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."
The draconian answered without anger, "Look in
our faces. We could hunt any creature alive to its death."
"I see. And beyond?" the stag asked politely, but the
joke was lost on them. "Follow, then. Not too closely."
As he turned and bounded away, he heard a single
command, a word or a language he did not know. Once
again he was afraid - for his world, and not for himself.
"Perhaps I grow sentimental. Next I will write bad
songs and carry noisy bipeds on my back," he said aloud.
But the joke was flat, and he realized that sarcasm and self-
parody could no longer protect him from his own feelings.
Behind him he heard the rasp of strange and wicked claws,
tearing at the wood that was his whole world.
He was more than halfway to the clearing when bulky
shapes, half-hidden in leaves, blocked his way. He froze in
place, hoping the draconians behind him would do the
same.
A voice called, "Halt."
"Remarkably alert," the stag observed, "if unnecessary."
"Don't be giving rudeness to those who keep faith." The
deep voice, unbothered at the stag's sarcasm, went on,
"Where does tha go?"
"I have an errand." He spoke coldly, hoping the sentry
would take offense and turn away
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