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"This intoler . . . outra . . . unforgiv . . . this stink!" he
grumbled, pacing back and forth in the comer of the roofed
pen where the gully dwarves were huddled. "Slave, Talls
say. Not slave. I Highbulp!"
"Not slave either," several of his subjects agreed.
A voice growled, "You gully dwarves pipe down or
you'll feel the lash."
"Hmph!" Gorge muttered, but lowered his voice.
"Maybe dig out? Skitt? Where Skitt?"
"Here," a sleepy voice said. "What Highbulp want?"
"Skitt, you dig hole."
"Tried it," Skitt said in the gloom. "Rock underneath.
Need tools, no tools. G'night."
"Might cut through bars," another suggested. "Bars are
wood."
"Cut with what?" still another pointed out. "Same thing.
Got no tools. If had anything for cut, could - "
"Shut up over there!" a human whispered from the
other side of the pen. "You'll get us all in trouble!"
"Hmph!" Gorge said, feeling helpless and hopeless.
Armed guards patrolled around the pen. Nearby, the
fires of the slavers' camp burned bright. They had been
coming in all day, groups of four to eight at a time, most of
them bringing captives, and now there were at least thirty in
the camp, and dozens of slaves in the pen.
A guard passed near the wood-barred enclosure, and a
human voice inside said, "If only I could get my hands on a
sword, I'd . . ."
The guard laughed. "You'd what, slave? Fight? By the
time we sell you, we'll have beaten all the fight out of you.
Now shut up."
Another guard strolled past on the gully dwarves' side,
and the Highbulp and his followers cringed away from the
bars
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