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. With them at her heels, she set
off at a steady trot toward the edge of the breaks. Where
the trail emerged, she would wait for the two riders com-
ing from the hills. Caliban could have his revenge on the
wizard. He could have the other man, too, as far as she
was concerned, but intuition told her that the thing he
carried with him must not reach the dwarf at the bridge.
It must not reach Thorbardin, of course, but more than
that she herself must have it.
Whatever it was, it had the power to punish Caliban.
The two men on the horse were still nearly a mile away
when Kolanda Darkmoor and her guards took up am-
bush positions along the trail, just where it entered the
broken lands.
Half a mile to the west, Noll and his platoon of goblin
warriors crept through narrow ways among heaped
boulders, approaching the abutment of Sky's End
Bridge. Behind them came the cart, pulled by slaves. In
the same cart Kolanda Darkmoor's lacquered steel
breastplate lay atop bundles of lathed bronze darts, for-
aged weapons and supplies, and bits of booty picked up
along the trail. Where it lay, it almost hid a sleek long-
bow of elven design and a single arrow... the last ar-
row of Garon Wendesthalas.
Weak and battered, beaten and mutilated, the elf
clung to the side of the cart for support as swamp goblins
harried the slaves along
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