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Desperately the hill dwarf raised the Tharkan Axe and
stumbled backward. The gleaming blade bit into the blue
fire as if the flame were a solid body, striking true with the
keen, avenging steel. Once, twice, and again Flint chopped,
each time with growing force, breaking through the circlet
of magic, knocking the stream of sparks to pieces. Slowly
the pieces settled to the ground, and the arcane magic of the
amulet lay as twisted ringlets of harmless smoke on the
ground.
Both dwarves sprang at the other, and once again the
fight became a test of physical strength and endurance.
Blinking his eyes to clear the sweat away, Flint ignored his
fatigue. He saw only the hateful face of his enemy before
him, and his own hatred coalesced with Pitrick's to form a
cocoon of berserk rage around them. The derro smashed his
axe again and again against Flint's blade, but suddenly the
hill dwarf saw his opening. Ducking backward before the
Theiwar swung, Flint waited until the derro's attack swished
harmlessly past his face.
Then he stepped in, putting every bit of the strength in his
toughened muscles behind the blow
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