriented himself in his seat while the occupants of a nearby table stood up to offer help.
“There’s something not quite right about the way she looked.” He lowered his voice, “Did you do something to her?”
“-Oh, yes. As we all know, one look at my face is all it takes to make a woman fall ill.” Marché rolled his eye, “No, I didn’t. What’s gotten you into such a panic? She might have caught some kind of bug native to the mountains.”
“Hm… you’re probably right.” He said, “Once I’ve polished this mug off, we should head for the mine we’re using to store the-”
A cry of pain brought their conversation to a close. The two men swivelled their heads to spot a Dwarf backing away from the collapsed waitress, one hand cradled in another as blood seeped through the gaps in his fingers. “She bit me!” He yelled, “This crazy hen just up and bit me!”
Marché and Roland exchanged glances of mutual interest. With a solemn nod from each, they left the table and marched over to the source of the commotion, where a small crowd of Dwarves were surrounding the woman. Marché, who towered over the mob, peered above their heads to see the waitress violently resisting any attempt to help her, thrashing about whenever so much as a finger drew close.
“Marché…” Roland nudged his shoulder, “Look at her skin…”
The woman’s paleness had crossed a gradient from sickly into exsanguinated. Blue veins were visible across her pallid flesh, upon which crimson sores had begun to develop. Marché recognised the features as emblematic of a Gravewalker, but he couldn’t begin to fathom how the transformation had begun independent of a necromancer’s touch.
With a final croak, the woman perished, her body falling limp. There was no longer any trace of humanity in her eyes - only the glazed fog of an undead monster. One Dwarf - either braver or more foolish than the rest - took a knee beside the woman to inspect her pulse. As soon as his hand came anywhere near her neck, however, the corpse lunged up as if puppeteered by some ephemeral force, severing the Dwarf’s finger with a ferocious bite.
Panic gripped the pub. Dwarves fell upon one-another in droves, desperate to escape from the chaos. Marché remained fixated on the newly-spawned Gravewalker as it tackled its unfortunate victim to the floor, deaf to his screams while tearing. chunks of flesh free from his cheek.
A hand fell upon Marché’s shoulder.
“Let’s go.” Roland said, “We can’t risk being implicated in this.”
Marché nodded, and the two of them sprinted after the tide of fleeing Dwarves, doing their best impressions of terrified citizens until they were well clear of the premises. Even when the chaos became a distant memory, they continued to place distance between themselves and the pub, passing through a residential area studded with countless hovels which sank into the walls like honeycombs.
“What the fuck was that…?” Roland muttered, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“You didn’t have a hand in it?” Marché sounded genuinely surprised.
“I was about to ask you the same thing!” He replied, “I’ve heard that especially powerful necromancers can transform the living into thralls without having to bother with murder, but that woman’s transformation was completely natural!”
“Was it on our side?”
Roland paused, “...That is the question, isn’t it? If so, then it must be Lieze’s doing. She’s capable of some rather strange feats, so it wouldn’t surprise me if she’s discovered a way to infect the living with some kind of undead disease.”
A dark thought inserted itself into Marché’s head, “...Do you think it will work on us?”
Roland’s expression flattened out, “I hope not…”
“If something like this spreads across the mountains, half of the country could be dead before Lieze even gets here.” Marché continued, “It’s… not unwelcome.”
“And after we went through all the trouble of raising our own…” Roland shrugged, “Not that I’m complaining. Our chances are getting better by the day.”
Marché was beginning to realise that Lieze’s victory in Tonberg had less to do with luck than he could have ever imagined. Her chances of overcoming the mountains’ defences, with every ploy and strategy in play, were improving by the hour.
“...We need to finish our own preparations.” He said, “It’s not going to be long now.”