They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. No need to do such things. Spurling and Marvel. "Where is your accursed master?" demanded Blueskin, holding the sword to his throat. Gashes on his arms were already beginning to heal and disappear. Help—should she need it—from the natives was out of the question. ‘No, my poor guardian,’ Gerald mocked.
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