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The elf turned slightly, surveying the landscape, and
Wingover recognized him. An old friend. Garon Wen-
desthalas. The elf carried a pack and a bow, and
Wingover suspected he was going to Barter as he was.
But on the brushy slope between them, crouching in
cover and watching the elf approach, were goblins -
armed, armored goblins waiting in ambush. He counted
eight that he could see and cover where two or three
more might be.
Wingover crouched, waiting. There was no question
what was about to happen. For whatever reason goblins
might have - curiosity about what was in the elf's pack,
perhaps, or simply for sport - the goblins were ready to
pounce on the elf, to bring him down with their weapons.
Garon Wendesthalas has been taking care of himself
for a long time, Wingover told himself, slitted eyes
studying the goblins. The goblins may wish they had
never met this elf.
Still, he told himself as goblin faces turned toward one
another, wide mouths grinning in wicked anticipation,
what are friends for, if not to interfere?
With a shrug he got his feet under him, howled a battle
cry as wild as any goblin could ever have heard, and
plunged down the slope, directly into the crouched
goblins' ambush.
With gravity doubling the speed of his long legs,
Wingover descended on them and through them, spin-
ning completely around as he pierced their line
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