[The Saucepan Man]

The Tale of Môgul Bildûr (Part II)

There has been much speculation on the means by which Môgul came to escape from the Void. Some say that the Velour, wishing the freeholders of Muddled-Mirth to defeat him through their own endeavours and thus determine their own fate, left the Door of Doom, the only egress from the Void, ajar one night. Many reject this hypothesis out of hand, however, pointing out that the Velour were far too enwrapped within their vacuous Valleyum vicissitudes to be bothered with the affairs of Muddled-Mirth at that time. Others rather unkindly point accusing fingers at the Doorman of Doom, suggesting that he took a back-hander to leave the Doom-laden door unlocked and look the other way while Môgul slipped out. But this theory is poo-pooed by those who hold that a servant of the Velour would surely have been nothing short of incorruptible. However detached they may have been, the Velour were certainly no slouches when it came to taking the moral high ground.

No, the reality is unfortunately rather more disappointing. Having been so preoccupied with brooding darkly, Môgul, falling prey to the single-mindedness that has marred the career of many a promising Dark Lord, had neglected to keep in mind the fearsome array of powers at his disposal. But news of the fragmented Ent had stirred him from his dark and obsessive thoughts and prompted him to check through his formidable inventory of talents item by item.

“Laying vast armies low with one blow of my mighty mace?” he had pondered. “Humbling great nations with my commanding voice? Erm, forging Rings of Power? Infusing lifeless bodies with disembodied evil spirits? Um …”

But none of the regular Dark and Lord-ish crafts had seemed to fit the occasion. Frantically, he had plumbed the depths of his infernal abilities until at last he had hit upon the solution.

“Doh! Metamorphosis! Of course!” he had cried, slapping his dark forehead in mock self-admonishment. Then, cackling insanely, as was expected of him in the circumstances, he had uttered the dread words of power:

“Kafka Esque!”

And with those words, he had assumed the form of a lowly, although still suitably malevolent, cockroach. His ad hoc antennae quivering, he had surveyed for one last time the dismal features of his hated prison. Then, turning his thorax on it with immense satisfaction, he had crawled through the Crack of Doom (under the Door), narrowly avoiding the inadvertent footfall of the Doorman of Doom which, had it found its mark, might have spared much of the suffering which came thereafter.

******

And so it was accomplished. Only a few short years after the eponymous Ent was shattered and scattered, Môgul Bildûr, Lord of Dark and Dirty Dealings, once more roamed Muddled-Mirth unfettered. And he was greatly pleased by what he found. For, while he had whiled away years unnumbered in the Void (brooding darkly, as has been said), evil had not slept. It had not even taken advantage of his incarceration for a quick time out. Rather, like some remorseless and insomniac serpent, it had slithered and wound its way inexorably throughout the realms of Muddled-Mirth. And there it had found succour in the hearts and minds of those willing to accept it (or simply too naïve to recognise it when they saw it). And so it had poisoned the broken heart of Vinaigrette, twin sister of the Elven non-Queen, Saladriel. It had infected the substandard mind of the unimpressive Lord Sourone. And it had found acceptance among the Dorks and Geeklings of the International Brotherhood of Magicians (IBM).

And eager to waste no further time in putting into effect his pernicious (if predictable) plan for world domination, Môgul had immediately set about gathering to him his many minions and agents. Orcs and Trolls there were, of course. And those Korprat-Loyers that had remained faithful to him (although Loyers being what they are, many had switched allegiance to whoever had swung the bigger purse in their direction). And he found willing servants too among many of the races of Man: the wild Beasterlings of Near Hardup, the penniless Poltroons of Far Hardup and the ferocious Scallywags of Khant.

The first phase in Môgul’s plan had been simple yet effective. Much though it had pained him to do it, he had assumed fair and pleasant form to mask the dreadful nature of his true identity and taken to himself the name of Avatar, the Lord of the .Gifs. And appearing to the Elven Party-King Geppetuil in this form, he had beguiled him with wondrous images and styles fit for an inveterate partygoer such as he. But in return for this wickedly with-it wardrobe, Môgul had inveigled from Geppetuil the freehold to a sizeable tract of Southern Workmud, being part of the land that had been ceded to the Party-King by Throngduil, King of the Workmud Elves. There Môgul had built Gol Dulldor, a vast fortress-cum-logging mill and installed as its master the inept Dark Lord wannabe Lord Sourone, with orders to clear the forest for redevelopment. And, ever mindful of the Doom pronounced upon him by Mantoes, Môgul had bid Lord Sourone report to him any suspiciously vocal wooden artefacts that might be discovered in the process.

But Môgul’s establishment of Gol Dulldor, in a location of no discernible strategic value whatsoever, was simply a diversionary tactic on his part. For, having made a thorough reconnaissance of Muddled-Mirth, Môgul had espied a far more suitable location for his power base. To the East of Grundor, the convergence of the Ered Lethargi and the Ephel Dûwot rather conveniently formed a realm wholly enclosed by impassable mountains. This was Moredough, which later became known as the Land of Shadowy Deals. Here Môgul raised a deeply unattractive high rise office block on an outcrop of the Ered Lethargi: the dark and forbidding Tower Block of Barát-Höm. And in yet another convenient topographical arrangement, it happened that a handy Ent-part disposal unit lay close by in the form of the volcanic Mount Moody, which was also known as Odouruin, for the repugnant reek of its sulphurous gasses was enough to fell any Man, Elf, Hobbit or Dwarf (or any combination thereof).

So, sitting in his luxury apartment and office suite in the Tower Block of Barát-Höm, Môgul once again turned to plotting and scheming (which was of course his particular forte). Having been released from his bonds, he set about acquiring bonds, speculating in the Bear Markets of the Watschaduin Valley and in the Citibank Exchange in Minus Teeth. But most of all, he worked towards the recovery of the pieces of the Ent that was Broken. For he knew that if he could destroy just one such piece he would escape the Doom that had been pronounced upon him and be free to initiate a full-blown hostile take-over of Muddled-Mirth. The fall of Gol Dulldor was a setback, but one that Môgul took in his stride as he still owned the title deeds to the land.

And so, even as the Fellow/Gal-ship haphazardly reconvened for its second Quest, Môgul, having reacquired his former strength, was set upon the verge of overwhelming victory.

[ July 20, 2003: Message edited by: The Saucepan Man ]