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. His fury had fermented into a
deep hatred for the dwarf with the cat-fur garments.
Cleft was dead now, and Loam felt no regret, but still the
harsh glee of his fellow's taunts lingered to haunt the
ogre.
Many times in his life, Loam had killed dwarves - as
well as humans and other lesser creatures. He had even
killed two elves, purely for the sport of it. But this kill
would be the sweetest of all. He wanted to make it last.
Just within reach of the smaller being, he feinted sud-
denly, thrusting his club forward. The dwarf's frenzied
dodge delighted him, and he chuckled, a deep rumble
like distant thunder. Again Loam jabbed, prodding with
the huge club, this time grazing Chane's head as the
dwarf backpedaled. Was that panic in the little creature's
eyes? Loam's pleasure deepened. He held the club out,
waving it lazily from side to side, taunting, and beck-
oned with his other hand. "Little fighter," he chuckled.
"See how brave! Can't even make his knees behave.
Think your hammer worries me? Come and try it, then
you'll see."
From the corner of his eye Loam saw the little kender
sidling along the bridge rail, trying to flank him. With his
empty hand he reached out, swatted casually, and sent
the small thing tumbling. "Friends can't help the fighting
one," he rumbled
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