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. In the wizard's hand was a crystal, the twin of
Spellbinder, except for its color. As red as Spellbinder
was, so was Pathfinder green.
Wingover took the crystal, and the green color faded
from the mage.
Glenshadow slumped, trembling. "I - I shouldn't have
touched it," he rasped. "Should have known. Spellbinder
binds magic, turns it against itself. Pathfinder freezes it,
holds it in stasis. It was how Gargath held and controlled
the graystone."
Wingover flipped the crystal over in his hand. "Very
pretty," he said. "All right, they're waiting for us at the
bridge. Can you ride?"
"Can't get through," the wizard said, still trembling.
"The goblins... they're behind you, heading for the
bridge. I saw them from up here. With Pathfinder, I
couldn't move. But I could see... everything. The
dwarf was right. Thorbardin is breached. Here."
Glenshadow stooped and picked up something
Wingover had not noticed until then - an old dwarven
helmet, not elaborate but of fine craft. It was a horned
and spired helm of burnished metal with skirts and a
carven nosepiece. Above the noseguard was a setting.
"The gem belongs here," Glenshadow said. "Please put
it back in place."
Wingover took the helmet and turned it, wonder in his
eyes. Grallen's helm
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