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Flint tried to sort through Garth's strange mutterings.
Was he merely spouting dreams he'd had, ones caused by
finding Aylmar's body, or had he been the only witness to
some horrible deed?
The hill dwarf moved to take a step and remembered with
a soft groan that he was still stuck in the mud. Flint curled
his toes and tugged upward, but his boots were buried so
well that his feet pulled out instead. Wiggling the high-
topped leather boots back and forth with his hands, he fi-
nally managed to wrench them out with a loud sucking
sound. Each one had to weigh over fifteen pounds now, and
he had neither water nor cloth nor grass to clean them with,
since the entire yard was churned to mud. He would move
as quietly as a squad of ogres with these on. Hardly the
barefoot type, Flint reluctantly set them down along the
fence anyway, where he could grab them on his way out.
Flint poked his head around the corner of the barn and
stole a glance at the wagon yard. It was crisscrossed with
deep, muddy ruts. Two of the flat-bed mountain dwarf wag-
ons were standing side-by-side, their buckboards pointed
toward Flint; he saw no guards
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