The Legend of Mog
In the great grey-green mists of the murky past, a mighty, dreadful race of unearthly creatures claimed divine right over all the known world. Even the shortest among them grew to all of twenty kronyn tall, and their pallid green skin bulged with pulsating veins. Oozing from every orifice, their rippling limbs ended in fearsome, three-digit claws. Glowing eyes peered with slitted red pupils, and their faces appeared like inverted triangles, crowned with a broad forehead and coming to a pronounced snout. With both character and demeanor hateful, they sought only to ravage those beings they considered inferior. Tremendous size and strength, and their ruthless loathing, served them well in this mission. But their greatest weapon, the one thing that made them invincible, was a secret of eternal life. No matter how great a blow they received, no matter how deep an injury left, none of these beasts would ever die. These became known as the Emim, the horrible giants, and they liked nothing better than the taste of Rufoux.
In these days wood kilns burned across the land, for the Rufoux had not yet discovered the stones that burn. Every day men and women of the clan had to enter the forests to gather wood for the fires that burned wildly in their camp; and the fear of the Emim gripped them. Many a day twelve ventured out, but only eleven, or ten, or nine returned. Each family took its turn to send out a wood-seeker, and each family member took his turn, so all shared the risk. But the burden weighed heavily — so great an anxiety to bear — and fear gripped the clan throughout, as fathers and mothers and sons and daughters wept bitter tears for each missing clansman. All the Rufoux lived under a cloud of despair, except for a tiny few, a few who cared not for life nor limb but much for liberty. One of these was a man named Mog.
Mog chose not to stand around waiting to be eaten, but neither did he relish risking his life for a few sticks of wood. He and a handful of followers didn’t even live in the Rufoux camp, instead sleeping in logs and hollows out in the wilds. Fruits and berries kept them alive, but when they had a taste for something more succulent, nothing satisfied them more than raiding an Emim banquet, as long as they weren’t serving Rufoux. Mog and his men loved to sweep down upon the unsuspecting Emim as they sat at table, for though they were large and cruel, they were none too bright and easy to surprise. Before they could fall to arms, the raiders would snatch away the most pleasant dishes, bloody a few noses and be gone.
On one such raid the future of Mog and the Rufoux changed forever.
One evening as a multitude of stars blinked in disbelief, Mog and his men crept through the trees toward the grand log house of the Emim. The structure was simple, yet huge and comprised of many rooms. The long dining room spread about in the central point, making it all the easier for the raiders: Each time they broke in, they used a different hallway to enter, always catching even the most alert giant off guard. This night, as they approached the banquet hall, they found an ancient man dressed in long robes, with a long, gray beard, light and fine like cobwebs, like the smoke of incense. Bound in chains, he hung upside down at the entry.
“Who are you? You look not like Rufoux,” said Mog.
“I be Skratti, wizard of the standancrags. Many a day have I passed vexing the Emim with my incantations, so that they hate me above all others. Today I be captured when they caught me unawares at my morning chants.”
“Why have you not been eaten?” asked Mog.
“Not being as tasty as Rufoux,” replied Skratti, “they be setting me aflame when the night falls to its deepest.”
“More’s the pity, old man.”
“You be Mog, no? Your legend looms large in the wood, but little do you know. You hate the Emim as much as I?”
“How can I hate the one who cooks for me? I have decided to remain indifferent, as long as I stay out of their pot.”
“Aye, you be as good a liar as vagabond,” Skratti laughed in spite of being trussed up like a chicken in a butcher shop.
“Surely, you must indeed be a wizard, for you have either discovered how I loath the Emim, or you have put it in my heart.”
“Release me, and I will make you their master.”
“I would release you just to shove my blade up their noses,” said Mog, and with his fine Rufoux sword he cut the shoddy Emim chain to shreds. Skratti fell heavily to the floor with a grunt but no great injury.
“Let us be gone,” he whispered hoarsely. “Come with me to my rooms, and I will give you knowledge to defeat the Emim.”
“Not before dinner,” said Mog, and he led his men screaming into the banquet room. Giants fell to the floor backwards in their chairs at the ruckus, half-chewed food spewing from their ghastly mouths. Mog slashed away with his blade, but it left no more than scratches on the immortal beings. The Rufoux men grabbed armfuls of wonderful breads and puddings, fruits and vegetables, and vaulted through the windows before the Emim knew what had happened. Skratti made a hasty retreat out the nearest door.
Outside, each man ran in a different direction, then circled back around to the side of the longhouse opposite the Rufoux camp. There Skratti, without explanation of how he found them, appeared out of the darkness.
“Welcome to my lair,” he said, and he gestured to a great standancrag directly behind him. As they walked toward the stone pillar, a dark opening appeared as if by conjuring. Skratti turned his head and gave a craggy smile over his shoulder at Mog, and led the Rufoux men inside. As the last one entered, the opening vanished, and the standancrag once again looked like solid stone.
Inside, the men could barely make out walls lined with strange, shining, clear containers that obviously had different kinds of fluids in them. Skratti rubbed his fingers together and produced a flame, with which he lit a small collection of beeswax candles set on a table. He blew out the flame and waved his fingers in the air.
“There be a secret below the Emim longhouse, a secret I alone among humans know,” said Skratti in a harsh whisper, his heavy, white eyebrows nearly covering his eyes. “All others who have ventured so deep into the fortress have paid with their lives. I alone have seen and escaped. It be the secret of Emim immortality.”
The Rufoux men sidled up to the wizard without a word, drawing nearer to the shadowy words and dim light like moths.
“Underneath the Emim banquet table there be a great wooden door, with a single ring for a handle. That door leads below the house, into a dungeon deep and lined with stone, where lies a dragon, a beast of horrible size and great, massive teeth. This monster once roamed wild with the deviltooth and thylak, but the Emim captured it and imprisoned it under their castle. It guards their most precious treasure, the one thing they value over all else in the world.”
Here Skratti paused, and the Rufoux men leaned in yet closer.
“It be a gem, a single, purple stone, clear and bright as a pool of water. Nobody knows who mined it, or who cut it, or how the Emim came to own it. Neither does that matter, for only its power matters, and that power be eternal life. Yes, eternal life radiates from the stone, and simply living over those rays makes the Emim invincible. But they must stay in the vicinity of the gem for half the day, or its power will seep away from them.”
With this the Rufoux men stood erect again, and looked upon the old man with skepticism. “How can we know this to be true?” asked Mog.
“Search your memory, test your mind,” said Skratti. “Do you really believe the Emim to be so slow that they cannot pursue as you steal away their food? They dare not leave the longhouse after being gone at day, or they be not getting a full dose of the gem’s life-power. They know their real food, and they be guarding it well.”
Sharp disappointment stabbed at Mog with these words, thinking that his raiding bravado had been revealed to be empty. Now he felt compelled to top it.
“Well, then. How do we get it?”
“You have to go through Emim defenses. You have to slay the dragon. You have to steal away with the gem without falling into Emim hands.”
“I know how to get into the longhouse. That’s easy enough. But how to survive the rest? That’s the trick,” said Mog in a pensive manner.
“Get past the Emim, kill the dragon, then eternal life belongs to you,” said Skratti.
“Yes, you’ve said that. But how?” Mog’s temper rose.
Skratti wheeled toward the back wall, and returned with one of the strange containers. He studied the contents carefully as he swirled it around, then poured some into a smaller container. With his left hand he reached into a round box, then sifted some powder into the liquid as he held it over a flame. A pungent fragrance arose in the room. In a voice so low the Rufoux men could not make out his words, he mumbled three short sentences over the elixir, then plunged the whole container hissing into a bucket of water at his feet. Again he swirled the liquid as he peered through it, and suddenly handed the container to Mog.
“Drink it! Drink it fast!”
Mog looked from face to face in the room, still feeling his manhood bruised by the truth about the raids. Ready to prove himself, he slammed down the potion as hard as he could.
“What did I just drink?” he winced.
“You be Rufoux, you be men of fire,” said Skratti, his grin revealing ragged teeth. “Learn it, command it. Call the power of the sun down on the hated Emim. I now give you the power of the sun’s heat. When your anger burns hot, your touch will burn hotter. You cannot kill the Emim, not as long as they have the gem, but you can sear their flesh. Now, begone!”
Suddenly Mog and his men stood outside the standancrag again, and no sign of Skratti remained, nor of the entryway, nor the container that had been in Mog’s hand. They paced about there in the starlight, confused and irritated, unsure of what had happened. Only the bitter unrest in Mog’s stomach told him he hadn’t been dreaming.
Days passed, and the men lived off the stolen bounty from that night’s raid. Soon came the time to again burglarize the Emim, but to his men Mog seemed uninterested in returning. As hunger gnawed at them, they became dissatisfied with the berries and roots of the forest. Then one of them made the mistake of accusing Mog of cowardice.
“You have become afraid to return! The dragon makes you afraid!” he said to Mog as they fell deep into argument.
Mog arose in a rage. “Oh, you will pay a dear price for your insolence!” he screamed as he hoisted a huge log over his head with one hand, preparing to strike down his clansman. The log instantly burst into flame, from Mog’s grip all the way to the end. Suddenly, the conflict ended. The men stood and stared at the unfortunate piece of wood, miraculously aflame and yet not burning Mog’s hand.
“It is true,” said Mog, as he watched the log quickly turn to charcoal and then ash, staring in wonder and yet fighting a smile. “I have feared believing it, but it must be true. Skratti has endowed me with fire. Let’s be off!”
With that, the band ran like deer toward the Emim longhouse.
Outside the window, the Rufoux could see the Emim at their meal. There Mog drew up a simple plan.
“We all jump in, as we always do. This will turn the Emim out in surprise, as it always does. Then I will set fire to their table. As the blaze arises upon the house itself, the confusion will be great, and I will open the door to the dungeon. If any Emim arise against me, attack if only as a diversion. We will not be able to kill them until the gem is away for a time. I will slay the dragon with fire and retrieve the eternal stone for the Rufoux.”
The men all agreed, and went crashing through the windows with great cries and whoops. The Emim leapt in shock as before, and Mog took hold of one end of the long table with both hands — and nothing happened. He looked at his palms in disbelief, and in his mind saw the crusty old wizard with his gnarled grin. “Damn you!” he screamed, and pounded the table with both fists. This time it burst into a ball of fire, and Mog understood: The power of the fire fed upon his rage. Keeping his anger at a fever pitch, he grasped a chair in each hand and threw both like fire bombs into the crowd of Emim.
The great ring that Skratti had described lay at Mog’s feet. With both hands he took hold and gave it a great yank, getting the door open just before the handle turned to ashes. Mog threw himself head first into the opening and landed on something pliant and cold.
It was too dark to see in the dungeon, but Mog knew he was in trouble. The lumpy floor snorted and began to turn and twitch beneath him. A low growl began, and a violent jolt threw Mog against a wall.
A burst of stars exploded inside his head, and Mog suddenly couldn’t remember where he was. As his head cleared he felt blasts of heat close to his face. His hands explored the surrounding floor with no sense of purpose, but one fell upon a piece of lumber.
Hastily he came to his feet again, with a defiant shriek, and the wood burst into flame. The sudden flash of light and heat drove the dragon back, and Mog got a good look at it. It had to be fifty kronyn long, as tall as a therium, with scales of every color imaginable. Its yellow eyes bore down on Mog, and a forked tongue slinked in and out of its mouth as the beast sought its way past the flickering of the fire.
Mog looked about him, and by the light he could see several loose pieces of wood as well as a massive fireplace. Circling around carefully, he threw as many pieces of timber as he could reach into the hearth, then threw in his lit kindling. The dry wood went up in a flash, lighting the dungeon brightly and glinting gaily off the gem, standing upon a small table encircled by the supple body of the dragon. It was only the size of an egg, but the light it produced, only by reflecting the fire, was as brilliant as the sun on snow. Mog rubbed his hands and approached the dragon.
Its serpentine neck twisted as the beast, still showing reptilian concern over the fire but not intimidated, followed Mog’s every move. Mog tried to think of every injustice ever done to him or to his people; his temper rose and boiled over at the thought of the hundreds of Rufoux victims of the Emim. He came to irrational rage as he weighed the incredible power the Emim had gained and abused.
Mog rushed at the dragon, deftly dodged its stamping claws and grasped it about the neck with both hands. Flames shot out of his fingers and singed his hair, but the dragon didn’t flinch. The creature’s thick scales easily deflected the heat of his anger. Instead, the beast deftly flicked its neck to the side and threw Mog off.
Mog again landed heavily again against the wall. Could it be — could it be the dragon too had gained immortality from guarding the gem? Skratti had said none of this. He had come far too along to care about such things now, though, Mog realized. Clearly the fire did no damage; perhaps his blade would.
His sword drawn, Mog approached the dragon cautiously. The dragon eyed him with welcoming disdain, its tongue scrutinized the air. It testily made for Mog with its fangs, Mog made for it with his sword. As he circled about, he watched for an opening, but couldn’t find a way to get past those teeth.
Frustrated, Mog screeched and flailed at the dragon’s tail with his sword. The blade bounced off with a clang, having no effect against the scales. Unless Mog could get his blade into a vulnerable spot, he would have no hope. He had to use every weapon at his disposal, or he would be lost.
Again bellowing like a madman, Mog ran around the dragon. As the beast turned its head to follow him, he made a complete circle and came again to the front. Too large to turn around, the beast had to wheel its head in the opposite direction, and at that moment Mog ran up one of its front legs. Before the dragon could locate him again, Mog leapt upon his neck and rammed a lit thumb into one of the creature’s eyes. The socket blazed with the sounds and smell of burning flesh, and the dragon raised its head with a terrific roar of pain. At that moment Mog’s sword found the tender flesh underneath the scales of the dragon’s throat, and quickly its head lay free and bleeding on the floor. So the monster was not immortal after all; the very scales that had protected it from Mog’s blade had also fended off the beneficent energy of the gem.
Mog sat heavily on the floor, eyeing the stone still nestled within the dragon’s body. Quickly he had an idea, and grasping the gem securely in one hand, he climbed up the great chimney to the roof of the Emim castle. Standing upon the highest parapet, he called out to the creatures and Rufoux struggling below.
“Behold, I have the power of eternal life,” he called out, and all eyes turned to him as he held the precious stone aloft. “Behold, for evermore you will serve me.”
For a moment he presented the stone, beams of light shooting from between his fingers, then brought it to his mouth and quickly swallowed it. Holding his now empty hand up for all to see, Mog took on a glow like the sun. A brilliant ring of light suddenly encircled him; the Rufoux men fell back, the Emim screamed in horror. Mog stood like a beacon against the night.
The Emim had not long to live after that. Soon they were wiped out, their great size and strength no match for the light and fire of Mog. The Rufoux roamed safely upon the land, safe to live their lives and fight their fights, aided by the anger and aggression of the eternal Mog. Every now and then he still showed himself, in the midst of the midday, when the sun would grow dark and only the brilliant ring of Mog could be seen. And he blinded the eyes of many as they looked upon his glory at these times, in the face of his anger and aggression.
