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. Used to work real good."
As the man got to his knees, Drule decided she had
done enough bashing, and ducked away. The area around
the nearby campfire was a shambles - sprawled bodies
everywhere, dropped weapons lying here and there . . . and
blood, lots of blood. Krog had finished there and gone on to
the next fire, unleashing havoc. There were screams of fear,
screams of agony, the rhythmic thudding of a huge club
against flesh and bone.
Like huge death, Krog strode around and through the
sleeping-fire, a growling, implacable horror with rending
fingers, ripping teeth, and a great club as tireless and
relentless as a harvester's scythe. Wide-eyed, terrified
slavers came out of their blankets, grabbing up weapons to
confront him. Some never even got to their feet before the
heavy club flattened them and great feet trod across their
bodies. Others tried to regroup and fight, and were
splattered with their companions' blood even as their own
blood splattered others.
A man with an eye-patch rolled aside, hid for a second
in shadows, then sprang to his feet, aiming a heavy sword at
the marauder's backside. He swung - and the sword thudded
into hard wood, embedded itself, and was torn from his
grasp. A huge hand closed around his helmed head and
squeezed, and the iron helm collapsed, crushing the skull
within. Krog flung him aside and went on, growling his
pleasure.
Somewhere, deep in Krog's mind, a glimmer of memory
awakened - memory triggered by the violence and the smell
of fresh blood
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