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. Traces squealed in protest,
wheels and timbers creaked, and the noise of their descent
precluded anything less than shouted conversation.
Basalt hung on for his life as they rocketed down the nar-
row, twisting road. He looked over at Hildy, saw her eyes
locked on the horse and the route before them, her face fixed
in an expression of fierce, teeth-gritting determination. He
thought about the five harrns in the back of the wagon, and
began to feel all confused again.
What should we do? They expect me to decide:but I'm
no adventurer! I can't do this! Now that we are nearing our
goal, the whole plan seems hare-brained. My foolhardy
idea is risking the lives of six others, as well as my own!
Then Basalt remembered his Uncle Flint's words of inspi-
ration. Maybe together he and his comrades could meet
these mountain dwarves and best them. They were seven
young hill dwarves, all strong, all well-armed. He sneaked
another look at the sun. If they were lucky, they would
reach the derro in daylight - and gain a significant advan-
tage over their subterranean-dwelling cousins.
Dark pines grew to each side of the rutted track
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