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"Hol' still, Krog," the Lady Drule told him.
With the Highbulp supervising, the three volunteers
positioned the club above Krog's left shoulder.
Gorge drew himself up regally. "Krog, 'cause of exce . .
. unusu ... for doin' good stuff, I dub you SIR KROG." To the
volunteers, he said, "Dub Krog on shoulder now."
Falling dust tickled Krog's nose. He sneezed. A cloud
of dust blew up around the boulder, blinding the dubbers.
Bipp sneezed and lost his grip on the club, Chuff fell over
backward, and Skitt, suddenly lifting the full weight of the
thing, lost control of it. With a resounding thud, the club
descended on the back of Krog's head.
For a moment there was a stunned silence, then Krog
shook himself like an angry bear, raised his head . . . and the
Highbulp found himself staring into a huge face that was no
longer amiable. A growl like approaching thunder shook the
slopes. Krog's once-innocent eyes brightened with a flood
of returning memory - brightened and glittered with a
killing rage.
"Uh-oh!" the Highbulp gulped. He turned, leapt from
the stone, and shouted, "Ever'body run like crazy!"
Gully dwarves scattered in all directions, disappearing
into the shattered landscape. Behind them, a mighty roar
sent echoes up the mountainsides - the roar of an ogre
unleashed.
Krog stood, picked up his club, and brandished it,
roaring again. "Krog!" he thundered. "I am Krog! Not Krog
Aghar! KROG OGRE! Krog!"
Seeing movement, he sped after it, his feet pounding
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