Given their habit of crafting labyrinths, it was no surprise that the Dwarves lacked any kind of central stronghold. Those hole-filled mountains were called anthills by those who desired to poke fun at the dwellers of the north, but Marché was slowly coming to terms with the fact that the Dwarves had more in common with hive insects than he could have ever imagined.
The Royal Delve - a series of heavily-guarded, interconnected tunnels drilled into the mountain, acted as the stronghold of the Dwarves' military might, not to mention the precursor to a great, roaring chamber of fire meticulously carved out from the volcano's shaft where Alberich's fortress of pure obsidian was suspended upon a shelf of magma-lapped stone. That day - the day of Alberich's coronation - was the only day when commoners were allowed through the Royal Delve and onto the precarious plain of rock leading up to the fortress.
Marché was led through a crowd of raucous workmen and soused partygoers by a guard who somehow wasn't fainting in the heat of the mountain depths despite wearing full plate mail. He felt a sweat building on his forehead as an orange light reared up from the depths. The tunnels widened into a somewhat cylindrical shaft hundreds of feet in diameter. Sunlight bore down from where the earth had ruptured to create the volcano's opening, lending Alberich's black fortress a reflective lustre.
"Building a fortress inside of an active volcano?" Roland tried to keep his confusion in check, but a quick exhalation from his nose spoke of how ridiculous the sight really was, "Some call the Dwarves ingenious. Some call them mad. I'm of the opinion that their innovations are best examined separately from the whole. But this? This is pure madness."
"I'm not sure I would like to sleep in a fortress one bad day away from sinking into a magma chamber." Marché replied, "But, then again, I'm not a Dwarf, am I?"
Their conversation was drowned out by the chatter. Countless Dwarves had been huddled onto that ledge and around the shaft's various secondary entrances. There seemed to be a pair of eyes peeking out from every half-formed cavern in the volcano's boiling innards, seeking the arrival of their fabled ruler like Kobolds prostrating themselves before a mighty Dragon.
Marché and Roland stuck out like sore thumbs. A battalion of axe-toting guards manned the bridge of stone leading up to the fortress proper, upon the walls of which stood a countless number of Dwarves handling weapons of every conceivable persuasion - as well as a few that Marché had never seen in his life.
"Getting into there is going to be a problem…" Roland muttered, "To say nothing of the labyrinthine tunnels we had to move through just to get here."
"Couldn't we approach from above?" Marché suggested, "Remember that Manticore Lieze used during the battle with Sokalar? It would have no problem soaring into the volcano and landing right on top of the fortress."
"-But it wouldn't be able to enter. The doors are too small, and the walls are too thick to break down with anything less than a trebuchet." He argued, "And more to the point, how safe would Lieze be without any thralls to back her up? She would have an entire garrison to deal with."
"Then… why don't we collapse the whole thing?" Marché scanned the mushroom-shaped slab of stone upon which the fortress was balanced. Its trunk was erected from within the lava chamber bubbling below, "These are Dwarven lands, remember. It shouldn't be difficult to source some black powder."
"All in due time, Marché." Roland placed a hand on his shoulder, "For now, let's focus on inciting some chaos within the country. We need a strong foundation before we can think about committing acts of unbelievable terrorism."
The hoarse bellow of trumpets dimmed the crowd's chatter and directed all eyes towards the highest balcony of the fortress, where a group of soldiers wearing golden, decorative armour had emerged to blow into their instruments of brass. They played something that might have been called a tune, if the musicians were horribly drunk and had never held trumpets in their life.
From behind the noise, another Dwarf emerged. His armour could not be called 'decorative' - it deserved a moniker that exemplified its obscene vanity. Beams of sunlight reflected from the rows of priceless gemstones embedded within every spare inch of the plate, corrupted with swirls and fleurs extending in every direction.
The tiny fellow's helmet stuck out like the horn of a rhinoceros beetle, exposing his pallid face and perpetual scowl. As soon as he appeared, the guards flanking his position turned to face him in a single, graceful movement before bowing so deeply that their foreheads came close to touching the floor.
Roland had the decency to refrain from showing his teeth as he chuckled, "You must be joking. That's Alberich? I was expecting him to be… taller?"
"Now here's a man who isn't afraid to call himself king, unlike a certain monarch I knew." Marché crossed his arms, rather amused himself, "But there is a limit to how much pride one can have in their own position before it starts to seem a little pathetic."
However scathing their remarks were, it certainly didn't change the opinions of the Dwarves surrounding them. Mugs of ale were raised into the air and chants of the monarch's name threatened to bring the walls of the volcano down on their heads.
All it took was a single raised palm from Alberich to quieten the masses. At his command, the chamber fell silent, intruded upon only by the sounds of the bubbling magma below. The tiny king waddled up to a contraption affixed to the balcony that appeared to be some kind of telescopic trumpet. He placed his grimacing maw in front of the device, and the fledgling petals of his speech began in earnest - and in extraordinary loudness.
"I am the one whose strength shall sunder the earth!" He claimed, "I am the one whose beard shall never wither! Whose gaze shall never waver! Whose mind shall never shrivel! Whose liver shall never fail! I am the one whose vision shall prevail over all others, and whose intellect shall lead the breakers of the mountains out of the darkness, trampling all who stand in my way into a world of unending prosperity! I am Alberich - the invincible!"
Wildness sparked in the crowd, lighting a fire of incontestable patriotism within the hearts and souls of every Dwarf present. They lapped up Alberich's words like nectar, hanging onto every syllable as if their lives depended on it. Meanwhile, Marché was busy holding his hands over his ears and trying to focus on anything other than the man's grating, nasally voice.
"At least he's confident…" Roland's voice was drowned out by the cheers, "Humble? We couldn't be further from the word. But confident."
"My adoring rrreprobates!" Alberich rolled his words with all the gusto of a musician, both gem-encrusted gauntlets rising to clench in front of his face, "The Violet Oracles have bestowed upon me a vision of the future to come! I witnessed the arrival of a great army, whose rotting flesh and listless eyes defiled the magnificent plains of our land in a desperate bid for total annihilation!"
"...Violet Oracles?" Marché uncupped his ears.
"I don't know either." Roland shook his head as soon as their eyes met, "We should take everything this madman says with a mountain of salt."
"The so-called 'Order of Necromancers' believes that our defences will crumble just as easily as those of the pitiful Sovereign Cities!" Alberich continued his impassioned speech, "We Dwarves have experienced this fairytale time and time again! Conquerors rise in the south, only to be swatted like flies when they muster the courage needed to confront our impeccable machines of war! We have enjoyed the fruits of victory on countless occasions, and this war shall be no different!"
Roland's expression switched to one of reserved pride, "It's about time we got the recognition we deserved. The Order has been considered a 'thorn' and nothing more for well over a century."
"Popularity isn't always welcome. Especially not when our greatest strength has always been our ability to perform tasks discreetly." Marché replied, "-And I can't deny that Alberich's pride is well-founded. There isn't a single record within any library pointing to the Dwarves suffering anything close to a defeat."
Even so, Alberich was obviously the sort of man who launched into a half-hour tirade involving patriotism and endurance before he so much as stepped on a spider - and the Dwarven people would cheer him on despite the absurdity of it all.
"We will erase the Order of Necromancers from this sublime world! We will prove once and for all that the mountain breakers are destined to inherit the spoils of this reality! We will-"
A hand came to rest upon Alberich's spiked shoulder. He swivelled his neck with such ferocity that it was a wonder he didn't unscrew his skull from his spine. The Dwarf who had seen fit to interrupt his speech received a glare filled with unbridled hatred, "What do you think you're doing, man!? I am commemorating my most recent ascension to the Dwarven throne!"
The guard leaned forward and whispered something under his breath. Alberich's expression turned from furious to horrified to intrigued in a matter of seconds.
"What…?" He muttered, "Is this true?"
The guard nodded. Alberich coughed into his fist and returned to the balcony without missing a beat, "My comrades! My subjects! My acolytes! A tale most foul has just wormed its way into my all-hearing ears!"
"Oh dear…" Marché frowned, "I think I know where this is going."
"-A trrrrraitor has been unveiled in our midst! A traitor of the scheming and plotting sort! A traitor to our cause - nay, to our very way of life!" The tiny monarch waxed on, "And what's more - and what's more - this traitor is none other than an Elf whose sanctuary we so graciously provided for in the wake of Tonberg's destruction! An Elf who, against his better judgement, has allied himself with the foul ranks of the Order of Necromancers!"
Roland stepped closer to Marché, "Do you remember the plan?"
"Yes." He nodded, "We'll act the part of Baccharum's former associates in Tonberg and vouch for his innocence in the matter. If our own loyalty is contested, we'll bring up the Dwarven seal on the letter and try to pin the blame on someone important."
"Baccharum will be in a nice, cosy cell within the next half-hour." Roland nodded, "We should try to find out where he's going to be held."
"Let's not leave right away." He replied, "As much as I would love to get out of this coronation, it will seem suspicious if two humans are seen trying to leave after Alberich mentioned a traitor."
"You mean we have watch this whole thing!?" Roland's expression became horrified.
"Unfortunately."
"-Mark my words, my fellow aspirants!" Alberich raised a finger, "Under the graceful, almighty rule of Alberich, there shall be no subterfuge or skulking! No skulduggery or plotting! There shall only be justice, strength, and unity! I will personally see that this lowly Elf is punished to the fullest extent of our laws, or my name is not Alberich - he who slays Dragons, he who delves the earth, he whose spit oils the joints of our miracles!"