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. Above him a voice that was not there
seemed to moan, "No-o-o! Other way-y-y!"
* * * * *
Four brightly shining figures and one dark one fled
across storm-blown fields in a murk lighted only by stac-
cato flares from above. Sheets of rain hissed around
them, and thunder reverberated. The ground was a flow-
ing morass of runoff.
Chane Feldstone led now, holding to the slim green
trace that was their only means of direction in the turbu-
lent darkness. The dwarf was a blackness against the
dark, staggering sometimes from weakness. He was sup-
ported by the rosy-glowing Jilian, who refused to leave
his side. The golden brightness of Wingover, leading a
glowing gray horse, and the ruby-red Glenshadow,
struggled along after the dark dwarven shape.
The worst of the storm seemed to be to the south, a
few miles away at most. The curtained darkness in that
direction was broken by a constant blaze of lightning,
and the gale winds swirling from there carried the sharp,
sweet breath of ozone.
They had tried to persuade the dwarf to ride, but he
would have none of it. Wingover suspected that Chane,
like many of his race, simply disliked horses. Some
dwarves were excellent riders, but not all.
Since leaving the gully, they had seen no goblins -- or
any other living thing. Possibly the kender, going off
alone as he had, had led the main forces away. If so,
Wingover thought, then the gods help the little creature
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