by Adam Roberts
So Moregothic wrought great destruction upon the lands of Blearyland. And the Elves and Men formed a mighty alliance and made war upon Moregothic in an attempt to destroy him, which attempt was ultimately successful. And Moregothic was burnt to crispy embers.
A More Detailed Account of the Great Destruction Wrought by Moregothic, and of the Attempts Made by the Elves and Men to wreak Destruction upon Moregothic, and of the eventual Destruction of Moregothic
It has been brought to my attention that some people, I mention no names, they know who they are – that some people were, shall we say, under-satisfied with the previous account of the great destruction wrought by Moregothic, and the attempts made by the Elves and Men to wreak destruction upon Moregothic, and of the Destruction of Moregothic. Well, I thought I got straight to the pith of the matter in my previous account. But I suppose there are people for whom pith is not enough. If you want a pith-free, husk-heavy account, who am I to disagree? Your wish, my command, and so on, and so on, et cetera.
Very well then. Pay attention. I’m not going through this more than once.
Moregothic had fled even further to the north, and he built himself a new fastness which he called Winter-underland.10 And as he constructed it, his mighty army did sing a spine-chilling song about Moregothic’s new kingdom.11
And Moregothic planned his terrible revenge upon all of Upper Middle Earth, making sure this time to cross the ‘t’s and dot the ‘i’s, the lower-case ‘j’s and any umlauted ‘u’s that needed it. ‘I shall leave nothing to chance,’ he told his lieutenant, Sharon. ‘I have assembled an army ten times as large as my previous army, and recruited monstrous and flesh-rending shock-troops instead of a measly rabble of Orks.’
And Sharon did say, ‘Good idea, my lord’ with great enthusiasm.
And Moregothic did say, ‘Isn’t it, though? And I tell you what, I’ve had another good idea as well. I shall seal my invulnerability with – guess what?’
And Sharon did ponder, going, ‘Hmm, hmm; oh, now, now – could it be magic?’
‘Magic, yes,’ said Moregothic, and he did nod smugly. ‘I shall summon the four Dragons of this world, for they are the beings in which magic is most potent. And they shall lay upon me a spell of protection so strong that not the Elves, not the valpac, not Emu himself could break it. I shall fashion the spell such that no chain will ever bind me again, because I don’t mind telling you I didn’t like that chain-up business one little bit. I shall weave the spell so cunningly that no creature shall be able to lay hand on me, or weapon, that nothing fashioned by elvish hands will be able to destroy me. I shall be invulnerable, and immortal, and shall ride to flaming victory.’
‘Excellent, master!’
‘Isn’t it, though?’
And Sharon said, ‘Could I have a similar spell made for me, master?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Moregothic, gruffly.
‘Not even,’ said Sharon, in a small voice, ‘a little one?’
‘Be off with you,’ snapped Moregothic. ‘I’ve no time to be worrying about underlings.’
Now the fastness of Moregothic was a huge network of tunnels and groined chambers, of corridors and deep dungeons; but one portion of it projected above the frost-hard ground, and this was a tower a thousand feet tall, seemingly slender as a white stalk of wheat against the huge backdrop of mountains, yet forty yards wide and builded of blocks of white granite interlocked more cunningly than a cun.12 And Moregothic did climb to the very summit of this tower where the air was clear, and sword-sharp with cold. And he spoke a spell of summoning for the Dragons. And the four Dragons answered his call, and flew in the air around the tower, such that, from a distance, it seemed as though a whirlwind and snowstorm possessed the tower.
‘I command you!’ Moregothic cried.
But the Dragons had grown in spirit and power since their creation, and were wilful, and independent of mind; and though they hearkened to Moregothic’s call yet they did hold back. For he had created them, and much of his power had passed into them; and now they were balanced between obeying him and wishing his destruction. But the voice of command compelled them.
‘I command a spell from you,’ cried Moregothic, throwing the words from his throat into the chill and windy air. ‘I must be invulnerable to harm. There must be no chink in my protection, no gap in the strength of magic that wraps me around.’
And the Dragon of the North sang:
Though only fire may kill ye
Yet no flame can harm ye
Yet no spark can wound ye
Yet no heat can hurt ye
And Moregothic said: ‘Excellent! Yet, why do you say that fire may kill me? Can you not cast the spell such that fire has no purchase upon my body at all?’ But as he asked the question he knew, in his heart, that to cast such a spell would be to quench the fire that ran in his own veins, to destroy the fire of his heart and his spirit, and that this would annihilate him. And so he contented himself with the magic that told him no flame, or spark, or heat could hurt him.
And the Dragon of the South sang:
Though only elf may slay ye
No elf hand may touch ye
No elf weapon affront ye
No elf word discomfort ye
And Moregothic made plaint, saying, ‘This also is good! Yet why should it be that even elf might slay me? Can you not cast the spell such that no creature of any kind has power upon me?’ But as he asked the question he knew that his captivity in the dungeon of the Elves had given to them a special power over his fate that could not be undone without undoing his fate altogether, and that would annihilate him. And so he contented himself with the magic that told him no elf hand, weapon or word could hurt him.
The spell was complete. And Moregothic felt the power of the magic bind itself to his body and he cried, ‘Good, good, yet must I have stronger assurance still. If I am struck with sword, arrow or spear, will that kill me?’
And the Dragons cried ‘No!’
‘If I am drowned in the sea or smothered under the earth, will that kill me?’
And the Dragons cried ‘No!’
‘Might man, dwarf or beast kill me?’
And the Dragons cried ‘No!’
‘You say only an elf may kill me, yet no elf may kill me?’
And the Dragons cried ‘So!’ And their voices were loud in the snow-thronged air.
And Moregothic said, ‘That seems to tie that up.’ And he called aloud again: ‘You say only fire may hurt me, yet no flame can touch me?’
And the Dragons cried ‘So!’ through the mournful hissing of sleet.
And Moregothic was content, for the magic was very strong. But when such a charm is cast upon a magical being, a price is paid; and in return for this charm Moregothic surrendered part of his divinity, which passed to the Dragons. And he thought to himself, ‘It matters little, for it is but a tiny splinter of my divine power, I retained the most part – and in return for this small loss I have rendered myself invulnerable. The price is worth it.’ What he did not realise was that in the matter of divinity, which is infinite, a tiny portion is yet the whole, and the whole is but a splinter. But this thought did not trouble Moregothic until later.
And the Dragons departed; for they had laid their eggs in the stone of the earth, and fled away to the barrenness beyond the north where no creature save them can pass.
Now Moregothic was confident, and he led his army south, and laid waste to the west, and the fires of his army did eat up the east, and he brought flood and drouth to the south. And the Elves despaired of being able to stand against him: for his army was powerful and merciless. And the Elves cried aloud ‘Woe! woe!’ by which they meant to allude to their own sorrow or sadness, rather than to say ‘Hey dude, slow down’ or anything of that nature. And word reached them of the spells which kept Moregothic safe, which lowered morale in the elf camp even further.
The woods were burned, and the pastures defiled; elf homes and the hearths of men were tramp
led and destroyed, and ork and monster roamed at will. And Riturnov the King, first king of Men, was slain in a fray near a haywain, as he was lying in pain with his main troop of Men slain around him. His son Reriturnov was but a child, and the kingdom of Men was ruled by the regent, Strete.
At last the great elf-general Fimble and the Warlord of Men, Rokett, mustered the last remnant of the army of the Elves and of Men. ‘Come,’ he cried, ‘we must drive this army of evil back whence it came.’
And the Elves mounted horses for the first time, to ride alongside the cavalry of Men; and they rode down the downs to collide with the Ork footsoldiers in the foothills; quite an impressive sight, actually, that cavalry charge. And the Army of Darkness broke in confusion.
But within three days it had remustered, and it drove hard against the Elves at the Battle of the Difficult Summe. And the Elves, counterattacking, suffered heavy casualties. For they were hampered by an overdemanding high command which ordered advancing troops to calculate the cube root of any four-digit prime in base 7 whilst walking slowly towards enemy arrow-fire.
And Fimble fled from the slaughter with only four dozen soldiers alive, the last survivors of the great army of Elves. And Rokett rode with him, with only three score of men left alive, the rump of the army of Men. They rode hard to the east, but their way was blocked by monstrous warrior-ants of prodigious size whose snippy-mandibles could sever a person in two with the merest snicky-snack, and Moregothic mocked them from his saddle on the thorax of the largest of the war ants, saying ‘Elves! Don’t you mess with my ants. You cut off their heads, they come looking for you.’ And many Elves and many Men died in that place.
So the remnant of the elvish and mannish armies rode west, but ran against the edge of the land, where the ocean chafed and chewed at the strand. And so they rode north, wearing out their horses in their flight. And Moregothic’s terrible army pursued by day and by night, for the taste of flesh was in their mouths, and lust-for-death was in their hearts.
As the Men and Elves rode further north, the land became more barren and cold; and snow lay in the hollows of the ground though the sun was up; and frost made mud stone. And still the Army of Darkness pursued them, so that even though their horses died the Elves were compelled to hurry further on foot. And they passed to the frozen lands where snow lay over all the ground in every season of the year like white topsoil, and sunshine reflected from the whiteness to dazzle the eyes in daytime, and starlight made the land glitter in the cloudless nights. Their breath came now as wraiths to leave their bodies like souls departing, and a great weariness was upon them. And after much suffering, which wore down the resistance of some of their number even unto death, they reached the frozen peaks of the Mountains of Byk.
The land here is broken and jagged, just as the Dragons created it at the beginning of days, with frozen waterfalls, boulders yet unsmoothed by wind or erosion, and harsh spires of ice reaching up to the sky in defiance. And Fimble said, ‘We have come to the most terrible place in Upper Middle Earth. Here we shall make a stand. For we cannot flee forever.’
And Rokett spoke, saying, ‘No, I suppose not.’
Here the last of the warrior elves and the last of the warrior men climbed the lower peaks of Mount Ezumasrevenge, and prepared to make their last stand, side by side. ‘Perhaps,’ said Rokett, ‘we may yet slay Moregothic.’ But they remembered the words of the Dragons’ Spell, and knew that their swords and arrows were useless against him. ‘At least,’ said Fimble, ‘we shall die gloriously.’ And the other Elves said, ‘Er, great, yeah, that’s certainly a consolation,’ and they added sotto voce ‘as we contemplate our imminent and bloody deaths.’
Moregothic arrayed his horde around the base of Mount Ezumasrevenge, cutting off all possible escape, and then he made camp for three days and three nights. And as the last dozen elven warriors and the last score of Men shivered on their crag, the army of Moregothic feasted and danced beside giant fires; and the sound of singing, and the smell of cooked food wafted through the night.
The sun rose on the last day; and elf and man prepared themselves each of them to fight and each of them to die, for there was no hope. And at Moregothic’s order, Orks and Baldtrogs swarmed up the lower slopes. Battle was short, sharp and shocking; many Orks and several Baldtrogs fell slain, but also slain were six of the twelve Elves and half the small force of Men.
And Moregothic pressed the attack with his monsters, ants, wargs, trolls and other nasties; and though they fought bravely the last warriors could not withstand, and withdrew further up the mountain.
And Moregothic called after them, ‘Fools! Whither do you fly? Can you take wing like the birds of the air and soar to safety?’ And he laughed, saying, ‘You are already dead.’
And he marched himself into battle, for he had no fear of elf or man, protected as he was by the most powerful spell the new world had ever seen.
Seeing him approach, Fimble ran forward, carving a path through the bodies of furious Orks with his sword and his right arm. And Fimble struck at Moregothic with his sword, but the Dark Lord was proof against the weapon and it shattered like glass blade striking stone. Fimble’s heart despaired at this, for he knew that the Dragon magic protected Moregothic against any assault he might make. And yet even in his despair did his courage flare up; for despair can feed rage as straw a fire, to burn bright though briefly.
And, weaponless, Fimble leapt upon the armour of Moregothic, and struggled upwards like a mountaineer, and placed his hands around Moregothic’s neck to throttle him. But no elf hand might hurt the Dark Lord, and where his hands touched Moregothic’s flesh his hands burned within like acid, and dissolved away to reeking smoke. And Fimble lifted away the stumps of his arms in agony.
Moregothic laughed to see this. ‘And is this the greatest warrior the Elves can send against me?’ he mocked. ‘A handless cripple and his band of stragglers? Though it be said only Elves might slay me, yet is it also decreed in Dragon magic that no elf hand might hurt me, no elf weapon assail me.’
And Fimble, howling in rage, threw himself forward with his last strength; and he bit with his mouth at the Dark Lord’s very face, and bit again, and bit a third time. Handless as he was, armed with no weapon and speaking no word, yet Fimble struck at Moregothic.
And the Dark Lord cried in surprise and pain, and smote at Fimble with his black-bladed sword; but Fimble clung on, even as the blade cut his flesh. And Moregothic staggered in pain, and his foot stumbled on the edge of the crag, and so he fell.
His fall was mighty, and he fell hard upon the broken ground, where the stalagmite spires of ice rose up needle-sharp. And one mighty blade of ice pierced Moregothic’s breast as he fell upon it and it thrust through. And he lay in pain on the frozen ground, impaled upon this terrible shaft.
And at this moment Moregothic knew that the Dragons had deceived him. For the ice pierced his chest, and its terrible cold burned his heart, and chill seared his flesh; and so he died. And with his death a great terror fell upon his soldiers; and they fled wailing and crying to the furthest reaches of the frozen wastes; and many fell into crevasses, or starved amongst the forbidding peaks. And Sharon found his way to Moregothic’s Winter-underland, and there he hid himself in the deepest dungeons and nursed the terror in his heart at the death of his master and his maker.
And the last six Elves gathered the body of Fimble from the dead face of Moregothic, and burnt him in honour on a warrior’s pyre. And the last of the Men took the body of Moregothic and cut it to pieces with their swords; for, being dead, he was beyond harm, and so the spell was broken and their swords could cut. And Elves and Men took a brand from Fimble’s funeral pyre, and set fire to a bonfire on which they burnt the remains of Moregothic to cinder and ash; for, being dead, he was beyond harm, and so the flames could now consume him. And so Moregothic was overthrown.
And the last Elves made their way back to the warm south, and rejoined their women and their children; and over many years they rebuil
t their nation. And the Men returned as heroes, and were cheered in the streets. Although after a solid ten months of them relating their war stories, the general population did get a bit bored with hearing them over and over, and tended to adopt slightly fixed, pixilated expressions when they heard the opening sentences of one of the stories, and put their minds elsewhere.
10 Because it was mostly constructed under the land. And because so far north it was always winter. To be frank, I reckon you could have worked that out for yourselves, if you’d put the effort in. But oh no, not you.
11 Mind you, any song can be described as spine-chilling if the spine gets chilled; and any spine will be chilled if the ambient temperature is low enough. That’s common sense, that is.
12 Latin cuneus ‘wedge’; hence ‘any wedge-shaped object’. No, really.
Part 2
The Sellamillion: The Sellamillion: The History of the Sellmi
The Theft of the Giant Sellmi
Now in Asdar did Emu reside, and he was happy, mostly, although the afternoons did sometimes seem perhaps a trifle on the long side, and time sometimes hung a little heavy on his hands. But by and large it was pleasant enough, and Emu did occasionally cast a glimpse over the waters to Upper Middle Earth, and have a long look, and then turn back to Asdar. And only once did he travel to Upper Middle Earth, and that for a brief time as it can be told below; and never again did he come to that land.
In Upper Middle Earth the days were marked by the sun rising and setting, and in the night-time the stars wheeled around the hub star in the northern sky. But the sun and the stars are material things, and they cast no light in Asdar, which is no material realm. Instead Emu had constructed a gigantic pole of gold, and at the top he placed a giant Sellmi, crafted by his own hands. This strange and beautiful thing Emu imbued with great magical power, by processing the bounty of Asdar into a single mysterious artefact, something like a jewel: long, and slender, with gorgeous facets of pinky-red and dazzling white. And in this object Emu captured the light of illumination, and a certain flavour of brilliance; and he fixed it atop the tall pole. And it cast a great light over Asdar, and the inhabitants of that blessed realm said ‘Ooh, isn’t that pretty, that’s much better, being able to see and everything, no more banging inadvertently into things and not knowing who you were talking to and so on, and indeed carrying on talking, thinking you were talking to somebody even though they’d actually moved away.’