"No particular reason," the girl replied matter-of-factly. "Dislike is simply dislike. It's not just dwarves—I loathe halflings, goblins, and all manner of humanoid races. Oh, and elves too, for that matter."

  "So, humans are the only ones you like?" Fendi ventured.

  "Who ever suggested that?" Her smile was a brittle thing, sharp with bitterness. "I fucking hate humans most of all."

  "Now there's a sentiment we can appreciate," Jim declared, materializing before the pair. "Only a pig-brained human could come up with something as stupid as the 'Humanoid Act.' Time to move along, miss. Our horses are so bored they're contemplating eating dirt... lend us your assistance, would you?"

  Caroline secured the infant in her sling once more. "Just a small favor," Jim said with an embarrassed cough. Caroline effortlessly hoisted him up so he could reach the stirrup. "Much obliged," he offered with a grin, though the girl's expression remained impassive.

  "This time, let me switch places," Walin announced, hands planted imperiously on his hips and chest puffed out. "I'd like to experience riding with such a soft cushion at my back."

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Caroline plucked him up like a child's doll and deposited him unceremoniously on his original mount. "Hey! I distinctly said I wanted to ride with you!" he protested.

  "Abandon hope, Lord Walin," Jim jeered. "You'd need another five inches to even get close to her tits."

  "And you'd need six!" Walin Barklo Vaslov retorted, face flushing crimson beneath his beard.

  After assisting Holar Peter Wilton and Fendi Firshield onto their respective mounts, Caroline swung herself gracefully onto her own horse. Fendi felt something warm and soft press against his back.

  "Let's be off," Walin commanded. "We must reach our destination before nightfall."

  "Ease your anxieties, brother," Jim said, clapping his companion's shoulder. "The sun's barely cleared the horizon—time is abundant."

  "We're meant to be the vanguard. Would you have those who follow mock us for tardiness?" The elder dwarf nudged his steed forward, the brown horse dutifully beginning to pull the wagon. "I certainly wouldn't, Jim. 'Tardy Walin'? What an insufferable moniker that would be."

  The four horses were divided into pairs, each team harnessed to one of the wagons. Their journey proceeded without incident for roughly three hours before Fendi suddenly raised a warning hand. "Company," he murmured.

  "Who approaches?" Jim craned forward, squinting into the distance. "Black Riders. Cynthian patrol."

  "What's destined to come will always find us," Walin Barklo Vaslov said philosophically, clearing his throat before spitting on the ground. "Everyone prepared?" A gleam of anticipation shone in his eyes. "Time to demonstrate our theatrical prowess."