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. Then all he could
do was scream.
The scalp hunter was able to think a little bit as he
screamed, because he didn't want to die here. He tried to
get up to run but had lost all feeling in his leg below the
wound. He looked down in terror and saw his thigh cut
open right down to the broken white bone. He gripped the
flesh to pull it shut and stop the bleeding, but his hands and
arms were slippery with blood. The air was full of the sharp
tang of gore. There was movement down the trail behind
him. The hunter looked through pain-dimmed eyes and saw
the goblin there, walking casually, its red-splattered
machete dangling in one hand.
It was a goblin, the hunter knew, because it looked a lot
like the old drunken one he had killed, but this goblin was
big and young and did not look drunk at all. It wore a
ragged black tunic with a thin rope belt. Wiry muscles
flowed under its dirty red skin. Its black eyes were relaxed
and seemed to smile, though its round face was as cold as
stone. The goblin eyed the now-silent kender, then bent
down and picked up the boar spear with its free hand to
examine the tip. The goblin tossed its machete aside.
"Don't kill me!" the man screamed in the trade tongue
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