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. Rampant and towering in the remains of the
sleeping camp, Krog raised his club toward the sky, and a
growl sounded in his throat - a growl that became a roar that
echoed from the hillsides, a roar of challenge and of
pleasure, the cry of a rampaging ogre.
Ahead of him were other fires, where men with
weapons scrambled in all directions, and his eyes lit with
pleasure.
But then, behind him somewhere, a voice called, "Krog!
'Nough foolin' 'round! Got better things to do!"
The glimmer of memory held for a moment, urging him
on, then became tenuous and faded. Feeling a
disappointment he didn't understand, Krog turned and
headed back, pausing only for a casual swat that brained a
panicked, fleeing slaver. "All right, Mama!" he thundered,
his lower lip jutting in a huge pout. "Comin'!"
The ladies of Lady Drule's retinue, and the few males
with them, had followed Drule and Krog as far as the pen.
Not finding a hole in the cage, they made one. Using the
edges of burnished iron stew tureens, they chipped away
enough sapling bars and lashings for the gully dwarves to
come tumbling out, and a flood of crouched Talls right
behind them. Pushing past and through the gully dwarves as
though they were not there, the Talls grabbed up fallen
weapons and launched a murderous attack on the stunned
and disorganized slavers.
The minute Gorge III, Highbulp of This Place and
Those Other Places Too, was free of captivity, he threw
back his shoulders, donned his most regal pose and issued
the orders of a true leader
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