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. For several good years the
weapon had served him. It served to remind him of Aylmar
as well.
His brow furrowed at the memory of the barrow mounds
where he had lost the axe while on yet another treasure
hunt. Amid heaps of coins, a scattering of gems, and the
bare skeletons of a dozen ancient chieftains, a figure of cold,
sucking blackness had lurked. A wraith of death, it had
seized Flint's soul with its terrible grip. A deadly chill had
settled in his bones, and he had staggered to his knees, hope-
less to resist.
The Tharkan Axe had flashed, then, with a white-hot
light that drove the wraith backward and gave Flint the
strength to stand. With a mighty heave, the dwarf had bur-
ied the weapon in the shapeless yet substantial creature be-
fore him.
The wraith had twisted away, tearing the axe from Flint's
grip. In terror, the dwarf had fled from the barrow, empty-
handed. Later he returned, but there had been no sign of
treasure, wraith, or axe.
Flint looked forward the most to seeing his older brother
again. Aylmar would be disappointed, though, to learn that
his younger brother had lost the Tharkan Axe
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