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Sure evidence of that was the sheer number of metal
bolts that whisked and sang around him, coming from
various directions.
The goblins couldn't see him well enough to aim care-
fully, Chess realized -- at lease if he kept moving and
managed to evade dose contact with any of them. But
the bolts kept coming, and he had to admit that simple
luck would guide some of them his direction.
"This may not have been a very good idea," he told
himself, diving into a wash half-filled with dark, racing
water. A pair of bronze bolts slapped water into the ken-
der's face, and he ducked. Soon Chess was fighting an in-
creasing current. It carried him one hundred yards
downstream before he made it to the far bank.
His glow preceded him, and as he clambered out of the
wash a grinning goblin charged into the light, brandish-
ing a sword. Chess braced his hoopak, thumped the butt
end of it into the creature's face, then brought it around
full-circle. The shaft struck the goblin across the back of
the neck and laid it out.
Chess grabbed up the creature's sword, and his nostrils
twitched at the smell of goblin. He changed his mind and
flung the sword from him, point-first. In the darkness
somewhere close, a goblin gurgled and fell, pierced be-
tween breastplate and buckler. Chess didn't wait to see
what would happen next. He turned and ran, following
the course of the filling wash.
All about him was storm -- pouring rain and driving
winds, sheet lightning and rumbling thunder
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