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.
Two jibbering goblins following him died under the
sword of Camber Meld. The cooling cloud of dark steam
above was descending now, settling as a dense fog
streaked with ash, slanting before a wind that came
across the old battlefield, carrying the dry scent of ages.
For long minutes there was only silence and the blind-
ing mist. Then, slowly, the cloud thinned. Five humans
and six hill dwarves, the last of the combined fighting
force led by Camber Meld and Fleece Ironhill, stood
alone at the edge of a great, blackened plain littered with
bodies, dropped arms and ancient burned stumps. Most
of the strewn bodies were goblins, many of them still
pierced by the weapons that had killed them. And every-
where, among and around them, were little heaps of
clothing and armor -- all that remained of the dwarves of
Waykeep, fighters released from an ancient spell for one
last cut, one last thrust, at an enemy.
The refugees looked around in awe. Nothing moved
except the wind... the wind, and a sliver of white far to
the east, something that flew like a bird with still wings,
riding on the air. Something going away.
* * * * *
On a forest-shrouded knoll in the Vale of Respite,
some distance south of the encampments of the goblins,
a red dragon burrowed into leaf-mold and slept the sleep
of exhaustion. Even the most powerful of creatures had
its limits, and this one had been in flight for nearly thirty
hours and more than five hundred miles
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