The earth trembled under the relentless march of the Undead army. General Giffrei, once a proud and loyal knight of the kingdom, was now a prisoner in a rickety wagon. He could hear the rhythmic thumping of boots on the muddy ground, the foul smell of rotting flesh, and the ominous drums that echoed in his skull. He had seen this scene too many times before. Gorm's army was almost complete. He realized this when he saw the ghastly sight of the undead knights, riding on skeletal horses with glowing blue eyes and peeling skin.
This curse had almost driven him mad. He had sworn to die for his king, and he did. But he never expected to be resurrected by dark magic, forced to fight for his enemy over and over again. Gorm had sold his soul and the souls of his men for a twisted ambition. A game for the world that he could never win.
He had to escape. He had to find a way to end this nightmare. He thought about his past, and the horrors he had endured when Gorm reclaimed his throne. He shuddered at the memory of the torture chamber, where he was flayed, burned, and broken. He didn't want to go back there. Ever. He noticed that the shackles were loose. Gorm had been careless. Giffrei had kept a spark of defiance in his heart, a flicker of hope that he could be free. He had waited for the right opportunity, and it came when the battle started.
They marched for miles, until they reached a small town at the edge of the forest. The drums stopped. The army halted. Gorm stood in front of his horde, with a wicked grin on his face. The sun was setting behind him, casting a bloody glow on the town. He raised his hand and pointed at the town.
"These people have invaded my land. They have taken what is mine! They have robbed you of your rightful homes! I am the eternal king of all lands, and none shall challenge me. Anyone who opposes me will meet their doom!" The army shouted with fury, waving their weapons in the air. "Spare no one! Plunder everything in sight!" The drums resumed their beat, faster and louder. The army advanced, with each beat they marched, with each beat they snarled, with each beat they neared the town. The drums became a storm.
The town was a scene of horror and chaos. The Undead army stormed the gates, smashing them with their axes and hammers, swords and arrows. The town militia tried to resist, but they were outnumbered and outmatched. The Undead soldiers were relentless, hacking and slashing at anyone who stood in their way. They felt no pain, no fear, no mercy. They only obeyed Gorm's command: kill them all.
The townsfolk ran for their lives, screaming and crying. Some tried to hide in their homes, but the Undead broke down the doors and windows, dragging them out and slaughtering them. Some tried to fight back, using whatever weapons they could find, but they were quickly overwhelmed and cut down. Some tried to flee, but the Undead surrounded them and cut off their escape routes. There was no hope, no salvation, only death.
Gorm watched from a hill, enjoying the spectacle. He laughed as he saw the blood and fire, the corpses and ashes. He felt a surge of power and pride. He was the king of the world, and he would make everyone bow to him or die. Gorm turned to the soldier beside him. He was a towering undead, at least eight feet tall, clad in pitch-black armor. His eyes glowed red from behind his helmet, radiating malice and bloodlust. "Get ready to sound the horn," Gorm ordered him. "We have enjoyed ourselves enough. My knights will end this quickly."
Giffrei was biding his time. He saw a soldier near him, holding a spear. He looked away, pretending to be indifferent. He waited until the soldier was distracted by the battle, then he snapped his shackles with a quick jerk of his wrists. The soldier heard the noise and turned to him, raising his spear. Giffrei acted fast, grabbing the spear right below the tip and twisting it out of the soldier's hands and into his chest. The soldier gasped and fell to the ground.
Giffrei didn't waste any time. He threw the spear towards the nearest rider, aiming for his head. The rider didn't see it coming, and the spear pierced through his helmet and flung him off his horse. The horse neighed and reared up, startled by the sudden attack.
Giffrei sprinted towards the horse and jumped on its back. He grabbed its reins and spurred it to run. The horse obeyed, galloping away from the army. The rest of the cavalry noticed this and gave chase.
He urged the horse to go faster, dodging the swords and javelins that flew at him from behind. He felt one of them hit him in the shoulder, piercing through his rusted armor and flesh. He groaned in pain but kept on riding.
The sound of a horn echoed in the air. It made him shiver, but he also felt a surge of hope. The riders stopped. Giffrei stopped. They stared at each other for a few seconds, then the riders turned around and raced back towards the sound of the horn. Giffrei kicked the horse and they sped away from the army.
"I'm still too good!" Giffrei shouted, laughing as he put more distance between him and his pursuers. He saw a large forest ahead of him. He recognized this forest, it had always been there, no matter how the world changed. As he reached the edge of the forest, he felt the ground shake and heard a roar. Gorm must have found out about his escape. "He won't bother looking for me here. He's too obsessed with his throne. He won't waste time searching this huge forest for me." He thought to himself as he entered the forest, but he was wrong. Gorm had already started marching towards the forest himself.
Giffrei remembered the first time he saw this forest. It was many many years ago, before he died, before he became an undead. He was a young and noble knight, sent by his king to establish a friendly relationship with the elves. He had heard stories of their grace and wisdom, but he had never seen them with his own eyes. Everything after that was too painful for him to think of even though it was so long ago, and he was an undead now.
He was amazed by the beauty of the forest, the lush greenery, the colorful flowers, the sparkling streams. He felt a sense of wonder and peace, as if he had entered a sacred realm.
He rode on until he found a clearing, where he stopped to orient himself. He looked around, trying to find a familiar landmark or anything that could help him know in which direction he should head.
As he was scanning the forest, he noticed a strange phenomenon. A red mist appeared out of thin air, swirling and spreading around him. It had a foul smell and a sinister aura. It made him feel uneasy and nauseous. He wondered what it was and where it came from.
He heard the sound of rustling leaves behind him. He turned his head and saw a figure emerging from the mist. It was a man, or at least it looked like one. He was old and frail, with wrinkled skin and white hair. He wore ragged clothes and a gray hooded cloak. He had empty eyes that stared at him with a cold and cruel expression. He held an ancient-looking walking stick in his hand, carved with strange symbols and runes. He moved towards him with slow and steady steps, like a predator stalking its prey.
Giffrei felt a sudden paralysis and a surge of fear. He couldn't move his body or his mouth. He couldn't scream or run away. He was trapped by the mist and the man. He felt a chill run down his spine and a pressure in his chest. He sensed a dark and powerful magic emanating from the man, a magic that could harm him or worse. The man reached Giffrei and stopped in front of him. He looked at him with a twisted smile.
He raised his hand and touched his finger to where his undead heart once beat. Giffrei felt an agony he never imagined possible, as if his heart was being ripped out of his chest. He felt his blood boil and his bones crack. He felt like his soul was being torn apart and devoured by the man. He felt his mind going blank.
He tried to resist, to fight back. But it was useless. He was no match for the man, for the Watcher. The once noisy forest was now dead silent.