[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

'Wait!'

Even as Hyperbolic floated on the first waves of an outgoing tide a stentorian voice rang out across the mystery island's shimmering sands. There upon the strand hard by the water's edge stood mighty Botherhon, a dew of salt water glinting on his manly quiff; his bronzed thews gleaming in the rays of the westering sun. Even now, as they drifted from his presence, authority sat upon him, crowning his rigid coiffure and robing his hirsuit limbs; and his words were words of power. Needless to say, the ship's company, now swelled by the erstwhile Fellowship of the Things, completely ignored him and continued their respective running repairs, schemings, groomings and crooked card games, unabashed at having ignored his injunction of post number six.

But Botherhon was set at the head of a mighty bureaucracy; and mastery was given him of many things unknown to walkers on his silver shores. Many Watchers, too, there were, whose sleepless vigil none might long elude. There gathered about the ship a host of lithe and lissom forms, which wound it about, ever pushing with their strange devices, ever dragging at the vessel's sides. And as the fresh wind filled their billowing canvas, so too did very Nature turn against them. For the wind died in their sails, as drunken ravings wither in the dawn; and mighty Hyperbolic, even she, paragon of ships and finest of wave-swans, was stalled like a watch full of treacle.

The Watchers of the Bay were mighty swimmers. As Mëanderin's flagship lay becalmed perforce yet more golden sentinels swam out from the shore, and they bore with them a great cable; and at its end was fastened a great baulk of timber, studded with many hooks. This they fastened athwart the questing bows, and others on the shore fell to dragging Hyperbolic back to the shore she had but lately spurned. Aboard the gallant vessel, chaos reigned.

'Captain,' intoned Starstruc, 'they appear to have caught our prow with a form of traction beam. We must escape.'

'Jolly good,' replied his commanding officer, with the air of a man who is senior enough not to have to give his own orders. 'See to it, would you?'

But Redwine had already routed out a nearby poker school, pushed billhooks into their hands and set them to cutting the ropes that towed them ever closer to shore. Eventually, his face pouring with sweat, hands blistered from his long labour, the second mate freed the last of the cables that held them, grunting with exertion and satisfaction as the fibres parted. Unfortunately by this time Hyperbolic was already on the beach, and the Watchers were scrambling aboard to seize the senior ship's officers and Merisuwyniel's party. Redeemed though he was, the words of Gravendil were not those of an Elven lord, though doubtless they were apposite enough. The Hyperbolists hearkened to his speech with new-found respect as he bolstered his curses with gestures not known in Valleyum; but even he was overcome in time, and a ward was placed about Hyperbolic lest her crew should seek to depart ere the judgement of Botherhon should be complete.

They stood before him on the sand, captives in a ring of seductive, scarlet almost-clad forms, hemmed in by the company of holding and their ominous locks. And now the greatest of the bay's Watchers turned upon them the full majesty of his hirsuit chest, and he demanded of them in kingly tones: 'I'm very disappointed, guys. I told you to wait for a safety inspection and you tried to cut corners. When will you kids ever learn?'

Something in his tone caused even Harald Nicehair, Reaver of the Coasts, he who had personally sailed a small rowing boat through a full hurricane and looted a village at the end of it, to hang his head sheepishly. ' 'M sorry,' he muttered.

'What was that?' demanded their captor, with all the patronising good humour of a tax inspector. The company replied as one.

'Sorry, Mr. Botherhon.'

'Well,' continued Botherhon. 'At least I stopped you before anyone was hurt. You'd best all come ashore now and make camp, because this vessel's impounded until we check every last join.'

And with that he leaped for a trailing line and hauled himself nimbly aboard. Among the Babel of voices on the sands, he caught a question that caused him to pause and call back over his shoulder: 'I don't know; one week, maybe two.'

With that he was gone, and his watchers began to follow him, chivvying the crew ashore one by one. Merisuwyniel turned to her spouse, interrupting a disturbing image of leather and green skin.

'This simply won't do at all,' she announced with a primness only achieved by Elven shieldmaidens and elderly maiden aunts, both of which have long lives of peril behind them. 'I shall complain to the management.'

'Yes, dear; sorry, dear...' began Gravendil, but at this point he realised that someone else was the object of Merisuwyniel's displeasure. He decided to try a question.

'But who are the management, dear?' he asked carefully.

'I think I might be of assistance,' announced a suave voice from behind them. Gateskeeper stepped forwards, taking a strange parchment from a voluminous sleeve as he did so. In the confusion he had become separated from Tara, who was busily administering an impromptu lesson in unarmed combat to an amorous crewman. Gateskeeper's voice dropped; his tone became insinuating, conspiratorial. 'Tara knows. She gathers information on every game environment. Old habits, you know.'

'Very well; we'll ask her,' decided our heroine. Gateskeeper's response was careful.

'She is not aware of this knowledge; we must take her at unawares and perform the necessary operation.'

At this point the sound of breaking bone and a brief, pathetic whimper reminded them what a difficulty they faced. Gateskeeper unfolded his mysterious document and read aloud from the dread runes inscribed thereon.
'Núrelës plá ermods rêllëbigguns: gettupgräd!'*

Tara stopped and went rigid. A beam of bright green light shot forth from her right eye, and there appeared the ghostly figure of a woman clad in white robes and sporting the elaborate hair of the perennially waited upon. She said something about a wrong number and vanished in a blizzard of grey spots to be replaced by a green line drawing of the island, which began to rotate disconcertingly.

'As we can see from this simulation,' lectured Gateskeeper, 'this island is home to a number of convincing illusions and, indeed, physical entities controlled from a central complex here.'

He attempted to point to the building in question, but the continued rotation of the map meant that he ended up running around it foolishly. When he eventually tripped over the hem of his robe, he gave up and paused briefly to get his breath back before rising to continue.

'Every entity we have encountered thus far has been in some way controlled by the magical artefacts in this building. If anyone still controls them, that person is here.'

'Then we are decided,' quoth Merisuwyniel. 'We shall crave a boon from the master of this land, that he might suffer us to depart in peace.'

'I love it when you talk fancy, baby,' murmured Gravendil under his breath. Merisuwyniel winked surreptitiously at him.

***

The great gates were set into the side of a large hill near the centre of the island. Of mithril and gold were they wrought, glimmering faintly even through the dust and soil of ages. It had been a long time since Môgul's cleaning contractors had paid a visit: they hadn't been paid in two millennia.

Graven upon the lintel, picked out in silver and in precious stones were letters strange and marvellous.

'That is the script known to the Wise as Daebolic's Runes,' quoth Gateskeeper, 'yet the language is that of Slangbad, which I shall utter here because Môgul can no longer hear us anyway. It reads Disizmine Cuman Avago Ifyefinkyer Ardënuf.'

'The Doors of Môgul, Lord of Barát. Speak, minion, and wait in terror.'

The voice was that of Gravendil, who spoke quietly and with pain in his eyes. His words were slow and without expression, as though he tore them from the depths of a great wound that could never quite be healed. When he had spoken, he stood in silence, his gaze cast earthward.

'That's not what it means!' Gateskeeper snapped. It clearly reads: "Say 'servant' and abide with trepidation'".

'I'm sure my old schoolmaster told me that avago ifyefinkyer meant announce [the] valued colleague, chimed in Mëanderin, more for the sake of having said something than out of any real intention to contribute. His effortless pronunciation of square brackets went unnoticed.

'That's ridiculous,' retorted Gateskeeper. 'How can the same word mean 'minion', 'valued colleague', and 'servant' at one and the same time?'

'I only say what I remember.' The almost-mariner sounded hurt. 'What's the point of a classical education if you can't use it to show off once in a while?'

'I once read that it can mean "master",' said Windsor Gummidge helpfully.

'Where could you possibly have read that?' wondered Mëanderin incredulously.

'Will you shut up?!' Gravendil's outburst was close to being a scream. 'Can't we just accept that some words have a very wide semantic range and be done with it?! Anyway, the important thing is that we need a password.'

Gateskeeper stood for a moment, deep in thought. He raised his Cell-antír on high and pressed his palm against the great gates. His voice thundered and reverberated about them all as he proclaimed a powerful spell of opening.

'passwd001!' he cried. White light burst forth from the instrument in his hands; bright fire played across the runes above the gates. Slowly, ponderously, they failed to open.

'Mypass!' called Gateskeeper. This time the fire was brighter still, and tiny snakes of white light writhed across the surface of the gates. They remained steadfast.

'Eru! Abc123! newpass1!' cried Gateskeeper again, but to no avail. He flung himself down upon the ground and began to fiddle with his Cell-antír abstractedly.

But a figure stepped forth, and his eyes were fixed upon those dread portals. He gazed at the writing, at once so familiar and yet so strange. The shadows of dark memories played across his face, and his hands bunched into fists. A mighty draught of breath he took, and proclaimed in a voice of adamant 'opensezme!'

'What sort of a terrible joke is that?' demanded Gateskeeper. 'You think the Dread Developer would stoop to such a pathetic...?'

But at that moment, even as the echoes of Gravendil's voice ceased to echo, the portals of Bildûr shuddered and swung smoothly inward, opening a great cavern to their eyes. Nothing did it contain, save only a metal frame, in which were supported several boxes; each of which bore the M-rune of Môgul. Green lights flashed erratically across their sides, and a constant humming filled the air. Upon the wall behind them was affixed a mighty wheel, which bore no markings save the single word: 'DANGER'.

They stepped forward: the senior officers of the Hyperbolic were there, Mëanderin, Starstruc and Redwine; Asperin the surgeon; Gravendil and Merisuwyniel; Gateskeeper and Windsor. Silently they entered this place of power, their feet stirring up the dust of ages and great mounds of paper writ with many spells of untold potency. Windsor lit his pipe, shook the match and threw it into a corner.

'$£!%$&*'#@!' **

Redwine leaped aside as a tinder-dry pile of the flimsy paper exploded into flames. Immediately he whisked off his captain's cloak and threw it over the pile, stamping frantically at the smoking garment.

'Never fear!' cried Mëanderin, leaping for the far wall. 'I see the fire hose!'

He grasped the great, red wheel and threw his weight against it. Veins and muscles stood out like whipcords as he strained against the ancient mechanism. It moved easily, and he fell flat on his face, the wheel spinning freely until it reached the limit of its travel and jarred to a stop. As he picked himself up he noticed for the first time that above the word 'DANGER' was a small dial, divided into regular increments and sectioned into colours from green through blue and yellow to red. The indicator needle was pointing to the utmost limit of the red sector; next to it was written: 'Ambient Risk Level critical. Move very, very carefully'.

'Um...' he said hesitantly.

'What in the Developer's name is going on in here?!'

The voice was that of Botherhon, but wroth was his mien, and scarlet was his countenance. Gone was the slightly tacky suavity and the good-natured grin, and his hair, though perfectly coiffed, was as a helm of wire. He rounded upon Merisuwyniel, who, possibly coincidentally, had always been impressed by men in touch with their anger.

'This place is forbidden, even to the Korprat Loyers of Bildûr! Only the Sisadmîn are permitted to pass its doors! What follies have you committed here?'

There was only one thing to do. Summoning all of her courage and strength, casting aside uncertainty and fear, Merisuwyniel boldly and valiantly fluttered her eyelashes.

She had meant to turn the full force of her charm against Botherhon, to call him 'Mr. Botherhon' and butter him up like a glutton's crumpet, but for some reason all was not going according to plan. Botherhon was silenced; his jaw dropped in cretinous awe and his hands clenched spasmodically. So like her former suitors did he appear that Merisuwyniel almost believed herself back at the Home-Grown Cows, once more riding swift to meet with Halfullion in the shade of Roneld's fountain. Steam began to creep out of the Watcher's ears.

Suddenly the air was rent with a shriek so clamant as to identify itself at once to Merisuwyniel as a siren warning of impending disaster. In a darkened corner of the cave a flat section of wall began to cast an eerie green light as strange, glowing characters multiplied across its surface. Gateskeeper strode to it, his eyes skating urgently among the glowing lines of script. Mëanderin strove to turn the great wheel back to its original position, but it came off in his hands, falling on the floor with a clang and opening there a great crack that stretched from wall to wall. Gateskeeper started at the sound and spun to face them with horror in his eyes.
'We must leave this place at once! The entity Botherhon has been stricken with a timeless love for Merisuwyniel, and will summon additional charm until he wins her. But he is stricken dumb and is unable to use it. The cycle cannot be broken and it will destroy the maker of illusions.'

'What's so bad about that?' snorted Asperin. Surely you don't expect me to heal a machine.'

'What is so bad,' replied the mage, 'is that the source of its power lies deep in the earth, and has been magically enhanced by Môgul's Sisadmîn. When it exhausts its source of energy, as it surely will, this very island will be consumed to fuel the Watcher's devotion! Normally this could not be, but some fool has altered through ancient craft the level of danger in this room.' ***

Merisuwyniel turned, and twitched her skirts (feminine yet practical). She called to all who could hear in her clear and tuneful voice: 'We must flee! Doom has come upon this island. Tragic, beautiful, romantic doom.'

As that great company surged as one (if solitary persons could barge themselves out of the way or trample themselves underfoot) for the decks of the Hyperbolic the earth began to tremble beneath their feet. The last of Mëanderin's mariners to pass the Elf-woman thought he saw out of the corner of his eye the lovely shieldmaiden turn and cast a brilliant yet wistful smile at Botherhon, where he stood motionless in the cavern of Bildûr. The wailing siren doubled in intensity.

**

On the decks of Hyperbolic they gathered, those who stalk the legends of that time (for never again was such a mighty company assembled in a single place). From half a mile offshore they gazed upon the beauteous isle, its alabaster sands and waving palms. Each bade a silent farewell to the distant screech that was the siren of doom, and made shift to imprint the images of those things on memories already poised to fade. The Hyperbolists turned to their work with reluctance, even their swearing strangely muted and poetic in the maudlin orgy of self-reproach aboard the questing ship.

It was Mëanderin's lookout who broke their silence with his hopeful call.

'I think the siren's stopped. I don't think it's going to blow up afte...'

In latter days they say that the explosion was heard a thousand miles away, where grim tribesmen huddled closer about their peat fires and muttered prayers to the Great Cow of their legends, burning offerings of bicarbonate of soda that the thunder might be silenced. But the travellers aboard Hyperbolic heard nothing more than a disappointing 'pop'. For a few moments a great crater lay open among the waters, into which fell a metal cage and the unmoving figure of a mighty man; then the seas rushed in and consumed them. A great wave arose from the ruin and towered like the walls of a fortress above the flimsy mast, but Hyperbolic rode atop it, and was carried many miles ere it passed beneath her keel and rolled on to devastate a great continent. Its inhabitants never realised amid their penury and loss that theirs had been the lesser visitation.

--

* Noodlarian: 'Now, you may feel a slight sting.'


** What are you looking at me for? I don't know what it means.

*** The technical wights of Môgul Bildûr, or Sisadmîn, were strange, pale, stunted creatures, whose chief skill was in the working of arcane things. They took delight in keeping about them the means of disaster, that the unwary might be gulled into causing cataclysms unaware. They it was who had invented the danger wheel, which controlled the background levels of danger in a localised area. With the wheel at its highest setting, such an action as wiggling one's index finger could cause such a disproportionate result as a global pandemic of chicken pox. That their race is now entirely extinct is not considered surprising by most commentators.