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.
A painful moan from the dark depths of the room
brought him to his feet. "Trapspringer?" Shaky hands
popped open the shutter partially, and a dim shaft of
light struck the floor. Heart thumping, he peered in the
direction of the moan.
Slumped in the examining chair, overlooked in the
darkness, was the body of a large, muscular man with
short, bristly hair, small eyes, and a flat, wide nose.
Blood trickled down his right side from under a wad of
red-stained white cloth.
"Who are you? What happened to you?" Phineas
gasped, rushing to the man's side. "You should get some
help right away!"
"That's what I'm doing. You're a doctor, aren't you?"
the man managed through clenched teeth.
"Me? Sure. I mean, yes," he stumbled, caught com-
pletely off guard. Phineas tended to the aches and pains
of friendly, city-dwelling kender. He saw lots of bruises,
but precious little blood. This was a rather nasty-looking
human, who was losing more blood each second than
Phineas had seen in months.
Gingerly he lifted the bloody cloth from the man's
side. The patient convulsed as the wet cloth caught on
the raw edges of his wound. Phineas winced. "Sorry."
Opening the shutter wider, he examined the cut, which
was wide, deep, and about five inches long. Though he
had never seen one, Phineas was certain he was looking
at a sword wound.
"Who are you?"
"I'm called Denzil."
"Just Denzil?"
The man looked at him evenly. "Just Denzil."
"Well, what happened to you, Denzil?" he repeated.
"Nothing. Just a little household accident
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