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. Sunlight
flashed on armor, and Wingover's breath became a hiss.
Goblins. A small party of them, with a taller figure
leading them - a figure wearing dark, glistening armor
and what seemed to be a horned helmet. Human? Elf?
He couldn't tell. Reaching for his pouch, Wingover
brushed an elbow against a stone, which in turn rolled
over, balanced for a moment on the shelf's edge, then
fell, bouncing down the slope. The human muttered a
curse, then found his spyglass and brought it to his eye.
Dwarven-made, it was a brass tube with lenses and a
quartz prism - not as precise or as delicate as some el-
ven glasses he had seen, but well-crafted and adequate
for his purposes.
Adjusting its focus-ring, he sighted on the company
below and frowned, trying to count them. Not all of the
goblins were in sight at one time since parts of the faint
trail were hidden by ridges and features in the mountain-
side. But there were a dozen or so. And these were better
armed and more heavily armored than the ones
Wingover and Garon had encountered north of Barter.
They moved with a discipline and precision he would not
have expected of goblins.
Easing his glass along the line of goblins, Wingover
studied the taller figure in front. Dark armor, richly
made: lacquered steel breastplate; epaulettes embla-
zoned in gold; oiled, fine chain; shin-and armguards of
polished bronze; a plain black oval shield; embellished
sword hilt exposed from bejeweled sheath
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