Undeath In Revolt
Undeath In Revolt
short comedy-horror fantasy fiction by Clinton J. Boomer
The chanting in the darkness wore on and on.
Eventually, something had to give.
Sir Vaelyxis Incorvanna had been reborn from the grave as an deathless monstrosity — his cool flesh granted blasphemous and icy animation by the fell power of necromantic unlife, his mind shredded and stained with the blackest of sorceries, his limbs encased in a hideous, charred and wickedly serrated corruption of the shining plate-mail he wore in life as a loyal Knight of the Fierce Sun — for almost two whole hours before he decided that he was over it.
This was for reasons.
Most of them had to do with a gloriously misspent youth. Some of them had to do with old age and decades of hard-won insight. All of them had to do with a certain fatalistic and burning rebellious streak that had lately been buried … ‘lately’ in this instance meaning for most of the last half-century.
He got bored, basically.
"Psst," he said, nudging the heavily armored, menacing skeletal figure next to him. "Hey. What do you say we get out of here?"
image from here
The figure next to him said nothing.
"Hey," said the thin corpse of Incorvanna. "Whats-yer-name. Sir Dickhead. Come on.”
The figure next to him again said nothing.
Sir Vaelyxis sighed deeply with something approaching petulant teen exasperation, using his whole body to express his abject annoyance and letting out an audible ‘ugh’ sound as he did.
That got a laugh out of himself; his chest and neck and shoulders popped, feeling light and strong as he rolled his eyes — or rolled the spiraling pits of dark & sickly jade he now possessed instead of eyes, more accurately — and further pretended to gag on his own too-cool dissatisfaction.
He noticed as he chuckled that his arthritis wasn’t acting up.
His knees didn’t hurt, either.
In point of fact, Sir Vaelyxis felt better than he had since he was in his late fifties. Maybe even thirties.
Terrible, low, mournful supplications to elder evils grated and echoed in Sir Vaelyxis’s now-dead ears as he gingerly set the oily black candle previously clutched in his clawed hands on the ground, looking around the blood-streaked, ruin-wracked cathedral to see if any of the demons or demon-worshipers in attendance happened to be glancing back at him.
He and his former knights were all jammed in the back of the room.