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Around him he felt the weight of the hill dwarves crack-
ing the precision of the mountain dwarves' ranks. In the
growing confusion Flint surged ever forward, dragging, as if
by the force of his will, those hill dwarves who fought be-
side him.
He heard Tybalt's throaty roar as the constable slashed to
the right and left with a huge two-handed sword. Almost
unconscious of the sound, Flint, too, howled a battle cry
and jumped forward to drive another Theiwar back. Flint
noticed that his axe glowed as brightly as ever, and now the
steel haft had begun to grow warm under his palms. The
blood of dead mountain dwarves darkened the blade.
He came upon Garf, one of the Agharpult missiles, sitting
on top of an unconscious mountain dwarf and rubbing his
head.
"Hard shirt!" complained the Aghar. He thumped the
metal breastplate of the warrior to show where he had
landed after being fired from his weapon.
"Hard head!" Flint pointed out, patting the courageous
gully dwarf on the back and indicating the fallen Theiwar.
Suddenly Garf's eyes widened in surprise. "No!" Flint
cried, seeing the bloody tip of a sword emerge from the
Aghar's chest
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