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Cold and - he noticed abruptly - strangely quiet. He
looked around. The usual daytime sounds of the moun-
tains, the chittering of small creatures, the myriad calls
of cliff-birds, had gone silent. The only sound was the
wind sighing forlornly.
Without seeming to have noticed - one learned such
skills if one would survive in the wildernesses of
Ansalon - Wingover eased his sword around so that its
hilt rested across the vent of his saddle, inches from his
hand. Eyes that missed little scanned the landscape,
searching for anything out of place or out of order.
Wingover's eyes were as pale as the frost on his reddish
whiskers, and as alert as those of the darting shoal-kite
for which he was named. He studied the rising stonefall
to his left, the bouldered slope falling away to the right,
the gametrail winding out of sight ahead, and -
stretching around as one too long a'saddle - his own
backtrail. Nothing caught his eye, nothing out of the or-
dinary, and yet the silence hung and all his senses re-
sponded to it.
Angling near a wide cleft in the stonefall, he reined the
horse into cover and stopped, listening. At first there
was nothing to hear, then from somewhere came a faint
scuffling sound, as of shod feet creeping through gravel
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