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"Tas's pipe, Tanis! We must be near the shelter!"
Tas's pipe! But that poor, crippled little instrument, the
"dreaded pipe" Flint called it, had never given Tas music
this sweet. And yet, what other could it be? Tanis climbed
wearily to his feet and helped Sturm to rise.
"We'll follow it," he said. "No, leave your pack. If the
shelter is that close, I can come back for the wood. And
I've still got mine." HOME, the music sang, COME
HOME. . . .
Snow ghosts! The spirits of the storm-killed. Or so they
would have been called in the faraway mountains of his
homeland. Flint watched the eerie blue race of breaking
clouds across the white mantle of the snow. He shivered,
more from the memory of an old legend than from the cold.
Behind him Tas's pipe faltered, then fell silent.
In an odd little exodus, as soon as the snow had stopped
falling, moments after the wind finally died, Tas's strangely
assorted menagerie of storm refugees had filed past him
into the night. Still, even after the last creature had left, Tas
had continued to play, hoping that Tanis and Sturm would
hear the pipe's music, feel the call of its magic.
Magic! Flint thought now. The word felt bitter and hard
in his mind
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