Zandranthoth has razed Heathmoor Shire,
And stolen away with its sheriff.
Deputy Grovis Goldwheat trails the fiend.
He is noble,
But he is young.
Three days east toward Naugdrell,
He stirs in an uneasy sleep.
There is the cold of a starless night in his hand,
He accepts its whispered strength.
Legend will know it as Demonsling,
Like a crossbow, but no bow,
Hunger, cunning, and rage,
And thundering, alchemical oblivion.
A whispering nemesis to a good man’s restraint.
In Naugdrell, Zandranthoth chains Sherrif Parnor,
Oblivious to his doom,
For No Fiend of the Hells
Can withstand the might
Of a loyal champion, by a fiend, so moved.
I’m working on The Razing of Heathmoor Shire!