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In the ravine, four goblin scouts paused, puzzled at the
sudden change in approaching sounds. One started to
raise his head and another swatted him down. "Don'
look," he growled. "Get us seen. Listen!"
"Runnin' away," another said, pointing back the way
they had come. "That way."
The goblins turned to follow the hoofbeats, but a
blood-freezing howl erupted just behind them. The rear-
most goblin didn't even have time to turn. Wingover's
sword flashed across his back from shoulder to waist,
and dark blood spurted. The second turned, tried to raise
his dart-bow, and had it knocked from his hand. With
his sword, the goblin barely countered the human's fol-
lowing thrust with a low, chopping swing at his legs.
Metal rang on metal.
The third goblin had his blade out, but the fourth
caught his arm. "Back up," he hissed. "Get room. Use
darts."
They scrambled back, setting darts to their crossbows.
The first dart ricocheted off Wingover's flinthide shield.
The second buried itself in the back of a goblin flung
from the point of a sword. The last two set darts again,
then their eyes widened as the sound of thunder bore
down on them from behind. One turned, screamed, and
bounced off the other as the flashing hooves of a horse
named Goblin Killer descended upon him
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