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. Nor had
he let his attention fix on the pain they inflicted. Instead,
he drifted in his mind, remote and aloof, savoring mem-
ories, recalling pleasant times... remote and unreacha-
ble. He had removed himself to such distance that he was
barely aware of the goblins around him. But he knew the
leader now. A human female, Kolanda Darkmoor. Corn-
mander, the goblins called her. And he knew that
someone - or something - else was with her, though he
had seen no one. Distantly, he had heard bits of their
conversation... the woman's voice impatient and quer-
ulous, the other's a dry, shriveled husk of a voice that
whispered in tones of venom and mockery. He had heard
her call the other's name. Caliban.
Garon shut out all other awarenesses. In his mind he
walked the patterned forests of the Qualinesti, drank
cool water from a brook, listened to the songs of elves in
a nearby glade....
"We're learning nothing here," Kolanda Darkmoor
snapped, beckoning to an armored hobgoblin. "We've
wasted enough time. This elf will tell us nothing."
"Kill him now?" the creature asked hopefully.
"No, bring him along. He's strong. He will make a
good slave."
"Elf," the hobgoblin snarled. "Make trouble. Run
away, sure -"
Kolanda turned fierce eyes on him. "Did I ask for your
opinion, Thog?"
The hobgoblin stepped back quickly, then lowered his
face in submission
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