What lurks in shade, what hunger drives the horde?
The forest trembles, rattled snakes bare fangs,
night drools malcontent, witches weave a ward.
The dead are restless, fear a stench that hangs
in shrouds covering glen and cobbled field.
Doors are barred, windows latched with shutters drawn.
The horde moves on, bones creaking, red eyes peeled.
The night wears thin and blood streaks mark the dawn.
The breaking day contains no heat, the din
of warning bells is fading, muted, gone.
A roiling plague of locust feeds on men,
feeds on souls, feeds on hate, the horde moves on.
The king with eyes worldly and worn, surveys
a mighty army forged in hells own depths;
and what pray tell should such a scene convey?
A vision bleak of axe and shield of clefts
in skulls and souls lost to feed the evil
Khan whose name invoked from hard blackstone;
brings legend home to die in red-upheaval.
And thus like time the horde will spare no throne.
No hero rides to save this day, no cry,
no plea to God will stay deaths cold-grim-hands,
nothing will be found, for no mercy lies
in coal black eyes, this the king understands.
The ravens wait to reap their feast-of-eyes;
just as now a blight awaits, one command.
The sun stands high, a trumpet lofts its cry,
crossed banners wave, held fast by iron hand.
The earth trembles as hellions ride to war.
Fire rains from cold clear sky, thunder booms
as boulders crack the castle gates. A roar
of maddened fury flails the air and gloom
snakes its tendrils deep inside stout menís hearts.
The courtyard has become a crimson lake
where heads flop on pikes and souls depart.
All are dead, not one life is left to take.
The horde moves on.