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Flint was surrounded by the mysterious circle of light as
he led the onslaught of his kin. He wielded the Tharkan Axe
with brutal force, striking to his right and his left as he
waded into the Theiwar army. His blade smashed a dent
into the black steel of a mountain dwarf's breastplate, felling
the fighter in one blow. He parried a barrage of assailants,
dropping two more with crushing blows that split their hel-
mets and shattered their skulls.
A derro screamed and ducked away, his eyes seared by
the brightness of the blade. Others squinted and rushed for-
ward, faces twisted by hatred. But they had trouble facing
the light, and Flint killed those that did not turn and flee.
The great din of battle rang in his ears, a constant disso-
nant clash of metal against metal, mixed more and more
with the shrill screams and dull groans of the wounded. Flint
saw a dazzling array of bristly-headed derro around him,
their faces a constantly shifting pattern of cruelty, hatred,
and fear.
He caught a glimpse of Fidelia, wearing an old shirt of
leather armor and wielding a long pitchfork with deadly ef-
fect, pinning a squirming derro to the ground by driving the
makeshift weapon through his stomach
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