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. "This is a little something that elves have
learned - the hard way - from goblins," he told
Wingover. Then to the goblin he said, "You still have one
eye left. Who sent you here?"
The creature writhed and whimpered. "I can't say! I
can't!"
Grim-faced, Garon Wendesthalas pushed the crea-
ture's head down until eye touched knife-point. "Yes,
you can," the elf said. "Who sent you?"
"I can't... ahh! Darkmoor! The commander! I an-
swer to the - !" Abruptly the goblin stiffened. Tiny bolts
of lightning writhed along its body, twisting in bright
weaves around arms and legs, a dancing fabric of blue
bolts as fine as spider lace. The bolts lasted only for an
instant, then the goblin's pale, flabby body went rigid,
the wide spike-toothed mouth opened and heavy, dark
smoke gusted from it.
The creature went limp. Garon pulled the body away
from the dagger and rolled it over, his long, elven face
twisting in disgust. "Dead," he said.
"So I see," Wingover shrugged. "You didn't kill him,
though."
"No. He truly couldn't say more. He had a spell upon
him, and it killed him rather than let him tell us anything
else. Do you know anyone called 'Commander' or
'Darkmoor?' "
Wingover shook his head. "It isn't a goblin name.
Doesn't sound dwarven, either
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