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Beside the north spire Garon Wendesthalas slumped, a
goblin's blade piercing his throat. Slowly he sprawled,
his bow sliding from nerveless fingers to lie beside him.
He turned his head and looked up the bridge rise, then
raised a battered hand in final salute to his old friend,
Wingover. He didn't move again;
The winds howled, and hailstones battered the land.
Lightning like spider legs walked across the Plains of
Dergoth and the nearer hills, striking among the goblin
troops there. Staccato and brilliance, darkness and
storm, the bolts danced on winds that screamed and sang
and buffeted the swaying stone bridge.
Chestal Thicketsway clung to a bridge rail and
shouted, "It's Zap! He's happening!"
His shield to the raging wind, Wingover fought his
way to the foot of the bridge with the kender clinging to
him. They fell, rolled, and sought shelter in a storm like
no storm ever seen on Ansalon... at least since the
Cataclysm.
"Three spells cast Fistandantilus,"the Irda had said, "in
the Valley of Waykeep. The first was fire, the second ice.
The third has not yet happened."
Now, the sundered Plains of Dergoth were washed by
storm, as Zap fulfilled his destiny.
* * * * *
Rockfall had hidden the old trade portal. What once
had been an iron-framed gate, nine feet wide and twenty
feet high, with cable-cart stays and transfer platforms,
now was a forgotten gap behind hundreds of tons of
tumbled stone
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