Chapter twelveDarham the Bold might be big and hairy; he was no awkward lumberer. He moved with a sudden smartness belying his bulk. We crouched in the pink-tinged shadows under a store platform raised on its stilts. Across the crater sheer insanity roared and thundered away as the main body of the Shanks met and fronted the assembled ranks of the Neeshargs. They fought one another with a frenzy that spoke eloquently of an ages-old racial hatred.
“She cleans out some fishface woman’s night utensils. They had me cleaning armor.” His voice was a mere low growl. “Hanitcha the Harrower take ’em!”
Quite obviously the Fish-heads would fight maniacally to protect the quarters where their women lived. We needed to cross the intervening space from the stilted store platform. We were as far away f
