"And you let him leave?" Godbolt demanded to know from the Red Archer.
The young man trembled, and his voice broke as he answered. "Yes, my lord. He said that he wished to gain his revenge upon the men who captured and humiliated him, to kill the stranger in the wood."
"Fool!" the necromancer shouted. He reached down and unsheated the archer's dagger. "You know what you must do."
The archer took the dagger into his own hands. "Aye, my lord." With all the force he could muster, the Red Archer stabbed the blade deep within his own heart. His form collapsed and became lifeless as two of Godbolt's personal guard carried the body away.
"Prepare him for the front lines," Godbolt ordered as they pulled the corpse around the corner.
"And what now, Lord Godbolt?" Grayavale asked. His palm rested on the hilt of his sword. Fighting the urge to wrap around the sword and strike out against the evil master, armored fingers danced lightly.
"We prepare for battle." Minions began to collect Godbolt's armor and weapons. The first to come was his sword. "The wait has gone on for ages. Now is the time for me to strike out and claim my spoils. The time of planning and building has come to pass. This is the time for action and blood."
Before Grayavale could blink, Godbolts sword was unsheathed and held out away from his horrific form. The once king could not speak. A sharp pain burned from his throat. His hand reached up to neck. When it came back, a dark red hue stained the polished metal guantlet. "It is time for you to prove yourself useful to me," the lord of the undead spoke as his minions placed his armor over his body. "The greatness of your blade and leadership is well known throughout the lands. The requirements that make you a perfect general for my armies. Yet, you have a will of your own. That I cannot allow. In either you or your men." Godbolt signaled his minion with a horn. Quickly obeying, a low note spewed forth and filled the entire castle.
Grayavale could feel his heart slowing as his body began to chill. "It is at this moment that the soul is most vulnerable to attack." Godbolt shrugged off his servants and stepped closer to the kneeling king. "It is at this moment that I prefer to feast." He grabbed the hair at the back of the man's head and pulled the it back. His yellow fangs dug into the wounded flesh as he began to drink the essence of Grayavale. The king tried to fight, but was too weak. Soon, his entire body became limp and fell to the floor.
Godbolt walked to a balcony where his minions finished attatching his armor. In the courtyard below, his forces were slaughtering the living army of King Grayavale. Knights, archers, swordsmen all were besieged and murdered. They would soon arise again to fight in the eternal army of Lord Godbolt. Califron, the cursed warlock, moved silently to his master's side and hung the leather cloak made of some twisted creature across his master's shoulders. "Bring forth my true army. It is time we take these lands." Califron bowed and moved away.
Grayavale's pale and blood stained form lifted off the ground and walked up behind Godbolt. "Prepare for war," the necromancer ordered.
"Aye, my lord," Grayavale responded with a bow.
