[The Saucepan Man]

But Môgul had no need of the Gateskeeper’s information. He was only too aware of what had passed on the edge of the Forest of Canned Corn.

He sat motionless, gazing at the flickering Satel-antir. The murky cloud which perpetually surrounded him seemed a shade lighter than usual, as if some of the darkness had been drained from it.

Had it really been her? The little girl whose pigtails he had pulled in Creation class. The young beauty whom he had had the honour of accompanying to the Muddled-Mirth Opening Ceremony Gala Ball. The fickle nymph who had so cruelly rejected him, preferring instead the attentions of the crafty but dull Häulié*. Better prospects, she had said. Better prospects! Hah! Did Häulié have his own realm? Did Häulié have a Treasury full to bursting? WAS HÄULIÉ ON THE VERGE OF TAKING OVER THE ENTIRETY OF MUDDLED-MIRTH!!???

No, he wasn’t.

Heslob stirred, sensing his Master’s tension, but soon settled back down as a million tiny black tendrils stroked his scruffy white mane. Môgul was soothed too, and his thoughts turned back to his former sweetheart.

Her beauty had not diminished in the least. Her verdant green locks, falling coquettishly about her radiant green face. Her deep green eyes, shining like emeralds. Her shimmering olive green skin. Her leafy green dress, ornamented with flowers. She was a vision of majesty, grace and … er, green.

Greedhog shifted awkwardly from one shiny black brogue to the other and eyed with distaste the bubbling remains of the Orcish tea-boy who, moments before the green broad had appeared on the screen, had been nervously serving Môgul’s afternoon tea. He wisely decided that now was not the best moment to disturb the Dread Developer’s thoughts, which remained fixed on the vision that he had glimpsed in the Seeing Stone.

And then there was her voice. Light as the mountain pasture, warm as the summer meadow and bewitching as the enchanted wood. Yet bleak as the withered heath, ruthless as the wild moor and treacherous as the tangled forest. He remembered that voice well. First the tender words and whispered vows that had warmed his youthful heart. Then later the mocking laughter and cruel barbs that had pierced that same heart like poison-tipped daggers.

Back in the days when he had a heart.

Outside, four Thingwraiths swept by the panoramic window in perfect formation, their Fell Beasts trailing ribbons of coloured smoke. All of a sudden they separated into two pairs and each pair turned and flew at full speed towards the other. Then, just as they were about to collide, each pulled up into a perfectly executed loop-the-loop. Greedhog watched appreciatively as they flew past once again in formation through the drifting multi-coloured smoke. But Môgul remained oblivious.

What was it that she had said? She had demanded that the Entish parts be brought to her so that she could reunify them. So, she was the key to its reassembly. Of course she was. Yes, it all made perfect sense now.

Môgul had been aware for some time that the Entish fragments could not be destroyed individually. He had acquired one such fragment several years before the Ramma-lamma-lamma-ka-dingity-ding-da-dong-ship had first set out on its Quest. A troop of Uruks from Gol Dulldor had come across a log babbling to itself insanely in the depths of Workmud. Immediately, the artefact had been brought to Moredough and tossed with great ceremony, and not a little objection from the log itself, into the sulphurous lava pits of Odouruin. But, contrary to expectation, the lava had formed a crust around it, and it had simply sat there complaining about the heat. Worse, it had mysteriously disappeared the following week. As had many junior administration clerks, a consequence of Môgul’s furious reaction.

And so, Môgul had not moved against the Shoo-bop-shoo-wadda-wadda-yippity-boom-da-boom-ship to seize the Entish objects that they held. There was little point. He could not destroy them. Rather, his plan had been to wait until the Chang-chang-changity-chang-shoo-bop-ship had acquired each piece, discover the means by which they were to be reunified and move quickly to foil any attempt at reassembly. But now he had his answer. Yawanna was the key.

Revenge would be sweet …

Greedhog sensed that his Master’s mind was back in the present, and so deemed it safe to announce his presence.

“Massster, our agentsss have tracked down the new Uruk Captain’s persssonel filesss,” he reported. “They were found amongssst the ruinsss of Gol Dulldor.”

“Excellent!” replied Môgul, whose spirits had indeed been much revived at the thought of exacting his revenge on she who had betrayed him. “What’s his name again? Grbbllx, is it?”

"Gravlox, according to hisss recordsss, my Lord."

"Show me."

Greedhog passed a grubby file of papers to Môgul, who perused them briefly before looking back to the Senior Loyer.

“Yes, yes. Excellent service record. Commended by Lord Sourone. Awarded the Ruptured Heart for carnage in the line of duty. He seems to have been an outstanding minion of evil.”

“Hisss training record, my Lord.”

“What of it?”

“In Sssquabbling Classss, he disssmembered hisss entire classss in a fight over a rabbit.”

“Textbook stuff. What’s wrong with that?”

“He kept the rabbit, my Lord.”

“Ah.”

“And named it Harvey.”

“I see.”

“And, in Orcisssh War Chant lessssonsss, he was dissscovered writing his own material.”

“Creative chap. There’s always call for new war chants.”

“It wasss Elvisssh poetry, sssire.”

“Doh! Still, he seems to have turned out suitably vile in the end.”

“My thoughtsss precisssely, my Lord. Until I saw the picture.”

Môgul rifled through the file and found the identity sketch made when Gravlox had first entered active service.

“Fine figure of an Uruk. Misshapen features. Lumpy, putrid green skin. Yellow fangs. Jet black hair …” Môgul broke off and peered intently for a moment at the small portrait. Greedhog continued his sentence.

“… which isss now blonde.”

“Yes, yes. I see what you mean. His eyes are more, well, blue-ish than this shows them to be, are they not? And he seems to have straightened out that snout.”

“Indeed, Masster.”

“And you’re sure that this is the same fellow?”

“Cssertain.”

“Well, let’s not be hasty.” Môgul paused a moment in thought. Then, a distinctly triumphant sneer crossed his indistinct features. “Let’s allow this Gravlox to prove his loyalty.”

“Sssire?”

“Put some of those – ah – new recruits that arrived with him under his command and dispatch them to engage the Gorilla-ship and bring back one of its members alive.”

“Gallowssship, my Lord.”

“Whatever. With one of those accursed adventuers loitering in our dungeons, we will have the upper hand in any, ah, negotiations which may prove necessary.”

Greedhog smirked in appreciation at his Master’s ingenious plan. “I’ll sssend out the ordersss immediately, O Execrably Evil One.

“Oh, and Greedhog.”

“Yesss, my liege?”

“I think that they might benefit from the company of some of your Loyers.”

Chuckling diabolically, Môgul swivelled his chair round just in time to catch the finale to the Thingwraiths' formation display.

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* Häulié the Smith; Creator of the Seven Fathers of Dwarves: Dok, Happî, Snizzî, Bashfel, Grumpî, Sliepî and Doeppî