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Many shod feet. And now the errant wind carried a smell
that alerted him. It was an odor he recognized. A cloy-
ing, unpleasant odor.
Wingover frowned, testing the air. Goblins again!
What were goblins doing this far south?
Again he heard the furtive, scuffling noises, and this
time he heard metalic sounds as well - little clinks as of
weapons being drawn. Silently he dismounted, slipping
his animal's reins into a crack in the rock. He freed the
lashes behind his saddle and righted the flinthide shield
there, pulling its strap onto his left arm, gripping the gui-
don with hard fingers. Sword drawn, Wingover
crouched, slipped from the cover of the rocks, and
sprinted forward on soft-soled feet, following the game-
trail. Just ahead someone was in trouble.
Fifty yards from where the man had dismounted, the
dim trail topped a ridge and disappeared. Crawling the
last few feet, Wingover looked beyond. The game trail
veered away to the right, following a slope. Some dis-
tance away it made a switchback turn, angling down-
ward toward a distant, meadowed valley. On the trail
below, a single walker strode along - a tall, lithe figure
clad in furs and leathers against the cold. Wingover
could not see his face, but he knew his race. Distance and
angle could not hide the lean, graceful form, the gliding
stride of an elf
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