That’s what he sounded like on-screen, however. No denying it. ‘Dude, change the channel,’ he told the terrified calfling behind the bar. The man, who wasn’t the barkeep, struggled to use the remote with shaking hands and numb fingers. Compt’n ur Threshrend could feel the guy’s panic wanting to slip the leash. His fear was a barely caged animal, wild and ready to bolt. Still, he was better able to work the tech than Threshy or any of the sabre-clawed daemonum in the bar. And so he lived. And changed channels. By way of contrast, the barkeep, who had not done as he was asked and had made a nuisance of himself with a sawn-off shotgun, was dead, an arrakh-mi bolt through one eye. The other patrons of Fightin’ Phil Luton’s Sports Bar, on an isolated stretch of highway well north of New York, were gone, taken under to the blood pots. Even so, the bar was crowded with the cohort of Warriors Grymm assigned to escort and protect the lord commander.
