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. Ahead was a caprock hill, and he headed toward it.
Remembering nothing except his name, knowing nothing
except that he had awakened from nowhere and was headed
to a place, aware of nothing except his aching head and the
driving need not to be alone, Krog went looking for
someone.
*****
"Even the mountains are different," one of the men said,
pointing with a coiled whip at the distant peaks standing
against a high gray sky. "What in the names of all the gods
could have done this?"
Those nearest him shrugged and shook their heads.
Men of the tribe of Shalimin - reviled by those who knew
them as "the raiders," or "marauders," or, simply, "the
slavers" - were men who knew the ways of the wild, not the
ways of the world. The changes they saw now in that world
were abrupt and massive; the night of change had been
terrifying. Yet, whatever had done it, now it seemed to be
past. And if sawtooth crags now stood where before had
been dagger-spire peaks, if what had been meadows now
were fields of strewn stone, if entire forests that had stood
yesterday now lay fallen and desolate, it was not theirs to
worry about.
It was over. The world was still here, and they still
walked on it, and it was time to regroup.
"You!" one of them shouted, brandishing a whip. "Back in
line and stay there!" Ahead of him, a small, terrified
creature scurried back into its place in the ragged line
proceed ing northward. "Gully dwarves!" He spat. "We
won't show much profit from this haul, Daco
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