Highbulp? Highbulp sleepy oaf. Wake up, Highbulp!”
Drule said, “Sh!” and went on. Behind her, a giant
shadow moved, but those inside were too busy watching her
to notice it.
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. 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. 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