The life-choked groves of midland forests faded into the far horizon.
Foliage disintegrated. Rivers dried up. The lush grass was shaved away to reveal a rust-red landscape of dusty stone. The sun's heat beating down on those barren plains made Marché feel like a specimen under glass. Never in his life had he felt so constantly dehydrated.
An entire three weeks had passed since their departure from Tonberg. For a short, blissful while, the caravan was at peace with nature, harvesting and hunting as often as they pleased in the verdant hilltops. Now there were no elk or rabbits or hogs to be found, replaced instead by hideous tarantulas buried in the crimson sand and flat-toed lizards clinging to the husks of desiccated branches.
And people. So many more people than Marché could have envisioned. Refugees all, draped in mud-caked rags and headwraps; diseased, deathly, on the brink of total extinction. Between marches, he and Roland bartered with those among them who upheld their tradition of gold. A king's ransom for a loaf of bread. Twice as much for a half-empty waterskin.
Night fell quickly. The group ate a quarter of their fill and spent the rest of the evening deep in thought to distract from the temptation of hunger. Marché wandered off to find a crest where he could spot the terminating point at which far sky and soil collided to form the edge of his very small world.
One such night, Roland crept up the hill to have a chat. His face was gaunt and without the usual fullness that lent him a certain kind of natural charisma. Marché didn't object as he planted himself on the flat of a rubicund boulder, and for a gentle few moments, the two remained in silence.
"...This is shit." Roland said, "I didn't think it would be this difficult."
"Yes…" Marché couldn't help but agree, "You have to wonder how the Dwarves ended up here to begin with - or how they manage to thrive despite the environment."
"We haven't reached the border yet." He replied, "There will be soldiers there. Logistics. Caravans and supply lines and the like. These are the dying plains upon which no life can prosper, but further north, there must be a great bounty of life to be found. All we have to do is cross into the mountains proper and we'll be golden."
"I'm sure that's what everyone else we've passed thinks as well." Marché said, "But how many of them will be accepted? We've come across the fractured caravans of nobles filled to the brim with heirlooms, but how likely are sentimental treasures to boost one's chances of being invited into a foreign land?"
"One look at the border's defences will be enough." Roland sighed, "-But I doubt Lieze will be satisfied with 'enough'. I half-expect she wants us to prepare some kind of forward operation to ease her own entry into these lands."
"What can we possibly do to punch a hole in this country?" A freezing wind passed across the barren plains, "Me and my comrades squatted in Tonberg's sewers for years, and let me tell you, it was neither particularly rewarding nor sustainable."
"That's true. But you had the Church to deal with." Roland replied, "So much as a passing rumour of hidden necromancers would have sent the city into a panic. Dwarves aren't quite so prone to chaos, and from what I know of them, they prefer to keep their laws lax."
"That still leaves us with the problem of entering."
Roland paused. He couldn't deny that.
"...I'll think of something."
In three days' time, the silhouettes of the Dwarven Mountains greeted them over the horizon. Even from such a distance, Marché found the sight of them positively mesmerising. Great pillars of smoke rose from gaping perforations in the mountain crags, as if they were playing host to enormous, world-eating parasites. He understood then and there why the holds of Dwarves were often referred to as 'anthills'.
Soon, there arrived a settlement of sorts, though instead of brick-and-mortar housing, countless tents had been pegged across the plains. Marché learned the 'why' of their existence not long after, when the legendary Dwarven border rocketed above the terrain to separate the lands of men and slightly smaller men.
A small city's worth of humans were clustered near and about the structure, confirming Marché's suspicion that crossing the border would not be a trifling task. Great ballistae the size of chapels were mounted atop the battlements, the wicked tips of their loaded bolts deterring any dreams of forcing one's way into the country - and that was to say nothing of the countless crossbowmen peering over from the edge.
"This isn't good…" Roland brought the caravan to a stop in an unoccupied space within the camp and brought the group together for a meeting, "Based on the amount of humans here, I'd wager that most of the refugees are being turned away."
"I reckon they've only allowed passage to the recognisable or the truly wealthy." Marché crossed his arms, "We're no more famous than the rest of these commoners, so our chances aren't any better. And I don't fancy trying to force our way in."
"We ought to have a look at what the situation at the gate is like." Roland resolved, "The rest of you should stay here and prepare to make camp. Marché, come with me."
The two of them separated from the group and waded through crowds of disorganised, downtrodden refugees towards the gate, which was open for the convenience of passing troops, but just as heavily-guarded as any other part of the wall, if not moreso.
A sextet of plate-clad Dwarves flanked the entrance, their statuesque postures unflinching in the wind and expressions indecipherable beneath the visors of their hound-nosed helmets. Marché took note of the fact that not one refugee besides himself and Roland were accosting the guards, which he took to mean that even closing the gap between them was a risky manoeuvre.
One step too far, and the Dwarves' axes went from drooping at their waists to rising high above their heads. One by one, they funnelled with stubby steps towards the perimeter of the gate to block the two intruders from suddenly rushing through. The leftmost-middle Dwarf removed a hand from his weapon and flicked his visor up with a quick sweep.
"Halt." His voice was tainted by either dust or age, and came out like the point of a knife scraping against rusted metal, "By order of Lord Alberich, the most honoured and generous within the Dwarven Mountains, and whose strength shall sunder her enemies without mercy, refugees are forbidden from entering these lands without a writ of passage."
Marché realised that he and Roland had leapt right into the thick of it. One conversation was all they were ever going to get, and failing to convince the guards that they were more than a band of forsaken refugees would see them on the fast track all the way back to Tonberg.
"Where would one apply to receive such a writ?" Roland took the initiative.
"There is no application to speak of." The guard answered succinctly. It was obviously a question he'd been asked countless times before, "A writ may only be obtained from a reputable business owner, civil worker, or registered adjudicator. Lord Alberich, whose boundless intelligence shall ferry us to the brightest age and whose sound judgement shall overcome any obstacle, has explicitly forbidden any refugees who cannot provide a writ to be denied entry into the Dwarven Mountains."
Roland crossed his arms, "How is a man meant to receive such permission without entering the country? I can't very well ask the local bartender to provide me with a reference if I'm not allowed to see him, can I?"
"These are our orders." If the Dwarf was off-duty, he might have shrugged, "They will not be changed."
"Roland…" Marché stood close and lowered his voice, "It's no use. Let's not cause a fuss."
"What do you expect me to do?" He whispered back, "Even if we had the tools to forge this so-called writ, we've got no idea what it even looks like."
"Hold on. Let me try something." Marché coughed and turned to face the guard, "An associate of mine escaped from Tonberg not long ago. An Elf by the name of Baccharum. I can't be certain if he made it all the way, but if he did, I'm sure he would be willing to vouch for our entry."
Elves were a supreme rarity beyond their homeland. Marché already knew full-well that Baccharum had managed to coax his way into the mountains, and the light of recognition in the Dwarf's deep hazel eyes told him that the name meant something.
"Baccharum." The guard repeated, "There was a Star-Eater by that name who arrived here, yes. He was able to provide correspondence that proved he was an affluent businessman, but he did not mention any associates travelling separately from him."
"Like I said - if you asked him, I'm sure he'd recognise my name." Marché replied, "Marché Hopper. We had dealings in the past, before the city was overrun with undead."
Using his real name was a risk, even if he was certain that it hadn't carried along on the tide of refugees. But proving that he had connections to someone in the country would grant him and Roland passage through the gate without relying on less subtle means.
"If what you say is true, then it will be at least a day before your claim is verified." The guard said, "I will arrange to have a letter sent by Direcrown explaining your circumstances. But be warned that if this Elf refuses to acknowledge your identity, I will have the authority to arrest you under suspicion of subterfuge."
"There's no doubt in my mind that he'll recognise me. Just be sure to mention that name - Marché Hopper." He insisted, "We'll happily wait a day if it means gaining entry."
"In which case, please stand aside." The guard requested, "If you linger for long enough, the others will take it as an excuse to harass us."
With nothing more to say, Marché and Roland wandered off to the side and merged with the cluster of tents and wagons, past scab-infested beggars and former nobles attempting fruitlessly to peddle their valuables for food and water.
"That wasn't bad." Roland said, "A shame we have to wait a day in this depraved shanty, but I suppose it would have been asking too much for a better outcome."
"Before we left, Lieze seemed certain that Baccharum was going to betray us at one point or another." Marché replied, "If so, then I can't imagine an opportunity more poignant than this. We're risking a lot by trusting him, but we haven't got much of a choice otherwise."
"No - that was some quick thinking." Roland said, "They would have turned us away like stray dogs if I'd kept on asking pointless questions. You're more clever than you appear, Marché."
He smirked, "That's not much of a compliment, but can I really expect anything better from someone who's spent his entire life in a desolate wasteland surrounded by madmen?"
"Like it or not, you're just as much of a madman as me now." Roland replied, "-But I see why Lieze keeps you around. It takes more than any old necromancer to survive rebelling against Sokalar."
"I won't pretend that luck didn't play a factor." Marché said, "But thank you."