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. The horned mask under her
arm stared back at the lizard through hollow eyes.
The red dragon watched her go, then stretched luxuri-
ously. It would be time soon to spread great wings and
begin the long flight back to the region of Sanction. The
Highlord would be waiting for his report.
The Highlord. One of many Highlords in the north
now, amassing armies, sending out spies and patrols,
plotting and securing lines of march, organizing systems
... petty, mortal creatures preparing for the day the
Dark Queen would unleash them across Ansalon and be-
yond. They would then secure for her -- once and for
all -- the world she wanted and was fit to rule.
The dragon pondered for a moment whether to report
the gnome in the flying thing who had seen him and
somehow escaped. He thought about it, but decided that
there was nothing to be gained. It was, after all, only a
gnome.
* * * * *
Two days' foot-travel to the east of the dragon's resting
place, Chane Feldstone led a tired and dusty little group
along a winding ledge. Mountain winds sang in towering
crags above them, and mists hid the depths below.
"Do you know where we are?" Wingover asked the
dwarf for the second or third time in an hour.
'Why don't you leave him alone?" Jilian Firestoke
snapped. "Can't you see he's tired?"
Wingover nodded. It was obvious the dwarf was tired.
Still weak from his shoulder wound, he sometimes stum-
bled and rarely spoke, though he pushed on with grim
determination
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