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could tarnish his reputation. Considering that such an act would be high treason and punishable by death, one can understand his reluctance to be seen displaying anything but the most salutary behavior in this respect.
    Zyxyl, in contrast, was a half-ogre. Half-ogres were rare overall, but not so rare in Goblinopolis itself. Two things made Zyxyl stand out from his hybrid brethren, however: he was of above-average intelligence for the general population (which made him a veritable prodigy amongst half-ogres) and he was one of the very small number of his race in Royal Service. Not only was he in Royal Service, he was captain of Amyr-it’s guard, which was in practice the third highest military office in the land, surpassed only by Chief of the High Command and, of course, the King himself. This was the loftiest post ever held by a half-ogre, and it made Zyxyl’s most routine activities the stuff of legend for the kingdom’s half-ogre population.
    He was exceptional in other ways, as well, not least of which in that he was a confirmed pacifist. This may seem like an odd trait for a military leader, particularly one whose job involves, if necessary, hand-to-hand combat to the death using the traditional close-quarters weapon of the Tragacanthan Army, the ice tong-like sklezaxe . Zyxyl was quite prepared to do his duty, if it came to that, but he vastly preferred negotiation or even evasion to confrontation. Physical intimidation and bloodshed were the tools of absolute last resort in his repertoire, although he was quite adept at both.
    This morning, though, Zyxyl had a problem that was more biological than military. This morning there was a lesser basking rok on the pathway that wound its way up out of the secluded glen where Amyr-it’s stately home was situated. Now, ordinarily the soldiers in Amyr-it’s guard would not have disturbed Captain Zyxyl for this sort of issue. Presumably members of one of the most elite military units in existence would be able to handle the relocation of a single head of wildlife. The problem here was threefold: first, a lesser basking rok had two heads, so they were already behind the curve; second, lesser basking roks weighed upwards of three and a half tonnes; and third, they were magical creatures that possessed a natural shield of missile reflectivity. This meant that any projectiles or magical directed attacks used against one were deflected back in the attacker’s face.
    The soldiers stood around the huge bulk of the creature, which seemed totally oblivious to their presence, discussing their options.
    “Well, we cants shoot it, and we cants poke it. Cans we scare it?”
    “Scare it? Wi’ what?”
    “Maybe we could shoot the big gun near one o’ its ears. No shell—jest a blank charge.”
    “I heerd tell those things was deef as a post.”
    “Who shoveled you thet load of basilisk poop?”
    “It were my brother, the one what went ta live up i’ the mountains.”
    “Yer brother wouldn’t know a rok from a rooster.”
    “Here now. What’s you gots to go speakin’ calumny ‘bout my brother fer?”
    “I ain’t speaking calumny, I’m just sayin’ he don’ know nothin’ bout roks and they habits, on accounta they ain’t many of ‘em around no mores.”
    “I oughta belt you one, and good.”
    “Cheez it you horks, here comes the Cap’n.”
    Zyxl strode purposefully towards them, annoyance evident in his gait. Something was holding up the motorcade here and whatever it was, he wasn’t happy that it hadn’t been taken care of by the foremost troops. He hadn’t gotten into position to spy the rok yet. He rounded a corner with his mouth open, prepared to bark out an order, when the full nature of the impediment to navigation hove into view. He stopped with his mouth still hanging ajar like a statue of a frog in mid-bug capture and gaped at the thing. It was pretty impressive—if you consider 3,500 kilograms of lard in a wart-encrusted slime-green leather bag