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. It was not the
steady rolling rhythm of the wheels, but more like clomping
feet. Many feet.
A chill of terror ran up his spine as from the mouth of the
tunnel marched no less than one hundred mountain
dwarves in full regalia. Each wore a steel breastplate, a hel-
met topped with a bright red plume, and sharp axes and
daggers at their waists. After a word from the leader at their
head, the mountain dwarves fanned out in all directions.
Basalt watched as a detachment of twenty armed dwarves
approached, wading through the two-foot stream, right in
his direction!
Petrified, the young dwarf threw himself to the ground
and curled into a small ball. What should I do? he groaned
to himself. Should I run? Should I hide? Is this just a routine
patrol, or are they looking for something? Or someone?
Maybe they found and tortured Uncle Flint until he told
them an accomplice was waiting outside! Even in his frantic
state, Basalt knew that that was ridiculous. But with so
many dwarves, they were sure to find him. Will they kill me
like they did my father? Uncle Flint! Where are you?
Basalt bit at his knuckles, feeling like he was about to
jump out of his skin
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