The Musomancer: The Musomancer, #1

By Bing Turkby

A guitarist dies, after writing the best riff of his life. As far as the Police are concerned, the death appears to be due to natural causes. But to Jareth McHendry, it is the sinister work of an evil Musomancer, and the start of a powerful spell that will ruin mankind. Is Jareth a deluded eccentric, or is he the only person standing between humanity and catastrophic devastation? Can he track down the evil Musomancer?And if he does, will he be able to keep his guitar in tune long enough to save the world?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bing Turkby
• Release date: Sep 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393115465

Book preview

1

A bead of sweat rolled over the musomancer's furrowed brow, then raced down the bridge of his nose like a ski-jumper taking a ramp. But before it could stick the landing, he wiped it away with the back of his sleeve. Riffling through his notes, the nervous mage ran through his preparations one more time. The procedure he was about to attempt was risky in the extreme, and as complicated as a prog rock guitar solo. If he got this spell wrong, it would end badly for him. And aside from the potential for horrific pain and agonising death, it would just be so embarrassing to be destroyed by his own summoning. An evil music-mage needs to think of his reputation, after all. So he was taking no chances.

Following the clues laid out in an ancient prophecy, he had found the perfect place for this ritual. It was a huge, cavernous space, in the centre of which stood just the right kind of platform to distill the essence of his mancery. No matter how many times he came here, he was always awestruck by the monumental scale of the construction. And he was doubly astounded that it went unnoticed by the ignorant citizens of this town, going about their insignificant everyday business. They were so close to it, but never suspected. The fools had no idea what lurked in the heart of their city, just as they had no idea what he was capable of, but they would soon learn. Oh yes, he would give them a music lesson they would never forget.

On a table nearby sat a recovery package he had assembled earlier. He would be needing it after this spell-casting, because working with musomancy drains life-force. Musomancers of old were wont to use the life-force of others; sometimes from willing participants, sometimes not. But these days it was just too difficult to source and then dispose of people. The Dark Ages, he thought to himself ruefully, now those were the days for musomancy.

There were two bottles of bluish sports drink on the table, along with an egg salad sandwich, some fried chicken, two chocolate bars, and a battered old portable record player with built-in speakers. The electrolytes, protein and sugar would restore the energy taken from his body, and the Arthur Brown  album would counter the depletion of his musomagical reserves.

The casting would be dangerous and arduous, but it would be worth it. This was the final step in a particularly detailed plan he'd been working on for some years. He intended to fulfill the ancient prophecy, and today's dark casting was intended to supply a back-up plan just in case an adversary arose who might stop him. When he brought the prophecy to fruition, he would wield ultimate power. He was determined to let nothing get in his way. Tonight's spell was a musomagical trap that he could set off if necessary, and it would obliterate his opponents. If it didn't obliterate him first.

He rolled his shoulders and got ready.

After looking through the list of instructions and ensuring that everything was straight in his mind, he placed a fresh C90 cassette into an old boom box, pushed Record, and picked up his guitar. He took a deep breath, stepped on a distortion pedal, and then started playing. It was a slow tempo, low pitched, palm-muted metal song. He played through a menacing chord progression and then used a loop pedal to keep it going while he played over the top. His lead line was spiky, aggressive, and utterly disturbing. The scale he was using hadn't been heard by mortal ears for centuries. His research had taken him deep into the bowels of ancient dark musomancy, and he had uncovered many unseelie things. Other mages in the past had attempted to obliterate any trace of these odious secrets, but scraps survived, and he had pounced on them like a starving cat.

Focusing his mind and willing himself into the tune, he could feel some of his life-force to seep into the music. A shift in the air around him told him it was starting to work. He kicked in a cranky old fuzz pedal, which took the spooky tune up a notch in intensity. He closed his eyes as more of his life-force was sucked away. He was losing himself in the music, barely aware of the world outside his body. There was definitely something else in the room with him now, but he was lost to the world, and solely focused on the music of summoning and binding. He felt a hot breath on his face, and a whuff as if a large beast was sniffing at him. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, but he kept on playing.

Building the music up to a rousing crescendo, his fingers flew across the fretboard. He felt the power of the musomancy that was flowing through him, but at the same time, he felt himself weaken as it stole away more of his life-force. There came an earth-shaking growl. The sound was like a foghorn on a starry night - sudden, close and unexpected. Or perhaps it was more like an angry giant playing the lowest pedal notes of a gigantic pipe organ in a discordant blast. The cacophony made his bladder vibrate, but he played on. Hitting a dazzling sequence of arpeggios, he brought the summoning to an end and applied a magical binding. A blast of heat singed the hair on the back of his hands, but he hit the final notes and suddenly all was still.

The silence was unnerving after all that noise. Ever so cautiously, he opened his eyes. There was nothing else in the room with him. But when he looked around he could see scorch marks everywhere, and great gashes in the stone on which he stood. The boombox was still there, but it was vibrating and rattling about, and there were wisps of smoke coming out of the top.

He heaved a sigh of relief. The summoning had worked. His plans were all in place. This time next month he would rule the world.

He grabbed a sandwich and a piece of chicken and slumped onto the floor, stuffing his ravenous face. Reaching up to the table, he lifted the needle on the record player and dropped it onto track three. As the speakers crackled into life, he smiled and mouthed along with the appropriately demonic lyrics of the song Fire.

2

Jareth McHendry closed the grimoire with a heavy thud and rubbed his eyes. Usually those eyes were hazel green, but today they were red raw from extended study. He had been sitting in his library for hours, poring over the Prophecy of the Musomancer. He had studied the ancient text for many years, so he had known for a long time that something horrible was about to happen. But for all his efforts he was still no closer to devising a way to thwart it. Within the next few days, an evil warlock would appear, and there would be terror, torture and mayhem for the people of Earth. According to the prognostication, the malign Musomancer would possess such terrific magical power that he could move mountains, tele-levitate (teleport himself to a faraway location and then hover there), and even flay a person's soul from their body. Using these and other impossible skills, the heinous conjuror would bring civilisation to its knees, and treat humanity as his plaything. Jareth was determined to prevent this cataclysm from happening. Unfortunately, although the prophecy was specific about the torment to come, it was frustratingly vague on the details of how it would be brought about. There were only hints and clues on how to combat the demonic threat that was imminent.

He rose from the reading desk and kneaded the kinks in his lower back with his fists. His unruly brown hair was mussed from lack of sleep, and his last meal had been a coffee and quick walk.

It will start with five people dying, he reminded himself. But who are they? And where? He sighed. He wasn't getting any closer to figuring it out.

McHendry wasn't a particularly brave man. He was usually happy keeping himself to himself. Even so, when the prophecy was clearly telling him that an ancient evil magic would soon enslave humanity, he couldn't sit idly by. The books of prophecy had been handed down in his family through several generations, but whenever he'd tried to share their information with anyone, they thought he was crazy. Which meant that he was the only one who took the imminent threat seriously.

Maybe a spot of Tai Chi would help. As an ardent practitioner of the ancient art, Jareth often found that immersing himself in a sequence of Tai Chi movements helped him to clear his mind and then he could return to a problem with a new viewpoint. He regularly made breakthroughs in tough problems this way.

Leaving the library through a set of French doors, he stepped out onto a terrace dotted with outdoor furniture, then down some steps to the back lawn. At the far end there was an area of flat ground that was perfect for Tai Chi. After the library, this was his favourite place on Earth. Clearing his mind and focusing on his posture, he began the Yang 37 Form. Losing himself in the movements, he flowed across the grass. But halfway through, thoughts of the prophecy intruded again. He lost his balance and almost tumbled to the turf.

Dash it, he thought, this business of the nefarious musomancer has got me all in a lather today.

Jareth slumped into a garden chair, took a swig of water and then wiped his face with a towel. There was nothing for it, he needed to hit the books again.

Taking a final look around at the trees in his backyard, he breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of leaves, lawn and lavender. He tried to imbibe as much of the peaceful spirit of the place as possible before getting back to studying the horrific tidings contained in his library.

He rose from the chair and turned back to the house, climbing the steps to the back terrace. Jareth had inhabited McHendry Manor's crumbling red brick walls his whole life. The place was much too large for him and his sister but they were determined to keep it in the family. Between them they just barely managed to keep the ravening wolves and voracious bankers from the door.

Jareth imagined the building was imbued with the spirit of several generations of McHendrys, and the weight of their expectation settled on his shoulders like a mid-sized tractor. I won't let you down, he told the house and its incorporeal occupants. He squared his shoulders and reminded himself of the family motto: Stroppy when necessary.

Back into the wood-panelled library he went, the crepuscular atmosphere enveloping him in its bibliotic embrace. Usually this was his place of refuge. He'd always been bookish, escaping to exotic destinations through the page rather than playing sports or learning to shoot elk or whatever else it was that other kids did. Now in his late twenties, Jareth's tastes hadn't really changed. He had learned how to interact with others to some extent, but still preferred a quiet read to a rowdy conversation. Always happy to avoid confrontation, he left that kind of thing to the big and the brash. How ironic then, that now the fate of the world was in the balance, the only person who had any chance of saving everybody was the solitary book-boy.

I must be strong. The Evil Musomancer shall not prevail.

3

6PM, Thursday June 10th.

Gaz Flanagan flicked the main power switch on his huge valve-powered guitar amplifier to start it warming up. He savoured the anticipation, having spent the whole day waiting for this moment. Sitting through endless meetings at work, listening to pompous windbags trying to justify their inflated salaries. The only thing that kept him sane was the thought that at the end of the working day he'd be able to go home and hide himself away in his music sanctum for a good couple of hours of pure guitar bliss.

He reverently opened a guitar case and feasted his eyes on the Gibson Custom Shop replica of Randy Rhoads' 1974 Les Paul. Generally speaking, 1974 was not a very desirable year for Les Pauls. People spoke in reverential tones of the 1959 LPs as the holy grail of guitardom. But