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Just beyond the comer of the stockade, a man stood
leaning on a spear staff. He yawned, and a stick smacked
him sharply across the buttocks. "Here now!" he started to
say, but only part of it was ever said. The club that smashed
into his skull put an end to it.
"Wow," the Lady Drule muttered.
Another guard stood at the next comer, and just beyond
him burned the coals of a cook-fire. Other men lay in sleep,
their weapons at hand. Quietly, Drule approached the guard,
raised her stick, and whacked him on the back. The man
said, "Ow!" and spun around, raising his spear. "Gully
dwarf," he said. "And a female one. Where did you come
from?"
"Woop," Drule shouted. She raised her stick and struck
again.
The stick whacked across the man's knuckles, and he
dropped his spear. His eyes narrowed. "Why, you little
snake," he hissed. "You'll pay for that." He drew a long
knife from his boot and lunged at the gully dwarf, who
dodged aside, tripped, and fell.
The slaver aimed another thrust, then stopped. A chorus
of shrieks sounded from inside the pen. Some of the slaves
had just noticed Krog stepping into the light of the fires.
Crashing, thudding sounds erupted. Thuds, rending snaps,
and a high-pitched scream abruptly silenced.
The guard turned, gaped, screamed, "Ogre!"
He started to run, tripped over the Lady Drule, and
sprawled facedown.
A stick whacked him on the back of his head, and a
voice said, "Take that!" Then, "Don' know what wrong with
this bashin' tool
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