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Wingover cut and slashed his way through a gaggle of
panicked goblins at the foot of the bridge, the stench of
goblin blood a miasma around him. His battle howl still
echoing from the stone walls of the breaks, he clove
through them, wading in dark gore. Stab, slash, and cut,
his blade was a dancing tongue of death, his shield a dark
battering ram. Goblins fell, and goblins fled. A pain like
searing fire lanced through Wingover's shoulder and
down his shield arm. He lunged forward and spun
around.
An armored hobgoblin faced Wingover, its sword red
with blood and poised to strike again. The human tried
to raise his shield, but couldn't. He dodged aside instead,
barely escaping the thrust. The hobgoblin hissed,
feinted, and thrust again. Wingover felt the cut on his
thigh as his own blade descended, leaving a deep dent in
the creature's helmet.
A random thought teased Wingover: the hobgoblin
was hiding. It waited and got behind me.
Again the hobgoblin struck. Wingover managed to
deflect the cut with his shield, and lunged forward, blade
extended. The point ground against metal breastplate
and slid away, and Wingover felt blood dripping down
his cheek. He realized dimly that he wasn't standing any
more. He sat spread-legged and dazed, and the hobgob-
lin's wide mouth split in a sharp-toothed leer
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