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. Goblins
ran beside her. Five of them that he could see, better-
armed than the ones he had fought on the bridge. More
disciplined. Crack troops.
Partway up the bridge, Chane met them. Wingover
had to lay down his sword to remove the dwarven helm
from its sling at his back. It was smeared with blood - his
own, he knew.
He handed it to Chane Feldstone. "Here's your ances-
tor's hat," he said gruffly. "Jewel and all. I hope it's worth
it."
Chane turned the helm in his hands, studying it.
"Well, don't just stand there," Wingover gritted. "Use
it."
"You're hurt," the dwarf said.
"It's nothing much. I'll be all right. But we don't have
time to discuss it. Use the helmet!"
Chane pushed back the cat-eared hood of his black
cloak, and Chess gaped at him. Somehow, he hadn't no-
ticed how much the dwarf had changed. The dwarf's
swept-back beard, his intense, wide-set eyes were the
same, but Chane was different now. Somehow the ken-
der couldn't see him now as an amusing dwarf in a bunny
suit. He might almost have been someone else entirely.
Chess wondered if the old warrior, Grallen, had looked
like this.
The dwarf set the helm on his head. It fit as though it
had been made for him, and seemed as though none
other had ever been intended to wear it
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