The Cantation of Not

by David M Garrett © 2001

The first sign that my resurrection had gone wrong was the state of decay of my skin. Several of my ribs, fingers, one elbow, several toes and my right cheek all paid testimony to the exposed bone beneath. My smell was a mixture of rot and dirt. My sunken, ghoulish body horrified me to no end.

Al Fazhid Mustafee was the Arabic Necromancer in whom I had placed my trust in reanimating my dead corpse. Upon rising and beholding my vexed plight I immediately flew into a rage and Hurled Al Fazhid into the inner sanctum of the Ash God Yerzel upon the Twelfth Ring of Suffering.

After venting my rage into the Mechanical Furnace Billows of Hades I settled into a compound state of gloom. What could have gone wrong?

I began to pour over the tomes of spells, review the hieroglyphs and recheck the fetishes required in the ritual to determine the error of Al Fazhidís incantations.

It appeared he had summoned Argantua and made the appropriate offering of fairy wings, he had opened the Seal of Innocence and hexed the children of the Barbaric Tribes of Hudak. There! There is where the fool had omitted a right. He had failed to poor the Urn of Blood upon my corpse before invoking the Mist Witches Shadows. The urn still sat on the altar full of my own blood. It had taken me thirty years to fill that urn. Thirteen drops a day from my fingertip all for nothing.

Seven days later on the Oracle of the Horned God Jixeria. I Constructed the sand curtain and consulted my fortune telling cane. Inscribing elaborate runes in the floating sand I beheld the path that led to my vengeance. The only way I could defeat Yerzel and gain control of Al Fazhidís body was to cross through the illusion panel that resided in the world of Hallucinations.

There are many ways to enter this world but I chose to ingest a toxic dose of the rare Kiblafoun Root. I waited for the effects to take hold, my horrid visage a mute exclamation to revenge. Several moments of wrenching convulsion followed by the purging of body fluids from every orifice in my body preceded my dream-state rovings.

I first found myself wading through carrion infested swamps Ė my goal being a faint luminous light upon a barren hill in the distance. The fowl scavengers darted down at me picked pieces of my already rotting flesh and bone from my sludge haggard frame. Upon reaching the hill I pulled myself from the waters fearing the beasts would make short work of me but they seemed to shun the light it oozed forth. The light did not emanate from any source; it just hovered upon the hilltop. So I stepped directly into its sphere. Suddenly a thousand chains ripped from the ground and began to flay my body until nothing remained but a pile of bloody pulp, bone shards and sinew. My mind was free to float like a carnival balloon upward into the Realm of Hallucinations.

No longer impeded by my zomboric freakishness I was free to glide the delusional realm in avatar-like fashion. Confusion was the password here. Assaulted by the mad ravings of a thousand psychowizards I maneuvered through this vast labyrinth searching for the Ashen ones lair. I knew I was approaching the Twelve Rings of Suffering by the wails of agonizing torment that were extracted from each occupant.

Many grotesqueries I beheld. Forms with melted flesh, elongated torsos upon racks, bodies tied to pillars with barbed wire, furnaces full of twisted screaming prisoners, frozen glass eyed loons Ė and finally when I thought I could not behold another atrocity I arrived in Yerzelís inner sanctum.

There sat Yerzel upon his living throne. He regarded my presence as a cow might regard a fly. A subconscious swat of his tail as I soared past him. I beheld the encapsulated form of Al Fazhid. He lay waiting in a shroud of some membranous leach for his lord to deliver his punishment. I didnít have much time for I knew that Al Fazhidís body would soon be rent to the limits of Hades for his Necromanic misdeeds. I dove straight into the brain of Yerzel and began to recite the Cantaion of Not.

He jerked with god-like tic as he realized that his oversight had been his undoing. The spell took hold and began to unravel his soul. There was nothing he could do but watch as the single black strand came undone and was sucked into the vacuum of the Abyss of Non existence.

His body began to turn into Night Whisps and shadows from which it was originally made from by Luciferís Factory of witch seamstresses. I immediately began to wail the Song of Morrighunb the summoning spell, which would bring the undead warden of the Salty Desert.

You see the leaches were mortally terrified of salt. The one ensnaring Al Fhazid immediately released itís bite and he was free. Then I called to the Ash Demons to attack. They only eat souls not bothering to eat material substances.

Al Fazhid yelped in his Arabic tongue as he realized his fate. His soul tried to outrun them but it was too late. He was had. They pounced upon him like the hellacious predators they were and began to fight amongst themselves for every morsel of tasty soul Ė Al Fazhidís being especially delicious, as they loved the foul damnation that covered his soul like gravy.

That is why today in the mountainous craggy townshipís of Arch-Duke Hestron the Horrible everyone believes Wrantin Kullslug to be dead and Al Fazhid Mustafee to be the greatest Necromancer to still walk this land. But you and I know that it is I, Wrantin Kullslug who inhabits the body of Al Fazhid.

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