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Flint and Perian began to organize the three hundred-odd
members of the army, such as it was, on the mountainside.
"Assemble your units!" Flint barked. "Nomscul, you lead
the Agharpults over here; Oooz, get the Sludge Bombers
over there; and Fester, put the Creeping Wedgies here, in the
middle."
To their credit, the Aghar tried to follow the commands of
their king. Several minutes of raw chaos ensued as the gully
dwarves charged into a single pile of squirming Aghar,
where only an occasional arm, leg, or face could be spotted.
Somehow the pile resolved itself into three milling groups,
more or less organized by the categories Flint had detailed.
Their king felt compelled to offer up some inspiring
words. "Stand at attention for some last instructions!" he
bellowed.
Again, they tried to stand at attention, but their habit of
facing every which way diminished the military precision of
the maneuver. Flint only sighed. "Gully dwarves of Mud-
hole!" he began sternly, trying to get as many of them to face
him as possible. "We embark today upon a great excurs -
Oooz, get back here! - a great excursion, to face in combat
an enemy implacable and bold, savage and - what is it,
Nomscul?"
The shaman was hopping in agitation, waving his hand in
the air and clenching his lips together as if to forcibly pre-
vent himself from speaking without royal permission
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