Chapter seventeen“Shank ships lie shattered, fly scattered,
over the burning land:
Fish Faces fall fear-filled
as Chaadur our Chief has planned.”
Thus sang Larghos the Throstle, warbling a spritely tune for so doggerel a verse. Still, I felt his stanzas might improve with time and polishing. The most important factor was simply that these people were able to sing about their exploits. A legend was in the making.
All the same, even if this little gang calling itself an army was in the legend-fabricating business, we couldn’t hang around Clovangjin much longer. If I knew my Shanks — as I did, I did, to my sorrow! — they’d be back mob-handed.
The survivors of the gang that had broken were rounded up and parceled out among the other gangs. I took pains to impress upon these folk the exam
