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. "I got them from a Qualinesti traveler, Garon
Wendesthalas." He dug deeper into the pack. "I still can't
find my oil striker. Can you light these with that phos-
phor thing?"
"I can try. What do I light?"
"This thing here, on each one. It's a fuse." Wingover
hurried to the foot of the bridge and placed a flare on
each side, at the main supports. "Hurry," he said.
The wizard knelt at first one and then the other of the
flares, preparing the wicks. His glow was dimming
slightly, and he squinted in the gloom.
"Will this help?" It was Chess, coming back to see
what they were doing. The kender held a small metal ob-
ject, which he manipulated with his thumb. A merry lit-
tle fire appeared above his hand. But the wizard set the
flares then. Harsh, bright sparks spewed forth, and
Wingover said. "All right, get back!"
They retreated a dozen paces, then several more as
bronze bolts sang past them from beyond the stream.
Suddenly the flares erupted in furious blinding bril-
liance, beyond which a flood of armed goblins were run-
ning up the far ramp, onto the bridge.
Another bronze dart flew past, and Wingover
snapped, "Put out that light." Then he turned to the ken-
der as the little flame went out. "Where did you get
that?"
Chess shrugged. "I don't know. Found it somewhere.
What is it?"
"It's my oil striker!" Wingover growled.
"Is that what it is? Why do I have it, then?"
"I don't know why you have it
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