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.
"Caliban," he muttered. "Caliban."
* * * * *
Viewed from the south, the valley was a long, deep cut
among towering mountains. Miles wide and many more
miles long, deep enough that fall foliage still livened the
forests below, it swept away to the north. The valley was
straighter than most Wingover had explored, and inter-
esting to his explorer's mind because, while its sides were
crested by precipitous cliffs, its approach from due south
was a long, fairly gentle slope.
It seemed to almost offer itself as a route, and
Wingover found that irritating. He had seen the great
cats who lived in this valley, and he knew the valley was
a trap. He wondered if any who had entered there had
ever come out again.
The man was moody and irritable as the hours passed,
tired of waiting for a crazy gnome in a sailing contriv-
ance, who probably would never return anyway. He
brooded upon the fates that had brought him to be here,
back out in the wilderness again, pursuing an impossible
quest - to find one lost dwarf in ten thousand square
miles of barely explored territory.
It didn't help Wingover's attitude that Jilian Firestoke
seemed to have decided that it was her responsibility to
fill the idle hours with constant chatter. He had heard a
dozen times now about Chane Feldstone's dream, and at
least a half-dozen times about the perfidy and downright
churlishness of Jilian's father, Slag Firestoke
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