the dwarves pulling along in front. "Set a camp, eat us a good stew, and lighten that load we got by a keg o' ale!"
"Ho ho!" several of the others roared in agreement, as dwarves usually did when the possibility of consuming ale was mentioned.
"Bah, ye've all gone soft on me!" Tred pouted.
"Ye're just wanting to beat Smig to Shallows!" Duggan declared.
Tred spat and waved his hands. It was too obvious a protest. Every-one there knew it was true enough. Smig was Tred's greatest rival, two friends who pretended to hate each other, but who, in truth, only lived to outdo each other. Both knew that the small town of Shallows, with its trademark tower and renowned wizard, had seen an influx of people right before the winter-frontiersmen who would need fine weapons, armor, and horseshoes - and both had heard King Warcrown's proclamation that he would be pleased to establish trading routes along the Spine of the World. Since the recapture of the dwarven citadel, which had been in orc hands for three centuries, the area west of Felbarr had calmed considerably, with the mountainous region to the east still buzzing with monstrous activity. There was an Underdark route to Mithral Hall, but none had been discovered thus far to open the lands north of Clan Battlehammer's stronghold. All of those accompanying Tred- his workers, including his brother Duggan, Nikwillig the cobbler, and the opportunistic brothers, Bokkum and Stokkum, who were carrying essential goods (mostly ale) for other Felbarr tradesmen-had eagerly signed on. The first caravan would be the most profitable one, taking their pick of the treasures garnered by the frontiersmen. Even more important than that, the first caravan would carry bragging rights and the favor of King Warcrown.
Right before the departure, Tred had engaged Smiggly "Smig" Stumpin in a good-natured drinking game, but not before he had paid one of the Moradin priests well for a potion that defeated the effects of alcohol. Tred figured that he and his had been out of Citadel Felbarr for a day and more before poor Smig had even awakened, and another day before the dwarf could shrink his head enough to get out the citadel's front door.
Tred would be damned if he'd let a little thing like an abscessed horse hoof slow them down enough for Smig to have a chance of catching up.
"Ye put up a trot for three more miles and we'll call it a good day," Tred offered.
Groans erupted all about him, even from Bokkum, who stood to lose the most profits by an early camp, and hence, more ale consumed and less to sell-though the betting was that he wouldn't end up selling it in Shallows anyway, and that he'd take it back for the celebration on the return journey.
"Two miles, then!" Tred barked. "Are ye wanting to share a camp this night with Smig and his boys?"
"Bah, Smig ain't even out yet," Stokkum said.
"And if he is, he and his got slowed plenty by the rock-fall we dropped in the path behind us," Nikwillig added.
"Two more miles!" Tred roared.
He cracked the whip again, and poor Nikwillig stood up very straight and managed to turn about enough to put a glower over the rugged driver.
"Ye hit me again and I'll be making ye a pair o' shoes ye won't soon be forgetting!" Nikwillig blustered.
His feet were digging little trenches as he got dragged along, and that only made Tred and the others laugh all the louder. Before Nikwillig could start his grumping again, Duggan kicked up a song about a mythical dwarven Utopia, a great town in a deep mine that would please Moradin himself.
"Climb that trail!" Duggan crooned, and several looked at him, not sure if he was singing or ordering them around. "Break down that door!" Duggan went on, prompting Stokkum to yell out, "What door?"
But Duggan only continued, "Find that tunnel and run some more!"
"Ah, Upsen Downs!" Stokkum yelled, and the whole crew, even surly Nikwillig, couldn't resist, and broke into a rowdy, back-slapping song.