Final - Silmarien Szilagyi
"The story is about an agile watchman with a peculiar lack of
affinity for magical items. It takes place on a world that actually consists of
many worlds-inside-worlds. A conflict between magical races plays an important
role."
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Nagtael, the Unmagical Watchman
Once upon a time, in a magical galaxy far, far away, there was the Land of the Tiny Moons. And in this land, lived an agile and rather unassuming Watchman named Nagtael Silentfighter. His race was unknown, even to him (a cruel joke of the gods), but one thing was for certain: magical objects despised him. How can an object, even a magical one, despise someone, you ask? That’s a good question, since magical items are still items, non-living, unfeeling things. Well, that’s what’s so unique about Nagtael; even a non-living, unfeeling thing could muster up enough hatred for him in its collection of magical molecules. Why? No one knows, least of all Nagtael. He tried countless times to befriend enchanted swords, unbreakable shields, wizard’s staffs, and daunting gauntlets—all without luck. They backfired on him. Enchanted swords melted in his grasp. Unbreakable shields shattered before him. Wizard’s staffs malfunctioned. And daunting gauntlets fled. Yes, fled. Nagtael’s talent, it seemed, was repelling magical objects.
Everyone in the Land of the Tiny Moons had a unique, magical talent. For example, the ruler, Hold Hölgy (which translates to Lady of the Moon in a strange language ancients called Hungarian), had tiny worlds orbiting her head. Each of those tiny worlds had its own ruler, though none were as powerful as Hold Hölgy.
But enough history!
Presently, Nagtael and his steed Raivota were patrolling the countryside. It was dull work, especially lately, since Land of the Tiny Moons tended to be a safe place. The various magical races, and there were many, lived harmoniously. It was such a peaceful place that Nagtael wondered why Watchmen were even needed; though now that he thought about it, he was Tiny Moons’ sole Watchman. He surmised that was due to his ineptitude with magical objects. The Watchman profession was one of the few that didn’t require use of magical items. For all his incompetence with magic, Nagtael more than compensated with a rare talent for agility. He navigated treacherous terrain as smoothly as a Unicorn and leapt from trees with the assuredness of a spider monkey. In fact, he was more surefooted than his mount.
But I’m getting off topic again.
Nagtael and Raivota rode through the Southern Forest of Living Trees, which was aptly named since Southern Tree-People lived there. The Palm Clan ruled this particular forest, and the leader of the Tree-People, Saptooth, came from this clan. Southern Tree-People were reputed to be the friendliest, though Saptooth had a nasty habit of oozing toxic sap, but only those who tried to use his people for firewood had reason to fear. And most creatures knew to stay away from Tree-People if they needed lumber.
As Nagtael approached the largest tree, a Royal Palm, it rumbled in greeting.
“Good day to you, too, Saptooth!” said Nagtael with a bow of his head. “What news do the roots bring?”
A series of rumbles, rustles, and creaks followed, which Nagtael carefully listened to, his expression becoming more solemn by the second. All Watchmen, or the sole Watchman in this case, were required to learn the languages of the creatures inhabiting Tiny Moons. Though Nagtael couldn’t speak Tree-Talk—he lacked the essential roots, bark, and leaves—he understood it perfectly. And now was the first time he wished he didn’t.
Saptooth told of ill tidings; the Goblins in the north were attacking Gnome villages. As everyone knew, Gnomes weren’t much for warfare. They preferred gardening and decorating their subterranean homes to amassing an army. The Goblins, on the other hand, were fond of battles, but up until now, they’d only fought amongst each other. It appeared the Spell of Indefinite Peace cast by the good wizard Valo had finally worn out, and Nagtael didn’t blame it; it was hard work pacifying Goblins!
The siege on the Gnomes was orchestrated by Gbanuz Stonebelch, who held the dubious honor of Supreme Slimeball, which translates to king of the Goblins. In actuality, Gbanuz had no relation to slime, unlike some other Goblin tribes. He belonged to the Stoner Tribe and was rumored to possess a belch so powerful that it shattered rock. Not an enemy you want to have if you’re perched on a cliff, or if you’re a Rock Golem.
With Gbanuz leading the crusade against Gnomes, it was only a matter of time before Goblins attacked all the decent creatures of Tiny Moons. Well Nagtael simply couldn’t allow that to happen! Thanking Saptooth for the dire news, he spurred Raivota toward the realm of the Elves.
***
Wylde Woode, the home of the Wild Elves, was indeed a chaotic place. Trees grew in awkward formations, crowding so closely in some places that one couldn’t pass, and whipping you with thorny brambles in others. But that’s how the Wild Elves liked it. Their hair resembled bird nests, and their skin looked and felt like bark.
Nagtael was escorted into Wylde Woode by a group of Wild Elves that included Queen Zephyrdoe. In her curly auburn hair, rested a small gray squirrel.
“And you’re sure Gbanuz is going to start a war?” Zephyrdoe asked. Her voice was like wind chimes, soft and tinkling.
Nagtael nodded. “All Goblins are naturally fond of war mongering. It was only because of Valo’s spell that they restricted their conflicts to their own species.”
Zephyrdoe considered Nagtael’s words before shaking her head and dislodging the sleeping squirrel. It chattered in annoyance and scurried off.
“The other creatures must be warned,” she said. “You go to the Centaurs, Alicorns, Unicorns, Dwarves, and Dragons. I’ll warn the rest.”
Nagtael watched in amazement as Zephyrdoe transformed into an auburn doe. Until now, he had thought her talent was a myth, but as she leapt away in a blur of brown, he truly believed she could run as quickly as the wind.
“Well, it’s off to the Centaurs, I suppose,” he murmured to Raivota.
***
The Centaurs lived on a flat, boring plain. They claimed it was conducive for stargazing, their activity of choice, but everyone knew it was because Centaurs were clumsy. As a hybrid between humans and horses, they should have inherited the equine surefootedness, but unfortunately, their ungainly upper half tipped off their center of gravity. Centaurs made terrible mountain climbers, and the thick undergrowth in forests sometimes tripped them. However, Centaurs possessed a sharp mind and were unparalleled archers. Only the truly stupid would enter a battle of wits or arrows with a Centaur.
A dapple-gray Centaur trotted out to meet Nagtael. He recognized the Centaur as Asklepios Linwood, leader of the Centaurs and the most skilled healer in Tiny Moons. It was rumored that Asklepios could cure even death itself but did so rarely because it was a bad idea to irritate Nergal (Tiny Moon’s personal god of death).
“Good day, Nagtael,” greeted Asklepios, towering over the Watchman and his steed. “What brings you to our plains?”
“The Goblins are readying for war. I need you to lead the Centaurs against them.”
Asklepios stomped a forehoof. “This is grim news indeed. I shall rally the herds.”
Nagtael watched as the dapple-gray Centaur galloped off without tripping; this was too solemn a moment for even a Centaur to stumble.
“This just keeps getting better,” Nagtael grumbled. “Ride towards the Alicorn Demesnes, Raivota.”
***
Atop the Infinity Mountains lived the Alicorns, a cross between Unicorns and Pegasi, very secretive creatures, but also very powerful. On most occasions, they refused to alight upon land, and anyone who wanted to visit them had to do so on their terms.
That was why Nagtael was standing beside Raivota, glaring at the ebony stallion. “Fine time to decide you’re afraid of heights!”
Raivota snorted and regarded his owner with a stubborn expression that suggested, You want to talk to flying Unicorns, go climb the mountain yourself, Two-legs.
Muttering curses under his breath, Nagtael began scaling the rocky crag. He made good time and soon reached the first outcropping. The sight that met him nearly propelled him back down the mountain. A glittering sorrel Alicorn stood before him, watching him bemusedly.
:Hello, Nagtael.:
Nagtael jumped at the soft feminine voice inside his head. He’d forgotten Alicorns and Unicorns conversed telepathically.
“Uh, hi Baranmir,” he replied, smoothing out his trousers. For some reason, he felt compelled to look his best in front of the Alicorn. “You didn’t have to meet me down here.”
If equines could smile, Baranmir would have done just that. :Don’t be silly. You couldn’t have climbed all the way to the top! It’s not called the Infinity Mountains for nothing, Dearheart.:
“Well, thank you then,” he said. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the Goblins are going to war.”
:Yes, we have heard. I have already told the Unicorns, and Celebhith is gathering the herds. Go on to the Dwarves. They will surely join the resistance.:
“Yes, I’m sure they will.” It was common knowledge that Dwarves hated Goblins. “Right, I’ll be going now.” Nagtael was climbing down the mountain, when Baranmir’s voice stopped him.
:Hop on. Your steed deserves a rest and will reunite with you outside Hot Tin Hall.:
Nagtael stared at Baranmir dumbly, still in mid-descent, before snapping out of his reverie. Careful not to yank or crush Baranmir’s feathery wings, he clambered astride. Then she was galloping toward the edge of the cliff, taking flight at the last moment. Nagtael would have been awestruck had the reality of what he was riding sunk in, but as it was, he marveled at the weightless feeling instead.
***
The realm of the Dwarves made Nagtael nervous. He was more claustrophobic than most, which his fancies believed was a sure sign of Elvish lineage, never mind that his ears were as pointed as a watermelon.
As he watched Baranmir fly away in a glittering streak of copper, awe threatened to creep up, but he squashed it; he could faint from incredulity later. He had to focus all his willpower to enter Hot Tin Hall, the abode of the Dwarfish chief, Tahfor Godsiron, whose talent was to create Iron of the Gods, a metal thrice as strong as that flimsy Adamantium. Only one being could create the Iron of the Gods at a time, and because Dwarves stubbornly resisted Death for centuries, Tahfor’s future as a celebrity in Tiny Moons was secure.
Nagtael wiped sweat from his brow, gritted his teeth, and entered the enormous marble doors of Hot Tin Hall. Panic threatened, but he tried to focus on anything except the mountain surrounding him; were the walls closing in on him?
Torches provided adequate lighting and illuminated a squat figure approaching him, which turned out to be a nondescript Dwarf.
“You’re Nagtael?” the Dwarf questioned.
The Watchman merely nodded, not trusting his voice to speak; it would be a fine thing if all that came out was a terrified squeak.
“I assume you’re here to see Chief Tahfor. Well, come along then.” The Dwarf proceeded in the direction he’d come from. “Don’t want to get lost down here. Nasty way to go.”
Nagtael quickened his pace and didn’t take his eyes off his guide until they reached an immense hall with marble columns stretching toward the cavernous ceiling. If not for the lack of windows and sunlight, Nagtael could almost trick himself into believing he was still above ground.
“Welcome to Hot Tin Hall!” a booming voice reverberated in the room. “You’re white as a sheet, Nagtael. Sit, sit.”
Nagtael obeyed. “Thank you, Tahfor.” He was silent for a moment, concentrating on breathing. “The Goblins have attacked the Gnomes and are sure to start a war with all of Tiny Moon’s creatures. The Tree-People, Wild Elves, Centaurs, Alicorns, and Unicorns are already preparing their armies.”
Tahfor stroked his black beard, which was tucked into his leather belt, and sighed. “I was afraid of this. Gbanuz has been more obnoxious than usual.”
Nagtael nodded. “Yes, it seems the peace spell has been steadily fading until it vanished entirely.”
Tahfor’s grey eyes hardened until they resembled the iron of his namesake. “I’ll rally the other chiefdoms. Gbanuz will be stopped.”
Nagtael watched Tahfor’s expression warily; he almost pitied the Goblins. Almost.
“Well, I should get going. I still have to warn the Dragons.” He attempted to stand, but his feet ignored his brain. Smiling sheepishly, he tried again, without success.
Tahfor snapped his fingers, and a servant appeared with a goblet of strong-smelling liquid. “Drink.”
Nagtael sniffed the fire-red liquid, and with a shrug, imbibed it in one gulp. Immediately, a peculiar, almost unbearable warmth diffused in his belly. Suddenly, he felt he could do anything, even dig to the planet’s core with a spoon! He leapt out of the chair and stood with his hands on his hips, a courageous glint in his amber eyes.
Tahfor chuckled. “Fire wine. Imbued with a shot of magma, it never fails to buck up one’s spirits.”
***
When Nagtael emerged from Hot Tin Hall, the fire wine was still in effect. Glancing at Raivota, he began sprinting toward the Dragon Demesnes, his confused steed galloping behind him. A turquoise Dragon circling above watched them curiously before soaring off to hunt.
The Dragons of Tiny Moons differed from the Dragons you’re probably familiar with. First, many of them didn’t hoard treasure. Second, all were scholars at heart, endlessly researching tomes of history, science, art, and literature. And third, most of them didn’t breathe fire. Some breathed noxious gases; others, sleeping gases. A few spewed acid; others, slime. Even fewer were electric and shot lightning. There was an endless variety of breathers. The Empress of Dragons, for example, breathed a hot, blinding white light.
Nagtael slowed to a walk as a majestic golden Dragon alighted in front of him. The Dragon’s sparkling violet eyes regarded him as a cat regards a mouse. A series of shrieks and squawks followed.
“It’s nice to see you, too, Spica,” Nagtael replied. He and the Empress of Dragons were as good of friends as a Dragon and a human could be. He complimented her scales, and in return, she didn’t eat him. “You’re looking particularly regal today. Are your scales shinier?”
Spica shrieked loudly. To the untrained ear, it sounded like a battle cry, but Nagtael knew better; she was laughing.
“It’s been a while since you’ve blinded someone, eh?”
Spica cocked her reptilian head in interest.
“How would you like to blind some Goblins?”
The Dragon smiled, fangs glinting malevolently in the sunlight. She liked the sound of that.
***
When Nagtael arrived at the edge of the Goblin Demesnes, a cacophony met his ears and gave him a headache. As far as the eye could see, magical creatures were lining up in formation. The Fourth War of Magical Menagerie was about to begin.
Queen Hold Hölgy sat astride Baranmir, wielding a magical sword made of Iron of the Gods. The little moons orbiting her head wore spherical armor of the same metal; their inhabitants had to be protected, after all.
Nagtael drew his blade, also made of Iron of the Gods, and gripped his Dragon-scale shield; Dragons, like all Squamata, periodically shed their skin, which was then used to make armor and shields. Luckily none of his weapons or armor was imbued with magic, despite being made by magical creatures.
On Nagtael’s right stood Celebhith, the leader of the Unicorns. His silver coat shimmered in the sunlight, and his spiraling horn was twice as long as that of other Unicorns. He was a formidable enemy, especially given his talent of becoming mist, enabling him to move quickly and stealthily upon foes.
On his left was Spica, who winked at him. Craning her sinuous neck, she gave a roar that sent shivers down his spine; he thanked the gods she was on their side. The Dragons shrieked in unison, making the ground tremble, and took flight. The other flying creatures followed, led by the Alicorns, including Baranmir.
The war had begun.
Nagtael spurred Raivota forward, leading the cavalry toward the massive Goblin army. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Celebhith disappear into a fine silver mist and reappear farther ahead, spearing three Goblins on his horn like shish kabobs. A fire breathing Dragon torched them.
A battalion of Goblins rushed at Nagtael, hurling insults. Before they could reach him, a ruby-red Dragon breathed a protective bubble around the Allies and Spica blasted the Goblins with white-hot light. Blinded, the Goblins stumbled into a deep hole dug by the Dwarves.
Centaurs, led by Asklepios, fired a shower of arrows tipped with Iron of the Gods, the only metal strong enough to pierce Goblin hide. Countless Goblins fell, clutching their chests. Asklepios galloped alongside Nagtael, rummaging through a sack slung across his powerful chest. “Catch!”
Nagtael caught the glass bottle. A strong healing potion swished inside. Pocketing it, he thanked Asklepios and watched the Centaur gallop towards a fallen Wild Elf.
Raivota avoided an olive-green Dragon that was spewing yellow acid at a contingent of unlucky Goblins; they chose a very bad Dragon to attack. Yowls of pain pierced through the sounds of battle as their tough skin bubbled and melted.
A huge weeping willow was strangling Goblins, while Saptooth was knocking other Goblins down with his fronds and dripping poisonous sap into their gaping mouths. The foul little creatures choked and writhed before becoming still.
Just then, he spotted an unusually hideous Goblin exchanging blows with Zephyrdoe. Although she was lithe and strong, it was obvious she was tiring. Nagtael vaulted off Raivota and sprinted toward the Goblin and Wild Elf.
“Hey, stink snoot!” he shouted, getting the Goblin’s attention. Bile rose in his throat when he saw the Goblin up close. His face was covered in sores that oozed a yellowish pus. His lips were cracked, and one ear was missing. Knobby growths dominated his body, and his skin was sickly green.
“What do you want, foul face?” the Goblin croaked. “Don’t you know you’re talking to Gbanuz, Supreme Slimeball? Show some respect!”
Nagtael nearly gagged as he caught a whiff of Gbanuz’s putrid breath. “Dung brain, come fight me instead!”
Zephyrdoe smiled gratefully and drank the energy reviving potion given to her by Asklepios, who had arrived in perfect time. With a few minutes’ rest, she would be good as new.
Gbanuz rushed Nagtael, axe held at the ready. They met with a clang of metal. Gbanuz hacked and swung, surprising Nagtael with his sheer strength, and he couldn’t get in any attacks. He kept retreating, until his back hit the cliff wall. Gbanuz sneered and belched loudly, nearly knocking Nagtael unconscious with his acrid breath. Then a crumbling sound came from above his head, and he watched in horror as dozens of boulders plummeted toward him. Without thinking, he rushed Gbanuz, who was distracted, and knocked him down. Mind clear, Nagtael began attacking Gbanuz mercilessly, inflicting deep wounds. The startled Goblin struggled to fight back, but Nagtael’s fury was too much, and he fled. He didn’t get very far, though; an arrow and a dagger penetrated his chest and stuck out of his back. Gbanuz, leader of the Goblins, fell.
Asklepios trotted over to the body, checked for a pulse. When he couldn’t find one, he pulled out the weapons and handed the dagger to Zephyrdoe.
“Thanks,” Nagtael said. He glanced around the battlefield and was relieved to see that more Goblins had fallen than Allies, though that was also due to Asklepios’ medical expertise.
A flash of copper caught Nagtael’s eye. Hovering above the battlefield, roughly center, was Baranmir. She was beautiful, even though her hide was bloody and matted. Sitting astride her was Hold Hölgy, her blue-black hair glinting in the sunlight. She, too, looked worn. Baranmir began to glow, and everyone, including the remaining Goblins, watched in awe as she became as bright as the sun. Unlike Spica’s talent, Baranmir’s brightness didn’t harm the eyes, for her glow was as pure as pure can get. It diffused goodness and suffused all the magical creatures, especially the Goblins, with peace.
And so ended the Fourth War of Magical Menagerie. Nagtael was hailed a hero for helping slay Gbanuz, who, as was later revealed, had become immune to peace through a rare mutation. That was why he had to be killed before the rest of the Goblins could be pacified; otherwise, he would have simply caused another war.
Things returned to normal quickly, and Nagtael found himself riding through familiar scenery astride a familiar mount. Being Watchman was tough work, and he was the best and only one Tiny Moons had.
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Nagtael, the Unmagical Watchman
Once upon a time, in a magical galaxy far, far away, there was the Land of the Tiny Moons. And in this land, lived an agile and rather unassuming Watchman named Nagtael Silentfighter. His race was unknown, even to him (a cruel joke of the gods), but one thing was for certain: magical objects despised him. How can an object, even a magical one, despise someone, you ask? That’s a good question, since magical items are still items, non-living, unfeeling things. Well, that’s what’s so unique about Nagtael; even a non-living, unfeeling thing could muster up enough hatred for him in its collection of magical molecules. Why? No one knows, least of all Nagtael. He tried countless times to befriend enchanted swords, unbreakable shields, wizard’s staffs, and daunting gauntlets—all without luck. They backfired on him. Enchanted swords melted in his grasp. Unbreakable shields shattered before him. Wizard’s staffs malfunctioned. And daunting gauntlets fled. Yes, fled. Nagtael’s talent, it seemed, was repelling magical objects.
Everyone in the Land of the Tiny Moons had a unique, magical talent. For example, the ruler, Hold Hölgy (which translates to Lady of the Moon in a strange language ancients called Hungarian), had tiny worlds orbiting her head. Each of those tiny worlds had its own ruler, though none were as powerful as Hold Hölgy.
But enough history!
Presently, Nagtael and his steed Raivota were patrolling the countryside. It was dull work, especially lately, since Land of the Tiny Moons tended to be a safe place. The various magical races, and there were many, lived harmoniously. It was such a peaceful place that Nagtael wondered why Watchmen were even needed; though now that he thought about it, he was Tiny Moons’ sole Watchman. He surmised that was due to his ineptitude with magical objects. The Watchman profession was one of the few that didn’t require use of magical items. For all his incompetence with magic, Nagtael more than compensated with a rare talent for agility. He navigated treacherous terrain as smoothly as a Unicorn and leapt from trees with the assuredness of a spider monkey. In fact, he was more surefooted than his mount.
But I’m getting off topic again.
Nagtael and Raivota rode through the Southern Forest of Living Trees, which was aptly named since Southern Tree-People lived there. The Palm Clan ruled this particular forest, and the leader of the Tree-People, Saptooth, came from this clan. Southern Tree-People were reputed to be the friendliest, though Saptooth had a nasty habit of oozing toxic sap, but only those who tried to use his people for firewood had reason to fear. And most creatures knew to stay away from Tree-People if they needed lumber.
As Nagtael approached the largest tree, a Royal Palm, it rumbled in greeting.
“Good day to you, too, Saptooth!” said Nagtael with a bow of his head. “What news do the roots bring?”
A series of rumbles, rustles, and creaks followed, which Nagtael carefully listened to, his expression becoming more solemn by the second. All Watchmen, or the sole Watchman in this case, were required to learn the languages of the creatures inhabiting Tiny Moons. Though Nagtael couldn’t speak Tree-Talk—he lacked the essential roots, bark, and leaves—he understood it perfectly. And now was the first time he wished he didn’t.
Saptooth told of ill tidings; the Goblins in the north were attacking Gnome villages. As everyone knew, Gnomes weren’t much for warfare. They preferred gardening and decorating their subterranean homes to amassing an army. The Goblins, on the other hand, were fond of battles, but up until now, they’d only fought amongst each other. It appeared the Spell of Indefinite Peace cast by the good wizard Valo had finally worn out, and Nagtael didn’t blame it; it was hard work pacifying Goblins!
The siege on the Gnomes was orchestrated by Gbanuz Stonebelch, who held the dubious honor of Supreme Slimeball, which translates to king of the Goblins. In actuality, Gbanuz had no relation to slime, unlike some other Goblin tribes. He belonged to the Stoner Tribe and was rumored to possess a belch so powerful that it shattered rock. Not an enemy you want to have if you’re perched on a cliff, or if you’re a Rock Golem.
With Gbanuz leading the crusade against Gnomes, it was only a matter of time before Goblins attacked all the decent creatures of Tiny Moons. Well Nagtael simply couldn’t allow that to happen! Thanking Saptooth for the dire news, he spurred Raivota toward the realm of the Elves.
***
Wylde Woode, the home of the Wild Elves, was indeed a chaotic place. Trees grew in awkward formations, crowding so closely in some places that one couldn’t pass, and whipping you with thorny brambles in others. But that’s how the Wild Elves liked it. Their hair resembled bird nests, and their skin looked and felt like bark.
Nagtael was escorted into Wylde Woode by a group of Wild Elves that included Queen Zephyrdoe. In her curly auburn hair, rested a small gray squirrel.
“And you’re sure Gbanuz is going to start a war?” Zephyrdoe asked. Her voice was like wind chimes, soft and tinkling.
Nagtael nodded. “All Goblins are naturally fond of war mongering. It was only because of Valo’s spell that they restricted their conflicts to their own species.”
Zephyrdoe considered Nagtael’s words before shaking her head and dislodging the sleeping squirrel. It chattered in annoyance and scurried off.
“The other creatures must be warned,” she said. “You go to the Centaurs, Alicorns, Unicorns, Dwarves, and Dragons. I’ll warn the rest.”
Nagtael watched in amazement as Zephyrdoe transformed into an auburn doe. Until now, he had thought her talent was a myth, but as she leapt away in a blur of brown, he truly believed she could run as quickly as the wind.
“Well, it’s off to the Centaurs, I suppose,” he murmured to Raivota.
***
The Centaurs lived on a flat, boring plain. They claimed it was conducive for stargazing, their activity of choice, but everyone knew it was because Centaurs were clumsy. As a hybrid between humans and horses, they should have inherited the equine surefootedness, but unfortunately, their ungainly upper half tipped off their center of gravity. Centaurs made terrible mountain climbers, and the thick undergrowth in forests sometimes tripped them. However, Centaurs possessed a sharp mind and were unparalleled archers. Only the truly stupid would enter a battle of wits or arrows with a Centaur.
A dapple-gray Centaur trotted out to meet Nagtael. He recognized the Centaur as Asklepios Linwood, leader of the Centaurs and the most skilled healer in Tiny Moons. It was rumored that Asklepios could cure even death itself but did so rarely because it was a bad idea to irritate Nergal (Tiny Moon’s personal god of death).
“Good day, Nagtael,” greeted Asklepios, towering over the Watchman and his steed. “What brings you to our plains?”
“The Goblins are readying for war. I need you to lead the Centaurs against them.”
Asklepios stomped a forehoof. “This is grim news indeed. I shall rally the herds.”
Nagtael watched as the dapple-gray Centaur galloped off without tripping; this was too solemn a moment for even a Centaur to stumble.
“This just keeps getting better,” Nagtael grumbled. “Ride towards the Alicorn Demesnes, Raivota.”
***
Atop the Infinity Mountains lived the Alicorns, a cross between Unicorns and Pegasi, very secretive creatures, but also very powerful. On most occasions, they refused to alight upon land, and anyone who wanted to visit them had to do so on their terms.
That was why Nagtael was standing beside Raivota, glaring at the ebony stallion. “Fine time to decide you’re afraid of heights!”
Raivota snorted and regarded his owner with a stubborn expression that suggested, You want to talk to flying Unicorns, go climb the mountain yourself, Two-legs.
Muttering curses under his breath, Nagtael began scaling the rocky crag. He made good time and soon reached the first outcropping. The sight that met him nearly propelled him back down the mountain. A glittering sorrel Alicorn stood before him, watching him bemusedly.
:Hello, Nagtael.:
Nagtael jumped at the soft feminine voice inside his head. He’d forgotten Alicorns and Unicorns conversed telepathically.
“Uh, hi Baranmir,” he replied, smoothing out his trousers. For some reason, he felt compelled to look his best in front of the Alicorn. “You didn’t have to meet me down here.”
If equines could smile, Baranmir would have done just that. :Don’t be silly. You couldn’t have climbed all the way to the top! It’s not called the Infinity Mountains for nothing, Dearheart.:
“Well, thank you then,” he said. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the Goblins are going to war.”
:Yes, we have heard. I have already told the Unicorns, and Celebhith is gathering the herds. Go on to the Dwarves. They will surely join the resistance.:
“Yes, I’m sure they will.” It was common knowledge that Dwarves hated Goblins. “Right, I’ll be going now.” Nagtael was climbing down the mountain, when Baranmir’s voice stopped him.
:Hop on. Your steed deserves a rest and will reunite with you outside Hot Tin Hall.:
Nagtael stared at Baranmir dumbly, still in mid-descent, before snapping out of his reverie. Careful not to yank or crush Baranmir’s feathery wings, he clambered astride. Then she was galloping toward the edge of the cliff, taking flight at the last moment. Nagtael would have been awestruck had the reality of what he was riding sunk in, but as it was, he marveled at the weightless feeling instead.
***
The realm of the Dwarves made Nagtael nervous. He was more claustrophobic than most, which his fancies believed was a sure sign of Elvish lineage, never mind that his ears were as pointed as a watermelon.
As he watched Baranmir fly away in a glittering streak of copper, awe threatened to creep up, but he squashed it; he could faint from incredulity later. He had to focus all his willpower to enter Hot Tin Hall, the abode of the Dwarfish chief, Tahfor Godsiron, whose talent was to create Iron of the Gods, a metal thrice as strong as that flimsy Adamantium. Only one being could create the Iron of the Gods at a time, and because Dwarves stubbornly resisted Death for centuries, Tahfor’s future as a celebrity in Tiny Moons was secure.
Nagtael wiped sweat from his brow, gritted his teeth, and entered the enormous marble doors of Hot Tin Hall. Panic threatened, but he tried to focus on anything except the mountain surrounding him; were the walls closing in on him?
Torches provided adequate lighting and illuminated a squat figure approaching him, which turned out to be a nondescript Dwarf.
“You’re Nagtael?” the Dwarf questioned.
The Watchman merely nodded, not trusting his voice to speak; it would be a fine thing if all that came out was a terrified squeak.
“I assume you’re here to see Chief Tahfor. Well, come along then.” The Dwarf proceeded in the direction he’d come from. “Don’t want to get lost down here. Nasty way to go.”
Nagtael quickened his pace and didn’t take his eyes off his guide until they reached an immense hall with marble columns stretching toward the cavernous ceiling. If not for the lack of windows and sunlight, Nagtael could almost trick himself into believing he was still above ground.
“Welcome to Hot Tin Hall!” a booming voice reverberated in the room. “You’re white as a sheet, Nagtael. Sit, sit.”
Nagtael obeyed. “Thank you, Tahfor.” He was silent for a moment, concentrating on breathing. “The Goblins have attacked the Gnomes and are sure to start a war with all of Tiny Moon’s creatures. The Tree-People, Wild Elves, Centaurs, Alicorns, and Unicorns are already preparing their armies.”
Tahfor stroked his black beard, which was tucked into his leather belt, and sighed. “I was afraid of this. Gbanuz has been more obnoxious than usual.”
Nagtael nodded. “Yes, it seems the peace spell has been steadily fading until it vanished entirely.”
Tahfor’s grey eyes hardened until they resembled the iron of his namesake. “I’ll rally the other chiefdoms. Gbanuz will be stopped.”
Nagtael watched Tahfor’s expression warily; he almost pitied the Goblins. Almost.
“Well, I should get going. I still have to warn the Dragons.” He attempted to stand, but his feet ignored his brain. Smiling sheepishly, he tried again, without success.
Tahfor snapped his fingers, and a servant appeared with a goblet of strong-smelling liquid. “Drink.”
Nagtael sniffed the fire-red liquid, and with a shrug, imbibed it in one gulp. Immediately, a peculiar, almost unbearable warmth diffused in his belly. Suddenly, he felt he could do anything, even dig to the planet’s core with a spoon! He leapt out of the chair and stood with his hands on his hips, a courageous glint in his amber eyes.
Tahfor chuckled. “Fire wine. Imbued with a shot of magma, it never fails to buck up one’s spirits.”
***
When Nagtael emerged from Hot Tin Hall, the fire wine was still in effect. Glancing at Raivota, he began sprinting toward the Dragon Demesnes, his confused steed galloping behind him. A turquoise Dragon circling above watched them curiously before soaring off to hunt.
The Dragons of Tiny Moons differed from the Dragons you’re probably familiar with. First, many of them didn’t hoard treasure. Second, all were scholars at heart, endlessly researching tomes of history, science, art, and literature. And third, most of them didn’t breathe fire. Some breathed noxious gases; others, sleeping gases. A few spewed acid; others, slime. Even fewer were electric and shot lightning. There was an endless variety of breathers. The Empress of Dragons, for example, breathed a hot, blinding white light.
Nagtael slowed to a walk as a majestic golden Dragon alighted in front of him. The Dragon’s sparkling violet eyes regarded him as a cat regards a mouse. A series of shrieks and squawks followed.
“It’s nice to see you, too, Spica,” Nagtael replied. He and the Empress of Dragons were as good of friends as a Dragon and a human could be. He complimented her scales, and in return, she didn’t eat him. “You’re looking particularly regal today. Are your scales shinier?”
Spica shrieked loudly. To the untrained ear, it sounded like a battle cry, but Nagtael knew better; she was laughing.
“It’s been a while since you’ve blinded someone, eh?”
Spica cocked her reptilian head in interest.
“How would you like to blind some Goblins?”
The Dragon smiled, fangs glinting malevolently in the sunlight. She liked the sound of that.
***
When Nagtael arrived at the edge of the Goblin Demesnes, a cacophony met his ears and gave him a headache. As far as the eye could see, magical creatures were lining up in formation. The Fourth War of Magical Menagerie was about to begin.
Queen Hold Hölgy sat astride Baranmir, wielding a magical sword made of Iron of the Gods. The little moons orbiting her head wore spherical armor of the same metal; their inhabitants had to be protected, after all.
Nagtael drew his blade, also made of Iron of the Gods, and gripped his Dragon-scale shield; Dragons, like all Squamata, periodically shed their skin, which was then used to make armor and shields. Luckily none of his weapons or armor was imbued with magic, despite being made by magical creatures.
On Nagtael’s right stood Celebhith, the leader of the Unicorns. His silver coat shimmered in the sunlight, and his spiraling horn was twice as long as that of other Unicorns. He was a formidable enemy, especially given his talent of becoming mist, enabling him to move quickly and stealthily upon foes.
On his left was Spica, who winked at him. Craning her sinuous neck, she gave a roar that sent shivers down his spine; he thanked the gods she was on their side. The Dragons shrieked in unison, making the ground tremble, and took flight. The other flying creatures followed, led by the Alicorns, including Baranmir.
The war had begun.
Nagtael spurred Raivota forward, leading the cavalry toward the massive Goblin army. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Celebhith disappear into a fine silver mist and reappear farther ahead, spearing three Goblins on his horn like shish kabobs. A fire breathing Dragon torched them.
A battalion of Goblins rushed at Nagtael, hurling insults. Before they could reach him, a ruby-red Dragon breathed a protective bubble around the Allies and Spica blasted the Goblins with white-hot light. Blinded, the Goblins stumbled into a deep hole dug by the Dwarves.
Centaurs, led by Asklepios, fired a shower of arrows tipped with Iron of the Gods, the only metal strong enough to pierce Goblin hide. Countless Goblins fell, clutching their chests. Asklepios galloped alongside Nagtael, rummaging through a sack slung across his powerful chest. “Catch!”
Nagtael caught the glass bottle. A strong healing potion swished inside. Pocketing it, he thanked Asklepios and watched the Centaur gallop towards a fallen Wild Elf.
Raivota avoided an olive-green Dragon that was spewing yellow acid at a contingent of unlucky Goblins; they chose a very bad Dragon to attack. Yowls of pain pierced through the sounds of battle as their tough skin bubbled and melted.
A huge weeping willow was strangling Goblins, while Saptooth was knocking other Goblins down with his fronds and dripping poisonous sap into their gaping mouths. The foul little creatures choked and writhed before becoming still.
Just then, he spotted an unusually hideous Goblin exchanging blows with Zephyrdoe. Although she was lithe and strong, it was obvious she was tiring. Nagtael vaulted off Raivota and sprinted toward the Goblin and Wild Elf.
“Hey, stink snoot!” he shouted, getting the Goblin’s attention. Bile rose in his throat when he saw the Goblin up close. His face was covered in sores that oozed a yellowish pus. His lips were cracked, and one ear was missing. Knobby growths dominated his body, and his skin was sickly green.
“What do you want, foul face?” the Goblin croaked. “Don’t you know you’re talking to Gbanuz, Supreme Slimeball? Show some respect!”
Nagtael nearly gagged as he caught a whiff of Gbanuz’s putrid breath. “Dung brain, come fight me instead!”
Zephyrdoe smiled gratefully and drank the energy reviving potion given to her by Asklepios, who had arrived in perfect time. With a few minutes’ rest, she would be good as new.
Gbanuz rushed Nagtael, axe held at the ready. They met with a clang of metal. Gbanuz hacked and swung, surprising Nagtael with his sheer strength, and he couldn’t get in any attacks. He kept retreating, until his back hit the cliff wall. Gbanuz sneered and belched loudly, nearly knocking Nagtael unconscious with his acrid breath. Then a crumbling sound came from above his head, and he watched in horror as dozens of boulders plummeted toward him. Without thinking, he rushed Gbanuz, who was distracted, and knocked him down. Mind clear, Nagtael began attacking Gbanuz mercilessly, inflicting deep wounds. The startled Goblin struggled to fight back, but Nagtael’s fury was too much, and he fled. He didn’t get very far, though; an arrow and a dagger penetrated his chest and stuck out of his back. Gbanuz, leader of the Goblins, fell.
Asklepios trotted over to the body, checked for a pulse. When he couldn’t find one, he pulled out the weapons and handed the dagger to Zephyrdoe.
“Thanks,” Nagtael said. He glanced around the battlefield and was relieved to see that more Goblins had fallen than Allies, though that was also due to Asklepios’ medical expertise.
A flash of copper caught Nagtael’s eye. Hovering above the battlefield, roughly center, was Baranmir. She was beautiful, even though her hide was bloody and matted. Sitting astride her was Hold Hölgy, her blue-black hair glinting in the sunlight. She, too, looked worn. Baranmir began to glow, and everyone, including the remaining Goblins, watched in awe as she became as bright as the sun. Unlike Spica’s talent, Baranmir’s brightness didn’t harm the eyes, for her glow was as pure as pure can get. It diffused goodness and suffused all the magical creatures, especially the Goblins, with peace.
And so ended the Fourth War of Magical Menagerie. Nagtael was hailed a hero for helping slay Gbanuz, who, as was later revealed, had become immune to peace through a rare mutation. That was why he had to be killed before the rest of the Goblins could be pacified; otherwise, he would have simply caused another war.
Things returned to normal quickly, and Nagtael found himself riding through familiar scenery astride a familiar mount. Being Watchman was tough work, and he was the best and only one Tiny Moons had.