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The nickeliron dagger was gone now. It was one of the
things Slag Firestoke's thugs had robbed from him when
they drove him into the wilderness. Maybe Jilian was
gone as well. Chane was certain that Slag Firestoke
wouldn't tell his daughter what he had done, so all Jilian
could know was that Chane had gone away and not
come back. Maybe she even thought he was dead. He
was still tempted to head right back for Southgate, to
give those toughs a taste of honest iron, and to shake
Slag Firestoke until his teeth rattled. The devious old
rust-bucket.
But the dream called. There was something he was
supposed to do, and he knew deep inside that he could
not return to Thorbardin until he had done it... or at
least tried his best.
"Become rich and famous," the kender had said. Chane
rumbled his irritation at the thought. What could a ken-
der know about anything?
The new hammer shaped itself on his makeshift anvil.
Four pounds would be its weight. His hands told him
that, and he knew there was no mistake. A head that was
a shaping maul at one end with a tapered balancing spike
at the other. A hammer that could bend the strongest
drawbar or shape the daintiest filigree... and could
serve as a formidable weapon should the need arise
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