Post by Admin on Jun 14, 2022 23:09:31 GMT
Introduction
A mystery villain can’t stay in prison forever, can he?
Setting
somewhere in the mountains, between Baltimore and Philadelphia : early-1955
Who is Bilmoore Maglimar?
It was almost midnight. In the Security Center of the US Government Special Powers Division Maximum Security Prison, the night guard advanced the closed circuit TV monitor to the next cell and noted that Prisoner 871, Bilmoore Maglimar, the criminal known as ‘the Magist’ on the outside, sat in the lotus position, silent, motionless, with his eyes closed, as he had done for several hours every night over the past few months, ever since he had picked a fight with another prisoner and been sentenced to solitary confinement.
Maglimar was a small man, with his jet black hair and Fu-Manchu beard and mustache impeccably groomed, and his prison uniform was spotless and neatly pressed - the result of his own efforts during his daily two hour stint in the prison laundry. A few years ago, he’d made the mistake of challenging Captain Catapult, who had beaten him, and then Dr. Aeon had cast a spell that prevented him from using his powerful wand, Stonebender. Then…
“His own magical ability is limited and untrained. Without the wand, it requires only a simple spell to neutralize him until he has completed his prison sentence.” She’d chanted briefly in Atlantean, finishing with an emphatic ‘Xuvalu!’. “His magical abilities are now temporarily negated.”
And she’d been right. Somehow he was prevented from using that area of his mind that allowed him to cast spells. He could tell he still had the ability, but that part of him felt like it was far away - say, like talking to Australia long distance over the phone from Chicago far away. But he wasn’t beaten - he was determined to break through her spell.
He’d used his prison time in contemplation and study to improve his ability - Dr. Anna Sunsubiro, the most renowned magical researcher on Eorth had given him a personal study plan, after all, and he’d spent years as a stage hand to the great early 20th century magician Dante Taguchi. He hadn’t always paid much attention to Taguchi’s lessons, but now, what else did he have to do but remember and contemplate? While his fellow cons did power-lifting and squats in the prison gym, he mentally replayed everything he’d ever learned from Taguchi about natural magic (as opposed to stage magic).
And then, about 2 months ago, something had changed. Whatever magical blockage Dr. Aeon had implanted in his mind simply vanished. Bilmoore had carefully and secretly tested his returned spell capacity, and discovered that he was indeed able to cast spells again. And, almost worth going to jail for, his intensive study based on Dr. Sunsubiro’s guide had expanded his personal limits:
spell casting vocabulary extended beyond semordnilaps
improved spell crafting
expanded personal magical reservoir
He was certain he could now escape the prison at any time. Yet it was clear to him that his personal ability was yet nowhere near the power of Dr. Aeon, and there was just the tiniest shred of doubt about his escape - this prison was designed to hold the most powerful mystery villains, after all, and he didn’t yet consider himself as one of the most powerful. If he tried to escape and failed, they’d just call Aeon back again, and this time, she’d all but promised she would remove his spell-casting abilities. Permanently. And he had no doubt that she could. So instead, he picked a fight with another prisoner, and got sentenced to several months of solitary, with but 2 hours a day out of his cell to work in the prison laundry.
During his solitary confinement, Bilmoore had been a model prisoner, and after a few seconds observation, the guard advanced the closed circuit TV to monitor another cell. But all was not as it seemed in the cell of the Magist.
Secret Spell
‘Without my wand, the fools around me think me powerless, but they are wrong. It took me months to overcome the spell of that blue alien witch Dr. Aeon, but I have been able to escape for weeks. Where else, though, could I have found the solitude and motivation that allowed me to craft my latest, most powerful spell?’ Ruefully, ‘If I could spend dozens of hours preparing each spell, I would never need a wand - but then, I would never have time to enjoy the results of my spells - I would always need to be working on the next one.’
This spell would be powerful well beyond his ‘normal’ repertoire, as a result of the many hours he’d spent in its crafting.
He laughed heartily, his voice the deep bass of a man a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier, secure in the knowledge that the television equipment constantly monitoring him would show nothing other than the illusion of a silent man in deep, motionless meditation. ‘Still, I have put my time here to good use. My newest, most powerful spell will reveal seven powerful sources of magic anywhere around the world, and transport me to the destination of my choice. Once free, I will recover one of those sources of magic, and I shall never be powerless again - and in good time, I will become the most powerful mage on Eorth!’
Floating in the air in front of him was a globe, a detailed magical representation of the Eorth, spinning slowly to match the Eorth’s rotation. It was the result of a self-sustaining spell, drawing the little magic it required from the ambient environment. ‘A trivial spell, really — made difficult only by the need to make it invisible to all eyes but mine. And yet, through my perseverance and my genius, the spell is perfect. ’
The miniature world had floated in his cell for several weeks now, a constant reminder visible only to him, of his genius and his plan. Though it had taken him those same several weeks of intense concentration and planning, tonight he was ready to take the next step in his quest to become the most powerful wizard in the world.
Maglimar was preparing to cast the most powerful spell he had ever attempted. And he had to do it without attracting attention, using as physical components only those limited materials available to a prisoner in a maximum security prison. He couldn’t even use his usual loud, flashy incantations, else the guards might hear and interrupt. He shuddered at the thought of being interrupted in the middle of an enchantment. ‘Who knows what might happen if that much magical power was released uncontrollably? I certainly don’t want to find out!’
He was quite proud of his work. This spell was vastly powerful beyond any he created in the past, and the crafting was of higher quality than he had ever believed himself capable. He realized that this spell must work; if it didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to hide the results. He would be magically exhausted, and Dr. Aeon would probably be called back to cast another magical restraint spell. And the next time, Aeon wouldn’t just restrain him temporarily - she would remove his powers forever.
The Magist began chanting softly as he mixed the physical components of his spell in his prison-supplied aluminum drinking cup. Some tap water from the faucet, some dirt from the prison yard, the powdered wings of several hundred flies, gathered painstakingly one fly at a time. The burned ash of human hair, which he had been able to surreptitiously collect on several visits to the prison barbershop. Some powdered glass, made from the shards of a broken light bulb, ground under his own shoe. His spell even made use of the aluminum in the cup. He snapped his finger to produce a spark that lit a stolen candle to heat the mixture, and continued to chant softly until just the right moment. ‘Time for the spiritual component…’
From his pocket he pulled a live mouse, captured earlier and bound up in a rag. With a remaining shard of glass from a light bulb, he cut its throat and let the blood drip into the gooey mess in his cup. When the mouse died, he added the body of the unfortunate rodent to the mix and chanted some more. Finally he was done. He poured out the grisly stew and ground it into the cement floor with the heels of his prison-issued shoes; the rubber soles and the dusty cement were also part of the spell.
He commenced the final chant.
Ebolg fo Htroe, thiw stniop fo thgil, wohs em stnuof fo cigam thgim,
neves stnuof fo citsym rewop, rof ym esu yalpsid siht rouh…
On seye tub enim eseht snocaeb wohs; tuoba hcae tnuof I tnaw ot wonk.
Ebolg fo Htroe, nips sa uoy thgim, laever eseht snoceab ot ym thgis!
As he chanted, the room seemed to grow warmer, and he could feel the magic coursing through him. With the last word, he gestured with both hands toward the globe, and magic lightning, invisible to all but the Magist himself, flowed from his hands. Each lightning bolt split, and seven smaller bolts each landed on the mystic globe, and the spots where they landed continued to glow on the surface. He had picked the number seven due its mystical significance, but had no idea exactly why the spell selected these specific seven and not others. He had crafted the spell for his benefit - somehow the magic had determined that these seven best suited his needs.
He concentrated on each beacon in turn, and, true to his spell, he was able to learn the nature of the magical source of power that caused each beacon.
A flashing beacon in the North American southwest seemed promising, indicating the location of a mystical being famed as a trickster. Yet he could tell that this being was already sharing his power, so Bilmoore moved his contemplation to the new location.
When he concentrated on the beacon in Tibet, the Magist realized that it wasn’t a single powerful beacon at all, but the collective glow from a dozen smaller beacons, all clustered in a relatively small area. And the beacon in Egypt was similar. There was much power to be had in each of these regions, but he wasn’t interested in tracking down and consolidating lesser sources of potentially incompatible power - he wanted ultimate, unique magnificence!
A great power lay in the middle of the Australian outback. The Magist could feel that it was alien, unlike anything else on Eorth. He concluded that it must have come from elsewhere, and it was concentrated in the great outcropping of stone that men called Ayer’s Rock. Curiosity called him there, but this power was too alien to master easily. When he ruled supreme, he would study and conquer this power and add it to his own.
Nearby, in the middle of the South Pacific, another beacon glowed brightly. Concentrating on it brought the Magist a feeling of incredible age. This power had been dormant for ages, resting, he could tell, on the bottom of the ocean. He remembered hints of Lemuria and shuddered. This was another mystery that he could investigate when he had become the most powerful wizard on Eorth.
Two other sources remained. He considered Stonehenge and dismissed it. He could sense that the power of Stonehenge was linked to a mighty power for good, dormant for many years, but waiting for the event that would again release it. He realized with awe that he was sensing the power of the mighty Merlin, reputedly the most powerful wizard of all history. It was best to tiptoe away from this one.
That left Greenland. There were no legends of magic in Greenland, no ancient myths, no lost civilizations, no gods walking that barren land. He touched that beacon and smiled. An ancient and powerful mage was the absolute monarch of a tiny area somewhere in the vast plain of ice that covered Greenland. Bilmoore could sense that this wizard had the power to rule the world; why, then, was he confined to such a minuscule domain? This puzzle, as well as this power, drew him to this wizard - he would go to Greenland, wrest power from this ancient mage, and use that power to subjugate and rule the Eorth! Greenland became his goal.
But choosing Greenland called for a change in plans. He had originally intended to transport himself instantly to his new goal, but he had planned on appearing in a more hospitable environment. Given the scale of his miniature floating globe, if he missed his target by a quarter inch, he could end up on the Greenland ice cap, hundreds of miles away from his goal, dressed in his flimsy prison uniform. He might use up the leftover power from his current spell fighting the cold, but if he ran into any unforeseen problems… It would be much more prudent to jump to a destination he knew well, somewhere he knew was safe.
‘A change in plans is indicated. A quick jaunt home, a little shopping, pick up some cold weather gear, and maybe a little vacation along the way.’ He concentrated on his new destination, called up his power, and vanished.
Almost as an afterthought, the slowly spinning globe detonated in an explosion that destroyed his cell and all traces of the magic he had cast. No one, not Dr. Aeon, not even Merlin himself, were he still alive, would be able to track him. And when he returned, he would be more powerful than even they could ever imagine.
The Mundane Adventures of the Magist
The Magist popped back into existence in a place he knew well, a place he had once solemnly called his ‘secret sanctum’ - actually a tiny cave, once sparsely furnished with stuff he’d pulled from trash heaps, outside of Olean, New York, where he’d grown up. He had often retreated to this cave to escape the bullying of other kids as he’d grown up, before he’d run off to join Taguchi’s Travelling Magic Show as an apprentice. He used some of his extra power to ward the cave against detection and magically furnish it as lavishly as any palace harem. Another portion of power to create an expensive wardrobe and disguise himself, and finally, a huge wad of cash, including some $1000 and $500 bills. The furnishings, money, and his wardrobe and disguise would simply vanish in about a day and a half, but he figured he’d be well away by then. He found that he was totally exhausted by his spell-casting - even with all the training and preparation he’d done, he could tell that he was never going to be able to use his own power as easily and readily as Dr. Aeon. ‘Well, I’m about to change that!’
The next morning, he checked his disguise, then headed into town to have a decent meal. Breakfast at the diner was so good after months of awful prison food, that he almost felt bad that the money he paid with would disappear tomorrow. ‘Although they couldn’t keep me in prison once I decided to leave!’ he thought proudly to himself.
He knew he would need a vehicle to carry his upcoming purchases, so he dropped into the local Chrysler/Fargo dealership. He instantly recognized one of the salesmen, sitting at a desk - Ben Smith, who’d been an arrogant, obnoxious bully during high school and perhaps Bilmoore’s most hated antagonist. Today definitely promised to be a fun day! Before he introduced himself, he chanted quietly:
Kaew mih ekam.
A whispered spell, concocted on the spot with no ritual or components, would have limited power and duration, but it would suffice.
“Good morning, Mr. Smith,” he presented himself. “My name is Harry Blackstone.” Smith had already noted Blackstone’s expensive attire. He jumped to his feet, staggered for an instant, and when he regained his balance he crowded very close to his prospective client, so that the much shorter, slighter Bilmoore had to look almost directly upwards to see him. As they shook hands, Bilmoore barely noticed that Smith was squeezing powerfully, and when he gently squeezed back, Smith winced in pain and disgust - and quickly ended the handshake. He didn’t acknowledge the introduction otherwise, simple started talking.
“Harry, I just got a late model trade-in yesterday. Low miles, flip-top, cherry…” The lemon Smith had in mind had been on the lot for almost a month, and he’d spent a couple of hours unwinding the odometer. He pushed Bilmoore’s through the side door and out onto the lot.
Bilmoore snapped his fingers and whispered
Poop god!
so quietly nobody else could hear. It might have been just bad luck that Smith slipped on a grease spot and fell into a puddle of mud and oil, then swore as he rolled out of the puddle into a pile of dog poop. As the swearing salesman struggled to his feet, the mage muttered quietly
Lacitircnu yrev eb lliw uoy yadot.
Without advance preparation, this spell wouldn’t be very powerful, but it should be effective enough to have some fun with his old acquaintance. This was promising to turn into a very entertaining day.
“Ain’t that a bite, Mr. Smith? I hope you’re OK.” With a look of surprised disgust, Bilmoore grabbed his nose and backed away. “Wow, that must be the worst smelling dog shit ever!”
Smith clenched his fists and he was about to explode in rage, but Bilmoore pulled out his wallet and flashed a major roll of cash. “Look, I want to drive out of here in a brand new Fargo pickup by 2 pm today. I’ve got some shopping to do, and then I need to be in Erie tonight. You should really go home and clean up; nobody would ever buy anything from someone as grody as you. I’ll deal with one of the other salesmen.”
“Like frickin’ he…” Smith began vehemently, but the sight of the cash reminded him of the potential commission involved here. If he could get this guy up to $3200, his commission would be more than he usually made in a week! And nobody but a sucker flashed that much cash. He bit his tongue and started again, much more quietly.
“Well, Mr. Blackstone, you could do that, but you’d miss out on a great deal. There isn’t anyone here who knows as much about pickup trucks as I do - hell, they all drive cars, not a truck like me! And I guarantee nobody else will give you the kind of deal I will. If you don’t mind waiting, I’ll run home and change, and when I get back, I’ll give the best deal you’ll find on a Fargo in Western New York. It won’t take but 40 minutes.”
Bilmoore pretended to think it over, then agreed. “Since you’re sure I’ll get the best deal from you, Mr. Smith, I’m willing to wait. I need to do some other shopping anyway. I’ll meet you back here in an hour.” Smith hurried into the service center to wipe of the worst of the mess and pick up the keys to one of the used trucks on the lot, since he didn’t want Blackstone to see him in a car - or, mess up his own car with oily shit on the seats, either. He never heard the next words from the Magist, spoken firmly and with some deliberate but descrete hand motions:
Tekcit gnideeps!
It took Smith over an hour. He’d been in sight of his house when he got pulled over for speeding, and he’d barely avoided being arrested, not just for speeding, but also for threatening the cop, who asked HQ to check with the dealership to make sure this bum hadn’t stolen the truck. When he rushed into the back into the showroom, seeing Bilmoore sitting at his boss’s desk looking at brochures for Chrysler’s top of the line New Yorker and Newport models didn’t help his disposition any. ‘Why that candy ass! If he steals my commission, I swear I’ll resign with a knuckle sandwich!’
Getting Smith fired right now would spoil much of Bilmoore’s fun.
Pirt! Gnorts em ekam!
he whispered and flicked his finger in the direction of the irate salesman, who was stomping towards the desk. Smith tripped on a loose corner of an area rug, and he fell to the floor, barely avoiding crashing into another desk on the way down. Bilmoore rushed over, turning to talk to the manager over his shoulder.
“Thanks for the information, Mr. Crowe. I’ll definitely find a Chrysler dealer after I’ve moved to Erie.” Then he stuck his hand and easily pulled Smith to his feet. “You sure are clumsy, aren’t you, Mr. Smith? I hope you can stay on your feet until you give me your best deal on your top of the line truck, with all the bells and whistles!” He didn’t wait for an answer - he turned and headed out on the lot to the trucks, talking to Smith over his shoulder
“While you were gone, I looked over all your trucks. I really like this one the best.” He stopped in front of the most expensive pickup truck on the lot. It had all the bells and whistles — built-in A.M. radio, dashboard clock, air-conditioning, locking gas cap, trailer hitch, one-thousand-mile warranty, the works. It was the biggest commission on the lot, too. Even after paying off the ticket and getting his clothes cleaned, today could be his best day ever. The angry scrunching finally left his face and he got a big smile. For a few seconds.
“Except it doesn’t have power windows. Gotta have power windows. None of the trucks with power windows have all the other stuff I want. I guess I better go home and call my folks, and tell them I won’t make it to Erie tonight. I think there’s a Forgo dealer in Hinsdale; I’ll try them tomorrow. Sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”
Smith was devastated. He thought as fast as he ever had. “Hold on! That one there,” he pointed at another truck, same color, parked three spaces away. “It has power windows. You don’t have to change your plans. Charlie, my mechanic, can swap the doors between these two trucks in an hour or so. Tell you what, it’s just about lunchtime. Suppose I treat you to the best lunch in town, and when you’re done, your new truck will be ready for you.”
Blackstone hesitated. “I’m sorry, friend, I just couldn’t impose on you and your mechanic that way. Maybe the next time I need a new truck…”
“No imposition at all, sir!” Smith said, thinking as quickly as he could to come up with some other incentive to keep Mr. Blackstone from leaving. “In fact, I think I’ll stick around and help Charlie. Hold tight for just a second.”
He practically ran into the showroom, and a few minutes later he walked back out with a very attractive young woman. “Brandy, here, will take you over to Leela’s. Best food in the county!”
Brandy had a charming smile, and for a good reason — this stranger had just got her a free lunch at Leela’s, plus a twenty-dollar cash bonus. Blackstone gallantly held out his arm, she took his elbow, and the two headed for lunch.
It cost Smith another fifty dollars to get Charlie to work through lunch. Charlie would have done it for twenty-five, except that Smith had insisted on helping him, and said help consisted mostly of ignorant criticism. It wasn’t all that difficult — every truck of this series used the same wiring harness, so once he’d swapped the doors, all Charlie had to do was uncap a few wires and attach them to a jumper strip in the door panel. He was very satisfied with fifty bucks for less than a half hour of work.
So far, Ben Smith had spent almost one hundred dollars (including the meal) of his own money to make this sale. Still, even subtracting that much, he was going to earn the biggest commission of his life. He could afford to be generous.
The Magist really enjoyed his lunch with Brandy. Besides being extremely attractive, she was smart, sneaky, self-centered, avaricious, had very few scruples, and seemed to be willing to do just about anything to advance her station in life. She was just his kind of people, in fact. He managed to flash his gigantic wad of fake cash when they were talking about his new pickup truck, and this earned him an invitation to dinner and drinks at her place tonight.
He had planned to hit the road today so that he would be a long way away when the spell ran out and the cash vanished, but in the face of this offer, he changed his plans. He had been in solitary confinement a long time. ‘Even though’ he reminded himself, ‘..I easily could have escaped at any time.’ Some experiences he had missed more than others. Spending time with a beautiful woman was one of those that he had missed the most!
When the Magist and his new but very close friend Brandy returned from lunch, the truck was finished. Smith proudly showed off the power windows. “What say we go sign the paperwork now?” Bilmoore agreed.
Smith opened with a figure well above what he hoped to get. He was stunned when Blackstone didn’t even try to haggle. Blackstone simply displayed his driver’s license (another magical forgery) and counted out the cash. Smith made a show out of crossing the floor and putting the bundle of cash into the office safe, making sure everyone was aware of the big deal he’d just closed. Finally, the two shook hands, and the Magist left, pink slip in hand. He wished he could be here tomorrow, when the cash and his signature were both going to vanish without a trace. He wondered how Smith was going to explain the missing truck and the missing money to his boss, but he didn’t worry about it for long.
Hopping in the truck, he headed for Sears. In the camping section, he found everything he needed: Ted Williams hunting gear, Ted Williams camping gear, Ted Williams fishing gear, even Ted Williams rain gear. ‘Who the heck IS this Williams guy, anyway? Must be a famous politician or actor?’
He paid cash for several-hundred dollars’ worth of Ted Williams recommended cold-weather camping and hiking gear, generously tipped the stock boys who helped him load the truck, and headed out of town on the road for Erie. After 20 minutes, he turned off and circled back, ending up at Brandy’s place. He hoped those kids would spend that cash in a hurry.
Dinner was very good; she had used her cash bonus to order in Japanese and they shared a small bottle of sake. And the adult entertainment after dinner was even better. When Brandy let it slip that good old Smith had been putting the moves on her, and she had been leading him on but had no plans to ever even kiss him, it just put the finishing touch on a perfect day.
The Magist woke up early the next day and spent a half hour crafting an illusion spell for himself and his truck. With the exception of Brandy, who would continue to see things as they really were, for maybe half a day, everyone would would see his brand-new dark blue Fargo as a beat-up red 1949 Ford half-ton, driven by a much older man, partially bald and bent with age. After casting the spell, he bought Brandy breakfast. He promised to look her up when he returned from his business trip, a promise he definitely intended to keep. He was certain that he would be able to find a appropriate position for her in his new world order.
On the Road to Labrador
Bilmoore wasn’t in a hurry. With a new truck, and lots of money which he didn’t mind spending, what was the hurry? He didn’t drive fast, instead enjoying the scenery and the feeling of freedom after months of incarceration. ‘Voluntary incarceration!’ he reminded himself.
He made his plans as he drove. ‘I’ll cross into Canada at Niagara Falls and then drive north and east until I reach Labrador. Once I reach the coast, I should be able to find someone with a boat or an airplane I can charter to ferry me over to Greenland. I’ll cast a divination spell to get a more exact location from there, and then I can likely fly the rest of the way under my own power.’ He started thinking about the details of crafting the flying spell - the more advance thought he gave it, the more powerful it would be, and the longer it would last.
Along the way, the Magist also spent some time daydreaming about his title. ‘*Ruler of the World* doesn’t flow easily from the tongue. *Bilmoore the First, King of Eorth* sounds sufficiently majestic, but it’s a bit too long. How about… *the Magist, Emperor of Eorth*? And my subjects can address me either as *My Lord Emperor* or simply *Milord*.
He spent the night in a small town outside of Buffalo, at a fancy place called The Roycroft Inn. Before he left, he concentrated and made some more money. It would probably last until noon, and he could do it over again if he needed to, but it would be tedious casting a similar spell twice a day during the rest of his trip. He needed a nice bankroll of real money.
Hsad ym rof yap ot
Hsac erom emos deen I
Hsalf a ni emos ekam!
FLASH! He was temporarily blinded. “Burtlfrip and follypox!” 'Good thing I cast that one inside!' he thought in disgust. 'I need to rethink the words on that spell…'
A few minutes later, when his vision cleared, he pocketed his new roll of cash; cash which would probably vanish in a couple of hours, undoubtedly with a similar flash. Around 10 A.M. he pulled up in front of the main branch of the Manufacturers’ and Traders’ Bank in downtown Buffalo, the biggest bank for probably two hundred miles. In the bank parking lot, he sat silently for a few minutes, concentrating on exactly the effects he wanted. He picked up a paper napkin from a snack stop along the way, crumpled it in his hands, then opened them both flat, the crumpled bag on top. He pictured a magnificent 7 point buck in his mind and chanted:
Gar yttar dna dlo siht mrofsnart
Gab yrlewej tnecifingam a ot
Gats a morf sa rehtael elppus fo!
The tattered paper bag was transformed into a fine leather drawstring bag. Next, the contents… he sliced up an apple, carved the slices into approximately the shapes he wanted, then pressed small stones from a handful of gravel into the slices. He concentrated on recalling the jewelry he’d stolen from P. Horowicz several years ago:
Tiurf dna enots fo sgniht eseht egnahc
Tool tsenif yrev eht otni
Dlog, revlis, smeg ot mrofsnart
Dlob, ycuas, elkraps dna enihs taht!
He dumped the jewelry into the bag. In the bank, he walked up to the manager and inquired about renting a safe deposit box. He paid the first year’s rent in advance, using cash. The manager led him to a private vault room where he put his valuables into the new box, and the Magist used the time to cast a weak magic spell on the door of the vault and all the doors he’d passed through so far.
Skcol lla nepo ot yek lacigam eht semoceb regnif ym!
He spent the day touring the city — the Museum of Natural History, the Albright-Knox Art Gallery, the Buffalo Zoo. He had a bad moment at the zoo when Buffalo’s mystery heroes, the Stormbirds (Thunderbird and Rainbird), flew overhead and landed at the zoo’s aviary. He wasn’t prepared to battle with mystery heroes yet, but they weren’t interested in him. The Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestra happened to be playing that evening, so he created a temporary tuxedo and listened to an excellent rendition of Peter and the Wolf at Kleinhan’s Music Hall.
Shortly after dark, Bilmoore cast a spell to locate a major power station. He pulled up on the street opposite, concentrated for a few seconds, pointed at one of the transformers and cast his latest spell:
Dolpxe!
And it exploded. As every emergency response unit in Buffalo converged on the power plant, he made his way back to the bank. On the darkened street, he simply walked up to the front door of the bank, pointed at the lock, and then opened the door and walked in. He repeated this twice before he reached the vault. The spell on the vault worked just as well, and he walked right in. He quickly filled two duffel bags he had stolen from Sears, and just as easily walked back out, locking each door behind him. When he was back to his car, he willed his spell to dissipate - not a big deal, as it would only have lasted for a few minutes longer anyway.
‘With my new control of my powers, the last couple days have been SO easy!’ he marveled. ‘Losing that fight to Captain Catapult was the best thing that ever happened to me. I NEVER would have worked that hard on my own.’
He spent the night in a small hotel on Grand Island. Early the next morning, a suggestibility spell on the customs official at the border, similar to the one he’d used on Ben Smith, prevented any potential delays, and he was on Queen Victoria Way and rolling toward Labrador before mid-morning.
It took him a week of leisurely travel to reach the town of Cartwright in Labrador. With a big bankroll of American dollars, it wasn’t hard to charter a seaplane to fly him to Godthåb, Greenland. He had enjoyed the trip, he was rested and invigorated, and ready to stride confidently into his grand future. Soon, very soon, he would assume his rightful title of the Magist, Emperor of Eorth.
On the Ice
As his chartered plane approached Greenland, the Magist realized that even without a spell, he could sense a very strong, yet still distant source of magic, somewhere in front of him. By the time they reached Godthåb, he knew he would have no trouble tracking these magical emanations to their source. But he was realizing that perhaps he had underestimated the difficulty of crossing the Greenland ice cap, even with his Ted Williams winter gear and his magic. This source could be hundreds of miles away and it was cold! ‘I’ve never been able to fly before, but never been able to draw upon enough power. I wonder if I can draw extra power from this source?'
As the pilot was concentrating on navigation, Bilmorre was concentrating on a pair of spells. After the plane had landed, and he’d paid someone to carry his bags into the small airport office, he stopped outside. There was nothing complicated about the first spell he cast:
Tsif ym fo ezis eht enots a em gnirb!
A fist-sized lump of stone dislodged from under a nearby snowbank and floated toward him. His next spell was totally different; it was one he couldn’t have conceived of before his ‘Strictly voluntary!’ time in prison, where he had come to appreciate the power of talismans.
Ecruos sti ot rewop siht ecart Enots siht otni wolf ti tel Ecrof cigam ym ot ti dda Nwo ym sa ti esu em tel!
The results were not at all what he’d expected! A barely visible mist formed in the air around him, writhed into the shape of a hand, closed around him, plucked him thousands of feet into the air, and began dragging him off to the north.
He quickly yelled out several impromptu spells, but none had any affect:
Nwod em tup!
Enogeb!
Hsinav dnah cigam!
Nothing worked! At least the mystical hand shielded him from the frigid temperatures outside, but he was helpless to fight it. He’d never moved this fast before - the coastline vanished in seconds, and he was being dragged north at high speed high above the seemingly endless blur of white that was Greenland. It wasn’t long before he could see something rising from the white ice pack, and as they approached, it resolved into a small stone cenotaph, standing starkly in the middle of nowhere, totally surrounded by blindingly white ice pack that reached to the horizon in all directions, yet bare of ice and snow.
He screamed as the invisible hand drove him against a stone wall at high speed - and then, without any sensation at all, he was through the wall into an almost completely baren room, seemingly much larger on the inside than the outside, The hand deposited him in front of the only feature in the room, an ornate bier, beautifully made of polished wood inlaid with gold, silver, and jewels in occult patterns. Lying on the bier was a skeleton, wrapped in a purple robe, ornately embroidered with silver and gold and covered with gems and jewels. The skeleton abruptly folded upward at the waist and sat up, and the torso turned to face him. The bones in the skull and face seemed to be made of dark green jade, highly polished, and the eyes were enormous red gems that actually glowed.
“A lich! You’re a Lovecraft lich!” Bilmoore screamed. He was terrified. As he heard his own words, he realized he was screaming in some language other than English, a harsh, guttural language that seemed to tear at his throat with every word.
“Ah, Bilmoore Maglimar, you have arrived at your destiny. Finally.” The skeleton’s mouth did not move as it spoke, the voice seeming to emanate from thousands of points in the room around them. There was an eerie, echoing effect, as the words spoken in the far corners of the room arrived an instant later than the same words spoken nearby. The lich, too, spoke in the same guttural language.
The skeleton waved his hand, and BIlmoore was frozen in place, unable to move or speak. He was getting really tired of this being powerless crap!
“For almost a thousand centuries, I have slept on this slab, locked in a mystical prison I didn’t want to escape.” For a second, Bilmoore was disbelieving that one wouldn’t want to escape a prison, then remembered his own recent imprisonment, which he had voluntarily abided. Then his mind moved on to the thousand centuries.
“You are the first in hundreds of centuries to seek me, and the spell you used broke the spell that imprisoned me. For this I will gift you with my thanks and my curse.” The lich gestured - a comfortable chair appeared behind Bilmoore, along with a side table covered with food and beverages. “Sit and hear my story, before you receive my gifts.”
It gestured again, and Bilmoore’s body seated itself. In the process, he noted that his clothing had been transformed. He was no longer wearing his Ted Williams snow gear; instead he was now dressed in an extraordinarily more expensive version of the outfit he had worn as the Magist: black top hat, black tuxedo, white shirt with ruffles and French cuffs, red cummerbund and bow tie, and black patent leather shoes, as well as a long, dark red opera cape.
As the lich talked, Bilmoore found that he was free to eat and drink - but no other movements were allowed him.
“I am Igviz Gunnz, the founder and Emperor of Atlantis, the Atlantis I ruled for centuries. Though the Empire prospered, numerous were my enemies, swarming like fleas around my feet, yet not alone or together did they have the power to end me. So instead, working together to accomplish what they were too weak to do separately, they imprisoned me in a magical illusion of glory that I neither recognized as a dream, or wished to escape, in which I remained the absolute ruler of Atlantis, in the prime of my youth and my power, for endless centuries. The spell itself eventually grew old, and weak, and your own spell punctured it, and the ancient spell no longer had the power remaining to heal itself. Thus you have released me from the ancient dream.”
“Only a dream… not real… but… what a dream! Sustained for so long… by the very spell that trapped me… and my own mighty will! I wonder, did they see the irony?” the Magist heard anger in the echoing voice. “I have lived thousands of normal lifetimes as ruler of the greatest empire in human history. My every whim, an iron law. Long after they died… those who imprisoned me. Had they but known, had they but waited…”
His voice grew strong, focused by his anger at his ancient foes.
“Gghewwk uhoylp inywuy lsanvu lgrenn. Osywha wmafuk hatuft awkuuv. Ghewwk uduonh apuhtu hkehty lftanu. Ghewog yhatyp pimafu kgzuvu. Gewog howwaw mafuky xuzapu XUVALU!”
The Emperor and his bier disappeared. Where the bier had been, a magnificently ornamented staff, topped by a jade skull with glowing red eyes, stood magically upright on the floor. The skull glowed with magical power, and the Magist could sense within it the mind of the ancient emperor.
The Magist heard a voice in his head, and he knew it came from the skull. “My time was long past, young wizard. Only the error of my enemies sustained me. They had no way of knowing that, at the height of my earthly power, when they trapped me, I was dying. An they had ignored me, I had few years left to me. Yet, even when I was dying, they were unable to conquer me. So they trapped me by giving me what I wanted! Yes, they were clever, but still, they are dead, and I have lived a life fit for a god.”
“As a reward for freeing me, and indeed as punishment for disrupting my oh-so-wonderful imprisonment, I gift you with this staff. In this staff, I have co-mingled your power with the small power that remains to me, your life force with what is left of mine. You now have a powerful weapon, young wizard, as well as a dangerous weakness. This staff will enable you to store and control much more powerful magic than you were ever capable of in the past, and yet, if you are parted from it for an extended time, your own life will fade as mine did when you destroyed my world. And you will always have my wisdom to draw upon.”
“But will you ever shut up?” the Magist rhetorically asked of the skull. He quickly drew power from the staff and concentrated briefly. There was a pop of displaced air, and the Magist, still with staff in hand, disappeared from the tomb in Greenland, reappearing instantly in his own , long unused sanctum outside Olean, NY. Where he didn’t remain long.
Secure in his new appearance and his new power, he strode confidently into the day. He would return to Chicago, and make a place for himself there. The world had best beware, for the Magnificent Magist was about to make his return appearance.
A mystery villain can’t stay in prison forever, can he?
Setting
somewhere in the mountains, between Baltimore and Philadelphia : early-1955
Who is Bilmoore Maglimar?
It was almost midnight. In the Security Center of the US Government Special Powers Division Maximum Security Prison, the night guard advanced the closed circuit TV monitor to the next cell and noted that Prisoner 871, Bilmoore Maglimar, the criminal known as ‘the Magist’ on the outside, sat in the lotus position, silent, motionless, with his eyes closed, as he had done for several hours every night over the past few months, ever since he had picked a fight with another prisoner and been sentenced to solitary confinement.
Maglimar was a small man, with his jet black hair and Fu-Manchu beard and mustache impeccably groomed, and his prison uniform was spotless and neatly pressed - the result of his own efforts during his daily two hour stint in the prison laundry. A few years ago, he’d made the mistake of challenging Captain Catapult, who had beaten him, and then Dr. Aeon had cast a spell that prevented him from using his powerful wand, Stonebender. Then…
“His own magical ability is limited and untrained. Without the wand, it requires only a simple spell to neutralize him until he has completed his prison sentence.” She’d chanted briefly in Atlantean, finishing with an emphatic ‘Xuvalu!’. “His magical abilities are now temporarily negated.”
And she’d been right. Somehow he was prevented from using that area of his mind that allowed him to cast spells. He could tell he still had the ability, but that part of him felt like it was far away - say, like talking to Australia long distance over the phone from Chicago far away. But he wasn’t beaten - he was determined to break through her spell.
He’d used his prison time in contemplation and study to improve his ability - Dr. Anna Sunsubiro, the most renowned magical researcher on Eorth had given him a personal study plan, after all, and he’d spent years as a stage hand to the great early 20th century magician Dante Taguchi. He hadn’t always paid much attention to Taguchi’s lessons, but now, what else did he have to do but remember and contemplate? While his fellow cons did power-lifting and squats in the prison gym, he mentally replayed everything he’d ever learned from Taguchi about natural magic (as opposed to stage magic).
And then, about 2 months ago, something had changed. Whatever magical blockage Dr. Aeon had implanted in his mind simply vanished. Bilmoore had carefully and secretly tested his returned spell capacity, and discovered that he was indeed able to cast spells again. And, almost worth going to jail for, his intensive study based on Dr. Sunsubiro’s guide had expanded his personal limits:
spell casting vocabulary extended beyond semordnilaps
improved spell crafting
expanded personal magical reservoir
He was certain he could now escape the prison at any time. Yet it was clear to him that his personal ability was yet nowhere near the power of Dr. Aeon, and there was just the tiniest shred of doubt about his escape - this prison was designed to hold the most powerful mystery villains, after all, and he didn’t yet consider himself as one of the most powerful. If he tried to escape and failed, they’d just call Aeon back again, and this time, she’d all but promised she would remove his spell-casting abilities. Permanently. And he had no doubt that she could. So instead, he picked a fight with another prisoner, and got sentenced to several months of solitary, with but 2 hours a day out of his cell to work in the prison laundry.
During his solitary confinement, Bilmoore had been a model prisoner, and after a few seconds observation, the guard advanced the closed circuit TV to monitor another cell. But all was not as it seemed in the cell of the Magist.
Secret Spell
‘Without my wand, the fools around me think me powerless, but they are wrong. It took me months to overcome the spell of that blue alien witch Dr. Aeon, but I have been able to escape for weeks. Where else, though, could I have found the solitude and motivation that allowed me to craft my latest, most powerful spell?’ Ruefully, ‘If I could spend dozens of hours preparing each spell, I would never need a wand - but then, I would never have time to enjoy the results of my spells - I would always need to be working on the next one.’
This spell would be powerful well beyond his ‘normal’ repertoire, as a result of the many hours he’d spent in its crafting.
He laughed heartily, his voice the deep bass of a man a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier, secure in the knowledge that the television equipment constantly monitoring him would show nothing other than the illusion of a silent man in deep, motionless meditation. ‘Still, I have put my time here to good use. My newest, most powerful spell will reveal seven powerful sources of magic anywhere around the world, and transport me to the destination of my choice. Once free, I will recover one of those sources of magic, and I shall never be powerless again - and in good time, I will become the most powerful mage on Eorth!’
Floating in the air in front of him was a globe, a detailed magical representation of the Eorth, spinning slowly to match the Eorth’s rotation. It was the result of a self-sustaining spell, drawing the little magic it required from the ambient environment. ‘A trivial spell, really — made difficult only by the need to make it invisible to all eyes but mine. And yet, through my perseverance and my genius, the spell is perfect. ’
The miniature world had floated in his cell for several weeks now, a constant reminder visible only to him, of his genius and his plan. Though it had taken him those same several weeks of intense concentration and planning, tonight he was ready to take the next step in his quest to become the most powerful wizard in the world.
Maglimar was preparing to cast the most powerful spell he had ever attempted. And he had to do it without attracting attention, using as physical components only those limited materials available to a prisoner in a maximum security prison. He couldn’t even use his usual loud, flashy incantations, else the guards might hear and interrupt. He shuddered at the thought of being interrupted in the middle of an enchantment. ‘Who knows what might happen if that much magical power was released uncontrollably? I certainly don’t want to find out!’
He was quite proud of his work. This spell was vastly powerful beyond any he created in the past, and the crafting was of higher quality than he had ever believed himself capable. He realized that this spell must work; if it didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to hide the results. He would be magically exhausted, and Dr. Aeon would probably be called back to cast another magical restraint spell. And the next time, Aeon wouldn’t just restrain him temporarily - she would remove his powers forever.
The Magist began chanting softly as he mixed the physical components of his spell in his prison-supplied aluminum drinking cup. Some tap water from the faucet, some dirt from the prison yard, the powdered wings of several hundred flies, gathered painstakingly one fly at a time. The burned ash of human hair, which he had been able to surreptitiously collect on several visits to the prison barbershop. Some powdered glass, made from the shards of a broken light bulb, ground under his own shoe. His spell even made use of the aluminum in the cup. He snapped his finger to produce a spark that lit a stolen candle to heat the mixture, and continued to chant softly until just the right moment. ‘Time for the spiritual component…’
From his pocket he pulled a live mouse, captured earlier and bound up in a rag. With a remaining shard of glass from a light bulb, he cut its throat and let the blood drip into the gooey mess in his cup. When the mouse died, he added the body of the unfortunate rodent to the mix and chanted some more. Finally he was done. He poured out the grisly stew and ground it into the cement floor with the heels of his prison-issued shoes; the rubber soles and the dusty cement were also part of the spell.
He commenced the final chant.
Ebolg fo Htroe, thiw stniop fo thgil, wohs em stnuof fo cigam thgim,
neves stnuof fo citsym rewop, rof ym esu yalpsid siht rouh…
On seye tub enim eseht snocaeb wohs; tuoba hcae tnuof I tnaw ot wonk.
Ebolg fo Htroe, nips sa uoy thgim, laever eseht snoceab ot ym thgis!
As he chanted, the room seemed to grow warmer, and he could feel the magic coursing through him. With the last word, he gestured with both hands toward the globe, and magic lightning, invisible to all but the Magist himself, flowed from his hands. Each lightning bolt split, and seven smaller bolts each landed on the mystic globe, and the spots where they landed continued to glow on the surface. He had picked the number seven due its mystical significance, but had no idea exactly why the spell selected these specific seven and not others. He had crafted the spell for his benefit - somehow the magic had determined that these seven best suited his needs.
He concentrated on each beacon in turn, and, true to his spell, he was able to learn the nature of the magical source of power that caused each beacon.
A flashing beacon in the North American southwest seemed promising, indicating the location of a mystical being famed as a trickster. Yet he could tell that this being was already sharing his power, so Bilmoore moved his contemplation to the new location.
When he concentrated on the beacon in Tibet, the Magist realized that it wasn’t a single powerful beacon at all, but the collective glow from a dozen smaller beacons, all clustered in a relatively small area. And the beacon in Egypt was similar. There was much power to be had in each of these regions, but he wasn’t interested in tracking down and consolidating lesser sources of potentially incompatible power - he wanted ultimate, unique magnificence!
A great power lay in the middle of the Australian outback. The Magist could feel that it was alien, unlike anything else on Eorth. He concluded that it must have come from elsewhere, and it was concentrated in the great outcropping of stone that men called Ayer’s Rock. Curiosity called him there, but this power was too alien to master easily. When he ruled supreme, he would study and conquer this power and add it to his own.
Nearby, in the middle of the South Pacific, another beacon glowed brightly. Concentrating on it brought the Magist a feeling of incredible age. This power had been dormant for ages, resting, he could tell, on the bottom of the ocean. He remembered hints of Lemuria and shuddered. This was another mystery that he could investigate when he had become the most powerful wizard on Eorth.
Two other sources remained. He considered Stonehenge and dismissed it. He could sense that the power of Stonehenge was linked to a mighty power for good, dormant for many years, but waiting for the event that would again release it. He realized with awe that he was sensing the power of the mighty Merlin, reputedly the most powerful wizard of all history. It was best to tiptoe away from this one.
That left Greenland. There were no legends of magic in Greenland, no ancient myths, no lost civilizations, no gods walking that barren land. He touched that beacon and smiled. An ancient and powerful mage was the absolute monarch of a tiny area somewhere in the vast plain of ice that covered Greenland. Bilmoore could sense that this wizard had the power to rule the world; why, then, was he confined to such a minuscule domain? This puzzle, as well as this power, drew him to this wizard - he would go to Greenland, wrest power from this ancient mage, and use that power to subjugate and rule the Eorth! Greenland became his goal.
But choosing Greenland called for a change in plans. He had originally intended to transport himself instantly to his new goal, but he had planned on appearing in a more hospitable environment. Given the scale of his miniature floating globe, if he missed his target by a quarter inch, he could end up on the Greenland ice cap, hundreds of miles away from his goal, dressed in his flimsy prison uniform. He might use up the leftover power from his current spell fighting the cold, but if he ran into any unforeseen problems… It would be much more prudent to jump to a destination he knew well, somewhere he knew was safe.
‘A change in plans is indicated. A quick jaunt home, a little shopping, pick up some cold weather gear, and maybe a little vacation along the way.’ He concentrated on his new destination, called up his power, and vanished.
Almost as an afterthought, the slowly spinning globe detonated in an explosion that destroyed his cell and all traces of the magic he had cast. No one, not Dr. Aeon, not even Merlin himself, were he still alive, would be able to track him. And when he returned, he would be more powerful than even they could ever imagine.
The Mundane Adventures of the Magist
The Magist popped back into existence in a place he knew well, a place he had once solemnly called his ‘secret sanctum’ - actually a tiny cave, once sparsely furnished with stuff he’d pulled from trash heaps, outside of Olean, New York, where he’d grown up. He had often retreated to this cave to escape the bullying of other kids as he’d grown up, before he’d run off to join Taguchi’s Travelling Magic Show as an apprentice. He used some of his extra power to ward the cave against detection and magically furnish it as lavishly as any palace harem. Another portion of power to create an expensive wardrobe and disguise himself, and finally, a huge wad of cash, including some $1000 and $500 bills. The furnishings, money, and his wardrobe and disguise would simply vanish in about a day and a half, but he figured he’d be well away by then. He found that he was totally exhausted by his spell-casting - even with all the training and preparation he’d done, he could tell that he was never going to be able to use his own power as easily and readily as Dr. Aeon. ‘Well, I’m about to change that!’
The next morning, he checked his disguise, then headed into town to have a decent meal. Breakfast at the diner was so good after months of awful prison food, that he almost felt bad that the money he paid with would disappear tomorrow. ‘Although they couldn’t keep me in prison once I decided to leave!’ he thought proudly to himself.
He knew he would need a vehicle to carry his upcoming purchases, so he dropped into the local Chrysler/Fargo dealership. He instantly recognized one of the salesmen, sitting at a desk - Ben Smith, who’d been an arrogant, obnoxious bully during high school and perhaps Bilmoore’s most hated antagonist. Today definitely promised to be a fun day! Before he introduced himself, he chanted quietly:
Kaew mih ekam.
A whispered spell, concocted on the spot with no ritual or components, would have limited power and duration, but it would suffice.
“Good morning, Mr. Smith,” he presented himself. “My name is Harry Blackstone.” Smith had already noted Blackstone’s expensive attire. He jumped to his feet, staggered for an instant, and when he regained his balance he crowded very close to his prospective client, so that the much shorter, slighter Bilmoore had to look almost directly upwards to see him. As they shook hands, Bilmoore barely noticed that Smith was squeezing powerfully, and when he gently squeezed back, Smith winced in pain and disgust - and quickly ended the handshake. He didn’t acknowledge the introduction otherwise, simple started talking.
“Harry, I just got a late model trade-in yesterday. Low miles, flip-top, cherry…” The lemon Smith had in mind had been on the lot for almost a month, and he’d spent a couple of hours unwinding the odometer. He pushed Bilmoore’s through the side door and out onto the lot.
Bilmoore snapped his fingers and whispered
Poop god!
so quietly nobody else could hear. It might have been just bad luck that Smith slipped on a grease spot and fell into a puddle of mud and oil, then swore as he rolled out of the puddle into a pile of dog poop. As the swearing salesman struggled to his feet, the mage muttered quietly
Lacitircnu yrev eb lliw uoy yadot.
Without advance preparation, this spell wouldn’t be very powerful, but it should be effective enough to have some fun with his old acquaintance. This was promising to turn into a very entertaining day.
“Ain’t that a bite, Mr. Smith? I hope you’re OK.” With a look of surprised disgust, Bilmoore grabbed his nose and backed away. “Wow, that must be the worst smelling dog shit ever!”
Smith clenched his fists and he was about to explode in rage, but Bilmoore pulled out his wallet and flashed a major roll of cash. “Look, I want to drive out of here in a brand new Fargo pickup by 2 pm today. I’ve got some shopping to do, and then I need to be in Erie tonight. You should really go home and clean up; nobody would ever buy anything from someone as grody as you. I’ll deal with one of the other salesmen.”
“Like frickin’ he…” Smith began vehemently, but the sight of the cash reminded him of the potential commission involved here. If he could get this guy up to $3200, his commission would be more than he usually made in a week! And nobody but a sucker flashed that much cash. He bit his tongue and started again, much more quietly.
“Well, Mr. Blackstone, you could do that, but you’d miss out on a great deal. There isn’t anyone here who knows as much about pickup trucks as I do - hell, they all drive cars, not a truck like me! And I guarantee nobody else will give you the kind of deal I will. If you don’t mind waiting, I’ll run home and change, and when I get back, I’ll give the best deal you’ll find on a Fargo in Western New York. It won’t take but 40 minutes.”
Bilmoore pretended to think it over, then agreed. “Since you’re sure I’ll get the best deal from you, Mr. Smith, I’m willing to wait. I need to do some other shopping anyway. I’ll meet you back here in an hour.” Smith hurried into the service center to wipe of the worst of the mess and pick up the keys to one of the used trucks on the lot, since he didn’t want Blackstone to see him in a car - or, mess up his own car with oily shit on the seats, either. He never heard the next words from the Magist, spoken firmly and with some deliberate but descrete hand motions:
Tekcit gnideeps!
It took Smith over an hour. He’d been in sight of his house when he got pulled over for speeding, and he’d barely avoided being arrested, not just for speeding, but also for threatening the cop, who asked HQ to check with the dealership to make sure this bum hadn’t stolen the truck. When he rushed into the back into the showroom, seeing Bilmoore sitting at his boss’s desk looking at brochures for Chrysler’s top of the line New Yorker and Newport models didn’t help his disposition any. ‘Why that candy ass! If he steals my commission, I swear I’ll resign with a knuckle sandwich!’
Getting Smith fired right now would spoil much of Bilmoore’s fun.
Pirt! Gnorts em ekam!
he whispered and flicked his finger in the direction of the irate salesman, who was stomping towards the desk. Smith tripped on a loose corner of an area rug, and he fell to the floor, barely avoiding crashing into another desk on the way down. Bilmoore rushed over, turning to talk to the manager over his shoulder.
“Thanks for the information, Mr. Crowe. I’ll definitely find a Chrysler dealer after I’ve moved to Erie.” Then he stuck his hand and easily pulled Smith to his feet. “You sure are clumsy, aren’t you, Mr. Smith? I hope you can stay on your feet until you give me your best deal on your top of the line truck, with all the bells and whistles!” He didn’t wait for an answer - he turned and headed out on the lot to the trucks, talking to Smith over his shoulder
“While you were gone, I looked over all your trucks. I really like this one the best.” He stopped in front of the most expensive pickup truck on the lot. It had all the bells and whistles — built-in A.M. radio, dashboard clock, air-conditioning, locking gas cap, trailer hitch, one-thousand-mile warranty, the works. It was the biggest commission on the lot, too. Even after paying off the ticket and getting his clothes cleaned, today could be his best day ever. The angry scrunching finally left his face and he got a big smile. For a few seconds.
“Except it doesn’t have power windows. Gotta have power windows. None of the trucks with power windows have all the other stuff I want. I guess I better go home and call my folks, and tell them I won’t make it to Erie tonight. I think there’s a Forgo dealer in Hinsdale; I’ll try them tomorrow. Sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”
Smith was devastated. He thought as fast as he ever had. “Hold on! That one there,” he pointed at another truck, same color, parked three spaces away. “It has power windows. You don’t have to change your plans. Charlie, my mechanic, can swap the doors between these two trucks in an hour or so. Tell you what, it’s just about lunchtime. Suppose I treat you to the best lunch in town, and when you’re done, your new truck will be ready for you.”
Blackstone hesitated. “I’m sorry, friend, I just couldn’t impose on you and your mechanic that way. Maybe the next time I need a new truck…”
“No imposition at all, sir!” Smith said, thinking as quickly as he could to come up with some other incentive to keep Mr. Blackstone from leaving. “In fact, I think I’ll stick around and help Charlie. Hold tight for just a second.”
He practically ran into the showroom, and a few minutes later he walked back out with a very attractive young woman. “Brandy, here, will take you over to Leela’s. Best food in the county!”
Brandy had a charming smile, and for a good reason — this stranger had just got her a free lunch at Leela’s, plus a twenty-dollar cash bonus. Blackstone gallantly held out his arm, she took his elbow, and the two headed for lunch.
It cost Smith another fifty dollars to get Charlie to work through lunch. Charlie would have done it for twenty-five, except that Smith had insisted on helping him, and said help consisted mostly of ignorant criticism. It wasn’t all that difficult — every truck of this series used the same wiring harness, so once he’d swapped the doors, all Charlie had to do was uncap a few wires and attach them to a jumper strip in the door panel. He was very satisfied with fifty bucks for less than a half hour of work.
So far, Ben Smith had spent almost one hundred dollars (including the meal) of his own money to make this sale. Still, even subtracting that much, he was going to earn the biggest commission of his life. He could afford to be generous.
The Magist really enjoyed his lunch with Brandy. Besides being extremely attractive, she was smart, sneaky, self-centered, avaricious, had very few scruples, and seemed to be willing to do just about anything to advance her station in life. She was just his kind of people, in fact. He managed to flash his gigantic wad of fake cash when they were talking about his new pickup truck, and this earned him an invitation to dinner and drinks at her place tonight.
He had planned to hit the road today so that he would be a long way away when the spell ran out and the cash vanished, but in the face of this offer, he changed his plans. He had been in solitary confinement a long time. ‘Even though’ he reminded himself, ‘..I easily could have escaped at any time.’ Some experiences he had missed more than others. Spending time with a beautiful woman was one of those that he had missed the most!
When the Magist and his new but very close friend Brandy returned from lunch, the truck was finished. Smith proudly showed off the power windows. “What say we go sign the paperwork now?” Bilmoore agreed.
Smith opened with a figure well above what he hoped to get. He was stunned when Blackstone didn’t even try to haggle. Blackstone simply displayed his driver’s license (another magical forgery) and counted out the cash. Smith made a show out of crossing the floor and putting the bundle of cash into the office safe, making sure everyone was aware of the big deal he’d just closed. Finally, the two shook hands, and the Magist left, pink slip in hand. He wished he could be here tomorrow, when the cash and his signature were both going to vanish without a trace. He wondered how Smith was going to explain the missing truck and the missing money to his boss, but he didn’t worry about it for long.
Hopping in the truck, he headed for Sears. In the camping section, he found everything he needed: Ted Williams hunting gear, Ted Williams camping gear, Ted Williams fishing gear, even Ted Williams rain gear. ‘Who the heck IS this Williams guy, anyway? Must be a famous politician or actor?’
He paid cash for several-hundred dollars’ worth of Ted Williams recommended cold-weather camping and hiking gear, generously tipped the stock boys who helped him load the truck, and headed out of town on the road for Erie. After 20 minutes, he turned off and circled back, ending up at Brandy’s place. He hoped those kids would spend that cash in a hurry.
Dinner was very good; she had used her cash bonus to order in Japanese and they shared a small bottle of sake. And the adult entertainment after dinner was even better. When Brandy let it slip that good old Smith had been putting the moves on her, and she had been leading him on but had no plans to ever even kiss him, it just put the finishing touch on a perfect day.
The Magist woke up early the next day and spent a half hour crafting an illusion spell for himself and his truck. With the exception of Brandy, who would continue to see things as they really were, for maybe half a day, everyone would would see his brand-new dark blue Fargo as a beat-up red 1949 Ford half-ton, driven by a much older man, partially bald and bent with age. After casting the spell, he bought Brandy breakfast. He promised to look her up when he returned from his business trip, a promise he definitely intended to keep. He was certain that he would be able to find a appropriate position for her in his new world order.
On the Road to Labrador
Bilmoore wasn’t in a hurry. With a new truck, and lots of money which he didn’t mind spending, what was the hurry? He didn’t drive fast, instead enjoying the scenery and the feeling of freedom after months of incarceration. ‘Voluntary incarceration!’ he reminded himself.
He made his plans as he drove. ‘I’ll cross into Canada at Niagara Falls and then drive north and east until I reach Labrador. Once I reach the coast, I should be able to find someone with a boat or an airplane I can charter to ferry me over to Greenland. I’ll cast a divination spell to get a more exact location from there, and then I can likely fly the rest of the way under my own power.’ He started thinking about the details of crafting the flying spell - the more advance thought he gave it, the more powerful it would be, and the longer it would last.
Along the way, the Magist also spent some time daydreaming about his title. ‘*Ruler of the World* doesn’t flow easily from the tongue. *Bilmoore the First, King of Eorth* sounds sufficiently majestic, but it’s a bit too long. How about… *the Magist, Emperor of Eorth*? And my subjects can address me either as *My Lord Emperor* or simply *Milord*.
He spent the night in a small town outside of Buffalo, at a fancy place called The Roycroft Inn. Before he left, he concentrated and made some more money. It would probably last until noon, and he could do it over again if he needed to, but it would be tedious casting a similar spell twice a day during the rest of his trip. He needed a nice bankroll of real money.
Hsad ym rof yap ot
Hsac erom emos deen I
Hsalf a ni emos ekam!
FLASH! He was temporarily blinded. “Burtlfrip and follypox!” 'Good thing I cast that one inside!' he thought in disgust. 'I need to rethink the words on that spell…'
A few minutes later, when his vision cleared, he pocketed his new roll of cash; cash which would probably vanish in a couple of hours, undoubtedly with a similar flash. Around 10 A.M. he pulled up in front of the main branch of the Manufacturers’ and Traders’ Bank in downtown Buffalo, the biggest bank for probably two hundred miles. In the bank parking lot, he sat silently for a few minutes, concentrating on exactly the effects he wanted. He picked up a paper napkin from a snack stop along the way, crumpled it in his hands, then opened them both flat, the crumpled bag on top. He pictured a magnificent 7 point buck in his mind and chanted:
Gar yttar dna dlo siht mrofsnart
Gab yrlewej tnecifingam a ot
Gats a morf sa rehtael elppus fo!
The tattered paper bag was transformed into a fine leather drawstring bag. Next, the contents… he sliced up an apple, carved the slices into approximately the shapes he wanted, then pressed small stones from a handful of gravel into the slices. He concentrated on recalling the jewelry he’d stolen from P. Horowicz several years ago:
Tiurf dna enots fo sgniht eseht egnahc
Tool tsenif yrev eht otni
Dlog, revlis, smeg ot mrofsnart
Dlob, ycuas, elkraps dna enihs taht!
He dumped the jewelry into the bag. In the bank, he walked up to the manager and inquired about renting a safe deposit box. He paid the first year’s rent in advance, using cash. The manager led him to a private vault room where he put his valuables into the new box, and the Magist used the time to cast a weak magic spell on the door of the vault and all the doors he’d passed through so far.
Skcol lla nepo ot yek lacigam eht semoceb regnif ym!
He spent the day touring the city — the Museum of Natural History, the Albright-Knox Art Gallery, the Buffalo Zoo. He had a bad moment at the zoo when Buffalo’s mystery heroes, the Stormbirds (Thunderbird and Rainbird), flew overhead and landed at the zoo’s aviary. He wasn’t prepared to battle with mystery heroes yet, but they weren’t interested in him. The Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestra happened to be playing that evening, so he created a temporary tuxedo and listened to an excellent rendition of Peter and the Wolf at Kleinhan’s Music Hall.
Shortly after dark, Bilmoore cast a spell to locate a major power station. He pulled up on the street opposite, concentrated for a few seconds, pointed at one of the transformers and cast his latest spell:
Dolpxe!
And it exploded. As every emergency response unit in Buffalo converged on the power plant, he made his way back to the bank. On the darkened street, he simply walked up to the front door of the bank, pointed at the lock, and then opened the door and walked in. He repeated this twice before he reached the vault. The spell on the vault worked just as well, and he walked right in. He quickly filled two duffel bags he had stolen from Sears, and just as easily walked back out, locking each door behind him. When he was back to his car, he willed his spell to dissipate - not a big deal, as it would only have lasted for a few minutes longer anyway.
‘With my new control of my powers, the last couple days have been SO easy!’ he marveled. ‘Losing that fight to Captain Catapult was the best thing that ever happened to me. I NEVER would have worked that hard on my own.’
He spent the night in a small hotel on Grand Island. Early the next morning, a suggestibility spell on the customs official at the border, similar to the one he’d used on Ben Smith, prevented any potential delays, and he was on Queen Victoria Way and rolling toward Labrador before mid-morning.
It took him a week of leisurely travel to reach the town of Cartwright in Labrador. With a big bankroll of American dollars, it wasn’t hard to charter a seaplane to fly him to Godthåb, Greenland. He had enjoyed the trip, he was rested and invigorated, and ready to stride confidently into his grand future. Soon, very soon, he would assume his rightful title of the Magist, Emperor of Eorth.
On the Ice
As his chartered plane approached Greenland, the Magist realized that even without a spell, he could sense a very strong, yet still distant source of magic, somewhere in front of him. By the time they reached Godthåb, he knew he would have no trouble tracking these magical emanations to their source. But he was realizing that perhaps he had underestimated the difficulty of crossing the Greenland ice cap, even with his Ted Williams winter gear and his magic. This source could be hundreds of miles away and it was cold! ‘I’ve never been able to fly before, but never been able to draw upon enough power. I wonder if I can draw extra power from this source?'
As the pilot was concentrating on navigation, Bilmorre was concentrating on a pair of spells. After the plane had landed, and he’d paid someone to carry his bags into the small airport office, he stopped outside. There was nothing complicated about the first spell he cast:
Tsif ym fo ezis eht enots a em gnirb!
A fist-sized lump of stone dislodged from under a nearby snowbank and floated toward him. His next spell was totally different; it was one he couldn’t have conceived of before his ‘Strictly voluntary!’ time in prison, where he had come to appreciate the power of talismans.
Ecruos sti ot rewop siht ecart Enots siht otni wolf ti tel Ecrof cigam ym ot ti dda Nwo ym sa ti esu em tel!
The results were not at all what he’d expected! A barely visible mist formed in the air around him, writhed into the shape of a hand, closed around him, plucked him thousands of feet into the air, and began dragging him off to the north.
He quickly yelled out several impromptu spells, but none had any affect:
Nwod em tup!
Enogeb!
Hsinav dnah cigam!
Nothing worked! At least the mystical hand shielded him from the frigid temperatures outside, but he was helpless to fight it. He’d never moved this fast before - the coastline vanished in seconds, and he was being dragged north at high speed high above the seemingly endless blur of white that was Greenland. It wasn’t long before he could see something rising from the white ice pack, and as they approached, it resolved into a small stone cenotaph, standing starkly in the middle of nowhere, totally surrounded by blindingly white ice pack that reached to the horizon in all directions, yet bare of ice and snow.
He screamed as the invisible hand drove him against a stone wall at high speed - and then, without any sensation at all, he was through the wall into an almost completely baren room, seemingly much larger on the inside than the outside, The hand deposited him in front of the only feature in the room, an ornate bier, beautifully made of polished wood inlaid with gold, silver, and jewels in occult patterns. Lying on the bier was a skeleton, wrapped in a purple robe, ornately embroidered with silver and gold and covered with gems and jewels. The skeleton abruptly folded upward at the waist and sat up, and the torso turned to face him. The bones in the skull and face seemed to be made of dark green jade, highly polished, and the eyes were enormous red gems that actually glowed.
“A lich! You’re a Lovecraft lich!” Bilmoore screamed. He was terrified. As he heard his own words, he realized he was screaming in some language other than English, a harsh, guttural language that seemed to tear at his throat with every word.
“Ah, Bilmoore Maglimar, you have arrived at your destiny. Finally.” The skeleton’s mouth did not move as it spoke, the voice seeming to emanate from thousands of points in the room around them. There was an eerie, echoing effect, as the words spoken in the far corners of the room arrived an instant later than the same words spoken nearby. The lich, too, spoke in the same guttural language.
The skeleton waved his hand, and BIlmoore was frozen in place, unable to move or speak. He was getting really tired of this being powerless crap!
“For almost a thousand centuries, I have slept on this slab, locked in a mystical prison I didn’t want to escape.” For a second, Bilmoore was disbelieving that one wouldn’t want to escape a prison, then remembered his own recent imprisonment, which he had voluntarily abided. Then his mind moved on to the thousand centuries.
“You are the first in hundreds of centuries to seek me, and the spell you used broke the spell that imprisoned me. For this I will gift you with my thanks and my curse.” The lich gestured - a comfortable chair appeared behind Bilmoore, along with a side table covered with food and beverages. “Sit and hear my story, before you receive my gifts.”
It gestured again, and Bilmoore’s body seated itself. In the process, he noted that his clothing had been transformed. He was no longer wearing his Ted Williams snow gear; instead he was now dressed in an extraordinarily more expensive version of the outfit he had worn as the Magist: black top hat, black tuxedo, white shirt with ruffles and French cuffs, red cummerbund and bow tie, and black patent leather shoes, as well as a long, dark red opera cape.
As the lich talked, Bilmoore found that he was free to eat and drink - but no other movements were allowed him.
“I am Igviz Gunnz, the founder and Emperor of Atlantis, the Atlantis I ruled for centuries. Though the Empire prospered, numerous were my enemies, swarming like fleas around my feet, yet not alone or together did they have the power to end me. So instead, working together to accomplish what they were too weak to do separately, they imprisoned me in a magical illusion of glory that I neither recognized as a dream, or wished to escape, in which I remained the absolute ruler of Atlantis, in the prime of my youth and my power, for endless centuries. The spell itself eventually grew old, and weak, and your own spell punctured it, and the ancient spell no longer had the power remaining to heal itself. Thus you have released me from the ancient dream.”
“Only a dream… not real… but… what a dream! Sustained for so long… by the very spell that trapped me… and my own mighty will! I wonder, did they see the irony?” the Magist heard anger in the echoing voice. “I have lived thousands of normal lifetimes as ruler of the greatest empire in human history. My every whim, an iron law. Long after they died… those who imprisoned me. Had they but known, had they but waited…”
His voice grew strong, focused by his anger at his ancient foes.
“Gghewwk uhoylp inywuy lsanvu lgrenn. Osywha wmafuk hatuft awkuuv. Ghewwk uduonh apuhtu hkehty lftanu. Ghewog yhatyp pimafu kgzuvu. Gewog howwaw mafuky xuzapu XUVALU!”
The Emperor and his bier disappeared. Where the bier had been, a magnificently ornamented staff, topped by a jade skull with glowing red eyes, stood magically upright on the floor. The skull glowed with magical power, and the Magist could sense within it the mind of the ancient emperor.
The Magist heard a voice in his head, and he knew it came from the skull. “My time was long past, young wizard. Only the error of my enemies sustained me. They had no way of knowing that, at the height of my earthly power, when they trapped me, I was dying. An they had ignored me, I had few years left to me. Yet, even when I was dying, they were unable to conquer me. So they trapped me by giving me what I wanted! Yes, they were clever, but still, they are dead, and I have lived a life fit for a god.”
“As a reward for freeing me, and indeed as punishment for disrupting my oh-so-wonderful imprisonment, I gift you with this staff. In this staff, I have co-mingled your power with the small power that remains to me, your life force with what is left of mine. You now have a powerful weapon, young wizard, as well as a dangerous weakness. This staff will enable you to store and control much more powerful magic than you were ever capable of in the past, and yet, if you are parted from it for an extended time, your own life will fade as mine did when you destroyed my world. And you will always have my wisdom to draw upon.”
“But will you ever shut up?” the Magist rhetorically asked of the skull. He quickly drew power from the staff and concentrated briefly. There was a pop of displaced air, and the Magist, still with staff in hand, disappeared from the tomb in Greenland, reappearing instantly in his own , long unused sanctum outside Olean, NY. Where he didn’t remain long.
Secure in his new appearance and his new power, he strode confidently into the day. He would return to Chicago, and make a place for himself there. The world had best beware, for the Magnificent Magist was about to make his return appearance.