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"So he traded me his fine black robe for my old cloak,
huh? Sorcerers might be brainy, but they're short on
common sense," Lodston muttered to himself. The hermit
picked up each scroll separately, weighing it in his hands
and examining it with his powerful new spectacles. Still he
saw nothing unusual about any of them.
"Why didn't he put labels on them?" mumbled the
curious dwarf. "What good are enchanted glasses if there's
nothing to read with them? At least they should have titles
so I'd know what I'm guarding 'with my life.' "
For several minutes of agonizing temptation, Lodston
stared first at the scrolls, then at the note from Dalamar.
Finally, he snorted and started returning the cases, one-by-
one, to the chest. He held the last one in his hand a moment
too long, letting curiosity win the battle with judgment.
With a muffled growl of surrender, he squinted behind the
tiny glasses perched upon his huge nose and opened the
scroll case.
Once again, the magical glyphs on the parchment
writhed into a meaningful form, the words of an incantation
in some unknown language forcing themselves from the
dwarf's throat.
"DRISH FETTS, DRISH FETTS, LORGON TRITS," he
heard his own voice pronouncing, but he could not
understand what he was saying
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