"Check the cargo first," Walin ordered with the authority of a self-appointed leader. "Hey, Wilton. Go stand watch."

  Holar Peter Wilton nodded silently, drawing the pitch-black battle axe strapped to his back. "These goods aren't going to sprout legs and wander off, Walin," Jim remarked as he pulled back the canvas covering the wagon. "I'm more concerned about whether our horses can endure long enough to deliver this cargo to its destination."

  "We have four horses, Jim. Four proper steeds—not stunted ponies, not feeble nags," Walin Barklo Vaslov declared, holding up four stubby fingers. "These Godma nags could haul us around Cynthia's capital five times over and not even break a sweat."

  "What good is that?" Fendi interjected, practical as always. "We could circle it a hundred times and still have no means of entry."

  "Even a dwarf must possess vision," Walin said, striding over to clap Fendi's shoulder. "Little Fendi, when that beard of yours reaches the majesty of mine, you'll comprehend how our actions today shall reshape history itself."

  "That'll require another fifty years, at least."

  "Ah! I nearly forgot you've only just celebrated your fiftieth," Walin Barklo Vaslov grinned widely. "It seems I'm the eldest dwarf among us."

  "And undoubtedly the most long-winded, you prattling old goat," Jim retorted, securing the tarp. "The cargo's intact—both wagons accounted for." He ambled to a nearby tree and slumped down. "We've been trudging through this endless forest for ages. Where in the blazes are we?"

  "West Wymar Forest, I'd wager," Fendi Firshield replied, surveying their surroundings with narrowed eyes.

  "Who in the Seven Hells doesn't know we're in West Wymar?" Jim snorted, taking a hearty swig of tequila. "I just want to know when we're getting near Cynthian lands. I don't fancy having a bunch of Black Riders jump out on us."

  "If it comes to that, we fight," Walin declared, patting the short sword at his waist—a blade specially crafted for dwarven proportions.

  "Fight?" Jim scoffed. "And should we encounter Godma soldiers, what explanation do we offer?"

  "Don't we have... what was it again?" Fendi pondered briefly. "Ah yes, the travel documents from the Godma. Present those and our problems vanish."

  "Speaking of which," Jim extracted a piece of parchment from within his tunic. "These passes bear the imperial seal of Godma, for stone's sake. If Cynthian soldiers search us and discover these, we're finished. What sort of refugees carry high-clearance Godma documents? One for each of us, no less?"

  Walin fixed him with an exaggerated, mischievous stare. "What's with the shifty eyes, Walin?" Jim leaned closer, suspicious. "Out with it—have you devised some clever solution?"

  Walin Barklo Vaslov slowly parted his magnificent beard, revealing the pass tucked within its depths. "Bloody hell, you sneaky bastard!" Jim Harad's eyes bulged. "You've concealed it in your beard?!"

  He reached for the document, but Walin swatted his hand away. "Hmph, this is what we call cunning," Walin proclaimed smugly. "Any man who dares violate my beard shall lose his hand. A dwarf's beard surpasses even his manhood in sanctity. No Cynthian would dare such sacrilege."

  "Devious bastard," Jim muttered, with a grudging smile. "But I admire it." He promptly began rolling his own pass, tucking it securely within his braided beard.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Fendi observed Walin with newfound respect, following suit with his own document.

  In the distance, Holar Peter Wilton, vigilant at his post, discreetly retrieved his pass as well.

  "Yet," Fendi Firshield ventured, fingers brushing the crossbow slung across his back, "are we certain about leaving the girl unarmed? Should danger arise... should conflict with Cynthian forces prove inevitable, wouldn't it be prudent to provide her some means of defense?"

  "That possibility approaches zero," Walin dismissed, folding his arms across his broad chest. "Provided our charade remains convincing, none shall harbor suspicion. Conversely, a female refugee clutching both infant and weapon would invite far greater scrutiny."

  Caroline Tobias approached with measured steps, clearly attempting to avoid their notice, but the betraying rustle of underbrush announced her presence. "Finished nursing, have you?" Walin inquired with a sidelong glance.

  The girl offered no response, settling instead beneath a tree at a careful distance from the dwarves. "Stubborn wench," the elder dwarf muttered under his breath.

  Caroline untied the ribbon binding her hair, allowing her flaxen tresses to fall freely. The infant rested peacefully upon her lap, drifting into innocent slumber. "Care for a drink, miss?" Fendi extended a water flask toward her.

  The girl lifted her gaze, eyes like polished amber meeting his. "It's not spirits, my lady," he assured with a gentle smile. "Merely water—clean water."

  With evident hesitation, Caroline accepted the flask. "I've cleansed it," the young dwarf hastened to explain. "The mouth of the flask, I mean."

  Caroline raised it to her lips, allowing the cool liquid to soothe her parched throat. She drank deeply, her cracked lips gradually regaining their suppleness. As she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, the faintest smile graced her features.

  "Would you look at that miracle," Walin nudged Jim, pointing. "The haughty lass actually smiled. So that proud mouth can form expressions beyond disdain! Remarkable... Ow!" Jim delivered a sharp blow to the back of his head.

  "Could you, for once in your life, curb that flapping tongue, Lord Walin?" Jim growled. "The girl's shown a rare pleasant mood—let them converse in peace. Come, let's share a drink with Wilton." He dragged the elder dwarf away, Walin still nursing his wounded skull.

  Caroline returned the flask to Fendi. The dwarf offered an awkward smile and was preparing to withdraw when her voice, soft and unexpectedly melodic despite its hoarseness, halted him. "Won't you drink?"

  Caught off-guard by her sudden willingness to speak, he faltered. "I—I partook earlier."

  "Then... thank you," the girl murmured, her tone shy yet unmistakably sincere.

  "The pleasure is mine, my lady," the young dwarf replied, executing a formal bow that proved comically elaborate. His excessive ceremony elicited a genuine chuckle from Caroline. "If you wish," she offered, gesturing to the space beside her, "you may sit here."

  Fendi Firshield shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "If you insist."

  Two larks alighted upon the forest floor, hopping amidst fallen leaves and twigs, their songs weaving a duet of natural harmony. Caroline and Fendi listened in companionable silence. The infant, apparently unimpressed by the avian performers, began exploring its own cheeks with tiny, curious fingers. Caroline gathered the child into her arms, pressing a tender kiss upon its forehead.

  "Is she yours?" Fendi Firshield ventured after a moment.

  "...I don't know," Caroline replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm uncertain what makes a child truly 'mine.' If it requires blood relation, then no, she isn't." She turned to meet the dwarf's steady gaze. "I lost my own child during the Godma siege. This little one—I found her abandoned on the streets of Crivi. So by birth, no, she isn't mine." Her eyes, when they returned to the infant, held a warmth that belied her words.

  "...I'm sorry," Fendi offered lamely, lacking better consolation. From nearby came the boisterous sounds of the other dwarves engaged in games of chance and drinking.

  "To be honest," Caroline's tone shifted to ice, "I find no pleasure in your company—any of you. I particularly detest that loud-mouthed dwarf with the dark beard who cannot govern his tongue." (Walin,) he thought silently. "As for the rest—yourself included—forgive my bluntness, but I harbor no fondness for any of you. Were the payment not so substantial, I would never have associated myself with your kind."

  Though he had steeled himself for rejection, the young dwarf could not entirely mask his wounded pride. "May I ask why?" he inquired, voice carefully controlled. "What drives such contempt for dwarves?"