The time of death

It’s cold and dark. Dripping reverberates through the vast, dilapidated halls. Pale lights with no source illuminate a path, right through the middle of the room. Dark pillars, some broken, all weathered, line a cold, stone walkway. Light footsteps echo around the pillars. A cloaked figure walks up the path towards the throne at the end of the hall. There sits Azuul Mohr, one of the four undead kings; the cruelest of them all. He looks small sitting in his massive stone seat. Black candles float around and line the structure giving off a weak light.

The cloaked figure draws ever closer. Two skeletal guards, one on each side of the throne, bar his way. Mohr waves a hand and the guards withdraw, allowing the figure to pass. It kneels before its master and takes off its hood revealing a decaying skull beneath.

“Master.” Its voice echoes.
Mohr doesn’t reply, his face hidden by shadows.
Stepping into the light from the darkness behind the throne, a shadow appears, wearing a thin, ragged cloak and a crude headdress.
“Rise before your master.” Althor’s strained voice rings out.
The cloaked figure obeys, though doesn’t dare look at Mohr.
“I come bearing news from the front.”
The room is silent, expecting its next words.
“The Cavonians have broken and are routing in full. Our cavalry has begun their pursuit. It is expected we will reach the city within the week.”
More silence follows, until Mohr shifts.
“You are dismissed.” Althor commands.
The figure obeys and leaves the hall. Mohr rises from his throne and descends the weathered stairs before him.
“Finally.” His voice booms through the room.
“I will start the ritual at once, my lord.” The figure in the headdress leaves with a bow.
Mohr walks down the hall, followed by the guards. He turns to one of them.
“Get me Rangore.” Without any sort of reply the skeletal guard to his left peels off in a different direction.
The lights behind them dim as Mohr and the other guard leave the hall.

In front of Azuul Mohr lay three coffins on three stone altars. A pale green hue lights up the room, illuminating several robed and hooded figures. Althor stands behind Mohr and head-priest Rangore. His staff, made of several spinal columns, is held high. He chants purposefully in a language unknown to mortals.

“A C H Y M A R. L A N C H O M A R. E N D R U S E T.”

The room around them shakes violently for a moment, a standing chandelier crashes to the floor. As Mohr steps forward, four servants move to either side of each coffin and lift their heavy lids. Three emaciated corpses are revealed, still wearing armor and clutching weapons, as if ready for battle.
Mohr’s hands glow green as he approaches the coffins.

“A C H Y M A R. L A N C H O M A R. E N D R U S E T. L O R N A K H A N.”

The room shakes again, and with a shudder, the rightmost corpse comes alive. Its movements rigid and strained at first, but fluid once it steps out of the coffin. An undead orcish warrior walks to Mohr and kneels before him.
“My lord.” A deep and raspy voice addresses him.
“Lornakhan, it has been too long.” Azuul Mohr’s voice booms through the room.

“A C H Y M A R. L A N C H O M A R. E N D R U S E T. O T H E P.”

The second corpse, a human mage, rises and kneels next to the warrior.
“My lord.” A soft voice wheezes.
“Othep, welcome back.” Mohr’s voice booms.

“A C H Y M A R. L A N C H O M A R. E N D R U S E T. N O C K T H A R.”

The third reanimated corpse, an elven shaman, joins the other two.
“My lord.” A fluid voice says.
“Nockthar, always a pleasure.”
Mohr raises a hand and the three warriors stand.
“Our time has come, your vengeance will be complete.” Mohr addresses the three of them.

“The mortal world shall fall by your hands and be claimed as our own. The time of the dead has arrived.” His deformed lips show a sadistic grin. “Now go, and lay waste to the world of men.”
“Yes, lord.” The three reply in unison.

On the balcony of his deathly palace, Mohr stands, overlooking his vast army. Corpses reanimated from countless battles. An amalgamation of races, species and factions, all unified under the rule of Azuul Mohr. The dark clouds now reach as far as the horizons, the furthest his influence has reached in centuries. Rangore and Althor stand beside him. The three reanimated generals lined up in front of the rest of the army.
“Not for a thousand years has my army looked this grand.” Mohr’s voice echoes over the desolate plains.

“All kin and creed unified once again in the bonds of undeath. Defying the rule of the living. Now our time has come, our time to take what belongs to us, to avenge those that opposed us. The time of the living has come to its end, the time of death is here. We will wipe their pestilence from the face of this world and cleanse the lands of their filth. Now march, my soldiers. March against the oppressors, against the tyrants. Fell the pretenders and claim what is rightfully yours.”
Cheers and howls echo through the ranks. The generals take over and lead the first of their legions to battle.

“Is all of this really necessary?” Rangore asks.
“Not at all.” Mohr grins. “But we should revel in their downfall and I felt some theatrics were well deserved.”

Hands clasped behind his back, Azuul Mohr watches as his legions march to face his enemy. He knows his victory is close at hand. His plans are finally unfolding. His time has finally come.