[The Saucepan Man]

At Merisuwyniel’s words, a wistful expression passed across Môgul’s stunningly handsome features and his face fleetingly took on a noble, even kindly, aspect. In that moment, the onlookers saw him as he once had been: Melvin Bluenote, mightiest and firstborn of the Velour and damn fine guitarist. But the moment passed as quickly as it had arrived and the Dread Developer stood before them once more in all his villainy. Then he threw back his head and laughed. And his laughter was terrible, laden with malice, dripping with scorn and garnished with spite.

“How misguided of you to put your faith in Him,” he said. “For I am His firstborn and know His mind better than any here. You think that you will be saved by His will? He cares less for your pitiful lives than my sist/breth-ren. No, you will find no succour in Him.”

“It is by Yawanna’s will that the Ent shall be remade,” declaimed Merisu. “And when it is, vile spirit of greed, you shall be no more.”

“Yawanna is it?” chuckled Môgul. “You think that she will help you? Well, I’m sorry to disabuse you of that little notion, but the gullible wench thinks she is going to be my Queen. She has no intention of helping you now.”

He paused, staring intently at the Defiant-ship. His baleful gaze fell on each one of them, and they felt it pierce their very souls. Their resolve once more began to falter. Even Merisu’s heart fell on hearing that Yawanna’s aid now seemed lost.

“But your defiance is touching,” Môgul continued. “And shall be rewarded. You shall have your wish, Merisuwyniel.”

And with that, he promptly dissolved into a black cloud, which drifted lazily back towards the vast army still arrayed before the What-happens-next-ship.

“So that was Môgul Bildûr,” Orogarn Two commented to Kuruharan. “I always thought that he was just a red nostril.”

“The nostril is symbolic,” sighed the Dwarf wearily.

The Cornered-ship steeled themselves again for their final stand. But then the massed ranks began to part once more and from within came an embassy of Môgul.

At its head rode a tall and evil shape, mounted upon a sleek black Warg. The rider was suited all in black, with pinstripes of white, and red with blue polka-dots was his natty tie. The Solicitor-General of the Dark Tower Block of Barát-Höm he was, and his name was Greedhog. With him came only a small company of Korprat Loyery, and a single banner, black but bearing on it in red the Nasty Nostril. Now halting a few paces before the Questors of the West he looked them up and down and laughed.

“Isss there anyone in this rout with authority to treat with me?” he asked. “Or indeed with wit to undersstand my tortuoussly archaic phraseology? Not thou at leassst!” he mocked, turning to Orogarn Two with scorn. “It needss more to make a King than a ssseriously underused magical crystal, or a full head of feathered hair. Why, any sspandex clad rocker can show as good a follicling.”

Orogarn said naught in answer, but made to pick up his great sword which lay still on the ground where he had dropped it only moments before. Greedhog laughed once more.

“I am a herald and ambassssador and may not be assssailed,” he hissed. “And moreover,” he added as a reminder of a previously laid plotline. “No Human, Elf, Dwarf, Halfling, Troll or Orc, or any combination thereof, whether living dead or undead, and whether male, female or otherwise, may hinder me.”

“Then tell us of your errand,“ spoke up Merisuwyniel. “Yet I fear that you have troubled yourself in vain, for we shall never yield the Entish parts unless they be prised from our cold lifeless hands.”

“Speak for yourself dear,” whispered Leninia out of the corner of her mouth.

“Yes, steady on old girl,” added Orogarn Two. “This fellow seems to be offering us a way out of this predicament.”

“Quite,” observed Kuruharan. “Never say never when a deal’s on the table.”

“Ouch,” commented the Gateskeeper, attempting to stem the flow of blood from the startlingly real wound occasioned by his decidedly unreal vision.

“Ssso!” sneered Greedhog, addressing Merisu. “Then thou art the sspokesman - er - perssson for this rabble. Have we not heard of thee at whilesss, and of thy Quesssting, ever bringing chaoss and misssery to all who crossss thy path? I have a token that I was bidden to show thee - to thee in essspecial, if thou shouldsst care to look.”

He signed to two of the Loyers, and they came forward dragging behind them a figure, tethered and shrouded in black.

“I am telling you,” countered Merisu adamantly. “There is nothing that you could possibly offer me that could persuade me to offer up the Ent that was broken.”

The Loyers pulled the shroud off the figure with a flourish, revealing an Elf chained and manacled. His blonde locks flowed gloriously over his shoulders and his aquiline nose and delicate cheek-bones shone in the light of the Messéd Realm. And yet, there was something not entirely Elvish about him. Something subtly, yet perceptibly, Orcish.

“Then again …” said Merisu, gaping in astonishment.

“Who’s that?” enquired Soregum.

“That’s Gravlox, little one,” answered Orogarn Two. Then, taking a deep breath, he continued, “Merisu’s lost love who was a Captain of the Uruk-Hai in the service of Lord Sourone, but who turned out to be good in the end - something to do with his father - and who fought valiantly for us, but who died in the final battle at Minus Moreghoul, and who we all thought was dead, but who quite obviously is not, yet who now seems to have turned almost entirely into an Elf, and who …”. He stopped, wheezing and gasping for breath.

“Well, it looks like we shall be going home now then, after all,” piped up Pimpi, secretly rather relieved.

“Ai! Just my luck!” wailed Vogonwë, recalling his central role in the demise of Harvey the rabbit.

Merisu’s magnificent eyes welled up with tears, flashing gorgeously but momentarily blurring her vision of her true love. And in that moment her head was filled with pain and fear and doubt and confusion.

“Gravlox …!” she blurted out, her voice a shrill mournful cry.

“Merisu, don‘t …!” cried Gravlox.

But it was too late.

“I thank thee, Mistressss Elf,” gloated Greedhog triumphantly. “It isss plain from your reaction that thiss traitorousss oaf meanss sssomething to you, and it would be vain for you to deny it now.”

“I do not wish to deny it,” said Merisuwyniel, her composure recovered. “I know him and I love him. Truly, madly, deeply. I know true love, and despite your scorn, foul Advocate of Môgul, you cannot say as much.”

Merisu’s brave words hit home and Greedhog was quite clearly stung. The only love that the old Loyer had known had been back in Slangbad, many aeons ago. She had been a bit of a Dragon, but he hadn’t been choosy. But she had left to pursue a lucrative career in treasure hoarding and he had never seen her again …

“Enough of thisss banter,” he said suddenly, shaking his monstrous head clear of such thoughts. “You would be advised to take sswift counsssel with what little wit is left to you. For Lord Môgul does not take kindly to traitorsss, and what his fate sshall be dependss now on your choice. Hand over the fragmentsss of Rent Ent or sssay thine farewells to this primped up pssseudo-Elf.”