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The clock said it was one in the morning. Kyle Rossi rolled over with a sigh.

He’d been

sleeping horribly lately, waking up every couple of hours. It had been going on for a couple of

weeks now, and he had no idea why. Not for the first time he considered going to see a doctor

about it, but, yet again, decided against it. It was probably nothing. Just... nerves. Nerves about

what he hadn’t a clue, but to call it nerves was as good an answer as anything.

He stayed there, on his side, for a few moments before finally willing himself out of bed.

He had to pee, his bladder told him, and it would be damned if it was going to wait any longer.

Or, at least, it was going to make him feel like hell, as bladders have been known to do. Without

bothering to put on a shirt, he got out of bed in his purple pyjama bottoms and lumbered to the

washroom. He fumbled with the lights, cursed quietly and squinted as they flickered on, and

proceeded to do his bladder the favour of relieving himself.

He stared at himself in the mirror as he washed his hands. Other than that he looked like

hell, which was to be expected at one in the morning, he noticed that he desperately needed a

shave. Shaking his head, he splashed some warm water on his face and reached for the cleanser

when he saw something.

The mirror couldn’t be lying. There was no way for it to lie. How could it, it wasn’t

alive, couldn’t think, so it wasn’t the mirror. Maybe he was dreaming. That could be it. He was

still half-asleep, after all, a dream could very well be what this was. Except that it didn’t feel like

a dream, or an hallucination. So... how could he be seeing this?

It was a head, almost the size of his chest, with fur all over it. Its mouth spanned the

width of its face, and when it opened all he could see were the flat teeth that were the size of his

biceps, and four fangs the size of his forearms. Large, watery, friendly eyes stared from

underneath the shag that, while it looked soft, was probably the coarsest fur you’d ever felt, like

a scouring pad. The nose was large, flat, and broad, with nostrils that flared.
Kyle found himself without a voice. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He

tried it again. Finally, on the third try, he managed to squeak something. “Lord Pompadoor?” he

croaked.

“Not Lord,” the beast rumbled. “At least, not anymore.” It smiled sadly at him. “I am

dreadfully sorry, Sir Rossi, but we need you. We promised, we did, and we tried, we really did,

but we couldn’t keep the promise. We need you. All of us, we need you. Desperately.”

Kyle Rossi only stared. He couldn’t find his voice. Jaw slack, he blinked, and then the

vision was no longer there.

Still, he couldn’t even bring himself to whimper.

* * *

It all started years ago. He was eight and he lived out in the wilderness, an only child,

with his mother, who stayed at home, and his father, who worked far too often and often far too

late. He had never been much of a social child, and the distance they lived from the school and

from the town meant that, whatever friends he had, he rarely saw them. Certainly, he could go

and visit, or they could come up, and everyone would make a day and night of it, but they could

never just come up for an hour or so, he lived too far away for that. Eventually he stopped

making friends altogether. He maintained civil relationships with everyone, never going so far as

to turn himself into a recluse while at school, never becoming introverted, but he never quite saw

the point of having people who were more than just acquaintances. So he’d make nice, but when

invited to parties, or to play, or to just hang out, he’d decline. His mother wanted him home for

dinner. His father had just gotten back from a business trip and wanted to spend time with them.

He came up with excuses he never knew he could think of. But they were always feasible, they

had to be, because if you told someone that you didn’t want to go over to their place and watch

movies because you already had a prior engagement that involved a flying saucer, aliens, and
amusingly-shaped instruments (as an example; at eight, had Kyle wanted to be creative, chances

are he would have omitted the amusingly-shaped instruments), not only would they not believe

you, but they’d be mightily insulted as well. So, Kyle stuck with the safe and believable lies.

So, like most shy children, Kyle retreated into his mind. Imagination took him places

other people’s houses never would have. It also took him out of the house, which pleased his

mother, as it meant he wasn’t watching too much TV, a device she had never been able to fully

trust.

So, outside, on the top of that large and snowy hill in mid-February during his eighth year

on God’s green Earth, he met Them.

They were always Them, with the capital T. It had started out as just one of them, before

they were a full-fledged entity deserving of the capital. And, of course, it had been Lord

Pompadoor. The Lord stood at six feet, and there was nothing about him that was small. His

hands were huge, furry, and slightly clawed. His arms reached down to his knees, but were so

large and bulky that they made him look shorter than he really was. His legs were short, his

torso large, his head almost as large as his torso. He wore a suit that was a century too old and a

few sizes too small, with long coat-tails that almost touched the ground. He showed himself to

Kyle on his third day up there. He had been playing, pretending to be a knight who had just

climbed the tallest snow peak with his sword (really a stick that was almost twice his size), ready

to fight the horrible dragon that lived there! It had been threatening the townspeople (his stuffed

toys) and was gearing up to attack the castle (his house), eat the king (his rarely-home father) and

steal the queen (his lovely mother) away to its lair. It was the knight’s job to stop it!

He had just killed the dragon, after a long fight with much dodging, swiping, rolling, and

stabbing. Kyle stood there, panting and feeling quite proud of himself, when a voice boomed

from behind a tree. “Impressive display,” it said.


He whirled, stick held out in front of him like an actual weapon, his entire body

quivering. “Who’s there?” he quavered, eyes wide.

“A friend,” said the voice. “It was an impressive display.”

Rick wasn’t sure what to make of this. “What was?”

“Your fight against the dragon, of course.”

Now he was scared. Even he knew that it had all been in his head. No one else could

have known. He had never even called it a dragon, except in his imagination. During his fight,

he’d called it a beast, a foul creature, a monster. But never dragon. “How’d you know?”

The voice chuckled, a very friendly sound. “Call it, perhaps, a lucky guess.” A large,

furry hand extended from behind a tree. “It is time that I introduced myself, yes?” When Kyle

didn’t answer, he continued. “My name is Lord Dulce Pompadoor. At your service.”

Kyle blinked. “Hello.”

“And your name, young sir?”

“Kyle. Kyle Rossi.”

“A pleasure, then, good sir Rossi. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I removed myself from

this tree? It’s quite uncomfortable, and somewhat rude, if I may say so, to carry on a civil

conversation from a hiding place.”

“Umm... sure?”

“Thank you.” Pomadoor unfolded from the tree. “Try not to be too alarmed,” he boomed

as he drew himself up to his full height, which was made a half-foot higher by the top hat he was

wearing. “I mean you no harm, I assure you.”

Kyle only stared up at him, his jaw slack. The stick fell to the ground, making a small

indent in the snow. “Wow,” was all he could say. Then he found himself again. “You know that

was only a fake dragon, right?” he said matter-of-factly. “Not really real.”
“I know, young sir,” boomed Pompadoor. “But, even for a fake battle, it was impressive.

I am sure that the foul creature would have gone running if it had been real.”

Kyle stood still, still unsure where this was going. “Are you really real?”

“What do you think?”

He squinted. “I don’t remember imagining you,” he said ponderously. “But things like

you don’t exist.”

“And what does that make me, then, good sir?”

Kyle smiled. “It means you’re my new friend!” He pointed gleefully at Pompadoor.

“And you’re tall! I’ve never had a tall friend before. How old are you?”

Pompadoor laughed, a low booming sound that made the trees shake. “Older than you’d

believe, I think,” he said. “I must go, Sir Rossi, slayer of imaginary dragons, but I’ll be back

here tomorrow, at the same time, with more friends. Does that sound good to you?”

“Yessir.”

The Lord beamed, the smile almost splitting his face. “Then it’s a date!”

* * *

He looked like hell.

It was the only thing he could think, that morning. His sleep for the rest of the night had

been horribly erratic. Odd nightmares had terrorized his sleep. Pictures of murder, and flames.

He didn’t understand any of it. And now, as he looked in the mirror before a shower, he realized

how horrible he was starting to appear. He looked haggard, with huge circles under his eyes.

His hair was a mess, but that was to be suspected after getting out of bed. He sighed. At least a

shower would make him appear at least slightly more respectable.


He undressed and stepped into the hot shower. It felt good, he had to admit. The steam

cleared out his sinuses and loosened up his muscles. After ten minutes he turned off the shower,

let the water drip from his body for a few minutes, then opened the curtain.

A parrot stood there. Except it wasn’t a parrot. First, it was as tall as a medium-sized

man. Second, it had the legs, nostrils, and eyes of a person. “Hey, kiddo.”

Kyle only stared. Again, his mouth worked, but nothing came out.

“Dulce came in earlier, right? Explained things, right?”

“Jackie?”

“You remember! I knew you were a good kid!”

“But... but...”

“Listen, I don’t have time, I really don’t, I just wanted to see if it would work! Wow,

Dulce was right. You’d think I’d learn to stop doubting him, huh?”

“Huh.”

“I’ll see you soon, Sir Rossi.”

Another blink, another disappearance.

A few moments passed. “I’m going crazy,” he muttered to himself. “I’m going

completely insane. Batshit insane.” He glanced at the clock. “And I’ve got to be at work in an

hour.” He closed his eyes. “Shit.”

He hurried through the rest of his morning routine, barely able to focus on one thing for

too long. Breakfast was a hastily eaten bowl of cereal, milk spilling on the table with each

spoonful. He had to try three times to put his underwear on properly, four for his belt, and six to

button his shirt properly. Out the door he almost forgot to do up his zipper, remembering only

when he noticed, fleetingly, his shirt sticking out the hole under the belt buckle. Briefcase in

hand, city bus pass in his pants pocket with his wallet (double checked), keys (triple checked) in
his jacket pocket, he dashed out the door and to the elevator. He’d just hit the button when he

realized he’d forgotten to lock his apartment door. Dashing there and back was the exact amount

of time it took for the elevator to arrive, open its doors, and almost close the doors again. He

made it in time to shove his arm through the opening, forcing the doors to open, and giving him a

chance to dash in. At least the elevator was empty. He hated crowded elevators. He hated

elevators in general, but knowing his luck if he took the stairs today he’d just end up tripping and

falling down the five flights, end up in the hospital, and start seeing all these imaginary creatures

in his I.V. drip or something.

Come to think of it, he was surprised he hadn’t seen them in his cereal.

No. Don’t think about it, he told himself as the elevator jerked to a start and began its

crawl down the shaft. The walls were mirrors, and he stared at himself as it moved. Don’t think

about them. The more you thought, the more credence you gave to their existence. They didn’t

exist. They couldn’t. It was the bare basics of what the word impossible meant. They were just

figments of his imagination, leftover from when he’d been a kid.

Then why had Pompadoor seemed so real? It was almost as if he could touch—

No! Stop, don’t think about them. Just stare at yourself. Yes. That’s right, just stare at

your haggard, sleep-deprived self. Good God, it was surprising the more gossipy women at work

hadn’t stopped him to ask if he’d started taking drugs lately, like crack or heroin. He looked like

an addict. His cheeks were slightly sunken, his eyes tired, and his hair looked dishevelled even

after a shower.

Maybe it was time to go and see the doctor. And tell him what, he wondered as the doors

opened. That he was having hallucinations about the imaginary friends he’d had back when he

was a kid? He’d be laughed out of the office, or sent to the looney bin, or something. No, if he
let it alone, it would all go away. Maybe he could go to the pharmacy, get some sleeping pills or

something. That might be best.

The doors to the elevator slid open, and Kyle squeezed through before they’d finished.

He ran through the lobby and slammed through the front doors. The street was noisy with traffic

as he sprinted to the corner where the bus stop was. A few more metres!

He watched in dismay as the bus drove up to, then past, the stop. Kyle slowed himself to

a stop and bent, hands on his knees, to catch his breath. So far, a perfect start to a perfect day.

So, he’d missed the bus, and there wouldn’t be another one along for at least fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes, and the bus ride took a half-hour, give him another five to walk from the stop to

his work.... Okay, then. If, and it was an important if, the bus was on time, and traffic was going

optimal, then he’d be fine.

Kyle turned around and lifted an arm as a taxi drove up the street towards him. As he got

in and gave the driver his destination, he considered that, in the end, he didn’t quite care to

chance an if that big.

* * *

Two hours later he was sitting at his desk, contemplating not much of anything as he

entered the numbers into their respective fields. Taking the cab, it turned out, had been a good

idea, considering there had been an accident on the bus route, putting everyone there a good half-

hour behind. The cab had ensured that he made it to work with time to spare, and with that time

he’d bought himself a coffee, the life-blood of the morning, and a chocolate chip muffin. The

muffin had long-since been devoured, and he was nursing the final cold dregs of his coffee, made

even more disgusting by the sugar that had floated to the bottom of the mug.

His desk was the typical desk you’d find in an office floor made up of depressing

cubicles. Cheap ply-wood made up the bulk of it, with cheap metal comprising the extra handles
and hinges and screws and other bits that couldn’t be made of cheap wood. His computer was an

aging old thing that ran slowly even at the best of times, and crashed constantly at the worst. E-

mails, faxes, memos, and voice-mails to tech support, to H.R., and even to Mark down at

Supplies were left unanswered or disregarded. But the computer did its job, at least, and that was

let him punch numbers into their proper fields to ensure that people got billed the proper amount

on time, and to make certain that they’d paid the proper amount on time. One consolation was, if

they didn’t, then he’d forward the invoice with a note attached to Betty, his supervisor, and she’d

take the necessary actions, which often involved ordering a letter suggesting payment, and if it

was two months overdue, then ordering Customer Service to give them a trite phone call asking

them to please make their payment, followed by a cutting off of their services should it go into

the three month bracket.

No pictures sat on his desk. It would have been odd if he’d had someone else in his life.

As it stood, he was almost painfully single. Oh, he tried, of course, he definitely tried. He spoke

to women in the supermarket, he tried to flirt at the video store, the book store, even the bar. But

he was an awkward kind of person when it came to women, and more often than not his

flirtations were met with kind smiles and polite but definite replies, or awkward looks with

awkward smiles and awkward excuses, or simple bluntness. Even at the bars, even being drunk

and flirting with people as drunk or drunker than himself, he had no luck. Maybe it was his

approach, maybe it was his shy and awkward manner (which it most likely was), but whenever

he tried, he rarely got past the initial hello.

So while his desk was empty of photographs, his cubicle walls played house to a few

humourous ones he’d found online that were workplace friendly. One was of British actor David

Tennant, peeking up over a cubicle with a shit-eating grin on his face, with the caption “Not

Even Cubicles Can Hold A Time-Lord!!” plastered on the bottom. There was another of actor
Gerard Butler’s screaming face Photoshopped onto a suit, the caption “Madness? THIS! IS! MY

OFFICE SPACE!” It had the same level of humour that a mug with the words “It’s Monday, I

Know, This Is My Friday Face” on it; that stale, sterile, and safe office humour that you’d have

to work hard to offend someone with. There were a few pictures of cats in funny or cute poses

and poorly spelled captions.

In short, his cubicle was just like your average cubicle for your average office worker in

your average workplace. Except these days Kyle wasn’t feeling very average. Run down was

more like it. He stared forlornly at his coffee and sighed.

“You okay?”

Kyle jumped in his seat. “Jesus, Sam!”

Sam laughed. “Sorry, man.”

Kyle shook his head and glared at his friend, his heart trying to escape from his chest.

“Bullshit.”

He pretended to think about it. “True.” He snickered to himself then gave his friend a

more critical look. “You okay, Kyle? You’ve got luggage under your eyes, man, how late are

you up at night?”

“Ten o’clock? Eleven?” Kyle shook his head. “It’s now how late I go to bed at, Sam,

it’s how well I sleep, and I haven’t had a solid eight in weeks.”

Sam let out a low whistle. “Harsh.”

“Tell me about it.”

Again, Sam cocked his head. “You know what you need?”

A sigh. “Another coffee?”


Perplexed, Sam peered into Kyle’s mug. “Oh, shit, that too. Naw, brother, what you

need is booze. How about we go to the bar tonight? Maybe you could hook up? When was the

last time you got laid, anyway, man?”

“High school.” He glared up at Sam. “Do we have to talk about this now? Really? I

mean now?” He motioned to the computer screen. “I’m working. Does my sex life really have

to be the topic of conversation?”

“Can it be tonight?”

“Will it mean you’re leaving me alone now?”

“Sure.”

“Then yes!”

“Great! I’ll meet you in the lobby when we get off work. We’ll grab some fast food...”

“Nuh-uh. No fast food. Last time we did fast food I had the runs the rest of the night.”

Sam sighed. “Okay, okay, fine. Italian?”

“That little place that just opened up down the street?”

He smiled. “That’s the one!”

“Okay,” Kyle conceded. “Fine, it’s a date, or whatever you want to call it. Now will you

leave me alone?”

“Sure, sure.” He walked off and waved over his shoulder. “See you later, brother.”

Kyle looked back to his computer, frowned, and called out his cubicle. “Sam! Sam!”

His friend came walking back, a puzzled look on his face. Kyle lifted his mug and gave him a

questioning grin. With a roll of his eyes, Sam swept up the mug, walked off, and said over his

shoulder, “Don’t say I never did anything for you!”

“Thanks, Sam!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah...”


Kyle turned back to his computer, a small smile on his face, that promptly faded when

confronted with the contents:

Fire. Flames. Flickering and floundering. They cast yellow and orange shadows over

everything. His cubicle almost seemed like it was on fire. What looked like people flashed

across the screen, writhing and reeling, their mouths open in silent screams, fire dancing from

their throats.

Kyle wanted to cry out but nothing came out. Then the flames shot out from the

computer screen, licking at the desk, at the chair, at his clothes. The heat was stifling. Kyle

found it hard to breathe as smoke filled his cubicle. He wanted to drop to the ground, get below

the choking smoke, but he was stuck to his chair. The flames started to eat at his skin, burning

him, almost melting him, burning away the hairs on his chest and arms; he tried to scream but

nothing came out. His eyes wide, mouth agape, he could do nothing but suffer as the fire worked

its way through him.

Then the phone rang.

Kyle blinked. He was still in his chair, back arched, staring at the ceiling. There was a

certain lack of flames now. The computer monitor displayed the worksheets he’d been working

on all morning. People walked by his cubicle as if nothing had happened. The phone rang again.

What the hell...? Kyle slowly settled into his chair, letting his feet touch the ground. He cleared

his throat and straightened the paperwork on his desk. Again the phone rang, and he finally

picked up the receiver. “Hello?... Oh, hi Sally.... Yeah.... Yeah, I’m still working on it.... How

soon do you need them?... Okay, give me thirty minutes, okay?.... No, no, it’s not that, Sally,

I’ve got them all right here in front of me, there’s just a few more than I thought there was....

Yeah, damn those time-management skills, huh? They’ll be in your in-box in half an hour,
okay?... Okay, good.... Yup. Promise.” He hung up the phone and stared at the monitor, the

cursor blinking, waiting for input of some sort. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

* * *

He was eight, and it was the next day. He’d finished his homework, and had told his

mom that he was going to play outside. Now outside, he was waiting patiently on his hill where

he’d fought the dragon yesterday. They weren’t there yet. He wondered how long it would take

for them to show up. He’d have to entertain himself somehow, but no dragons had threatened his

family today. With a sigh, young Kyle plopped himself down onto a tree-stump and pondered.

Well, maybe there was a goblin king somewhere? That might do it. He’d grab his sword and go

off in search of the goblin king, Gork! That sounded about right. After all, Kyle had meant to do

that a few days ago anyway, except that he’d gotten interrupted by an early dinner, and then it

had been too late to go on a large quest.

So, sitting on the stump, he waited for them; not Them, mind, because they had yet to

earn the capital T. Just them. He didn’t even know who they were, just that Lord Pompadoor

had said he’d be bringing friends, if Kyle wouldn’t mind. He hadn’t minded, of course, why

would he? If they were anywhere near as interesting to look at as Lord Pompadoor, why would

he refuse?

His mind began to wander back to the goblin king. Gork? No, that name was no good.

Perhaps that’s what normal people called him, because they didn’t know his real name. No, his

real name would be something inspiring! Bel’hast. That sounded better. It also sounded kind of

like a city he’d overheard that man on the news talking about a couple of days ago, but that

didn’t matter. Bel’hast sounded like the name a deadly goblin king would have! Somehow that

made up his mind: if Lord Pompadoor didn’t show up soon with his friends, then Kyle would go
off in search of the Goblin King Bel’hast, scourge of the lands! Knowing goblin kings, he had

probably been the one to sick that dragon on the castle!

He’d pay!

Kyle stood on the tree-stump, swishing his stick-sword in the air. Oh, yes, he’d pay all

right! And Sir Kyle Rossi would save the castle and the queen and the king from his threatening

tyranny once and for all! He’d slash him, and stab him through the heart, and ride back to the

castle with the goblin king’s head on a pike (because that’s what knights did with the bad guy’s

head, for proof that he’d done the deed) and he’d be praised, and there would be a great feast for

the hero, and they’d rejoice, and he would get hugs and, he supposed, a few kisses, and maybe

even get to stay up late!

“You have plans, Sir Rossi?”

Kyle swirled around to face the forest, stick held in front of him. But then the deep,

booming voice dawned on him, and he lowered the stick.

“My Lord Pompadoor,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d make it!”

“Ah, but a promise is a promise,” the voice rumbled. He emerged from behind a tree.

“And, as promised, I brought friends along. They’ve all been dying to meet you. Would you like

to meet them?”

“Only if they’ll agree to come with me to slay the Goblin King Bel’hast,” Kyle declared.

Pompadoor laughed, and it sounded like the deep rumbling of an underground river. “I

doubt a problem will be found there.” He beckoned. “Come out, now, come out and let us all

meet!” Slowly, almost shyly, others came out from behind the other trees. Each one was unique

in some way, different, and not at all human.

Other than Pompadoor there were six total. He introduced each in turn as they appeared.

The first to appear was an odd cross between a parrot and a man: Jackie. The next was a stout
thing made entirely out of rock and stone, with pointed ears and eyes made of rubies: Granite,

was his name. A woman showed herself next, tall, with a neck that stretched for a foot, a long

and languid face, with large, watery, oval-shaped eyes, and a tiny mouth, ears the size of most

people’s thumb-nails, and long, thin white hair; her fingers were long, too, with nails that looked

like small claws: Tambora. One was short, reached up to Kyle’s waist, with a squat face and ears

the size of his chest; large elliptical, watery eyes peered over a squat nose and large, wide mouth:

Farcry. One who looked like a six foot lizard, except it had armour, a small round shield, a tall

spear that reached over its head, and walked on its hind legs, appeared: Jacob, which wasn’t his

real name but was what they called him because his name was unpronounceable except to those

with lizard tongues. A woman, half the height of Tambora and as fat as Santa Clause, stepped

out; she was covered with soft orange fur, and she had whiskers on her cat-like face, pointed

ears, and a twitching tail that she held in her large paw-like hands: Calista.

Them.

Kyle stared at them, his jaw slack. A few moments of awed silence followed the

introductions, then Kyle grinned. “Woooooooow.” He slowly walked forward, his sword

forgotten. He’d never dreamed that people as fantastic as these were really real. Of course, this

was all in his imagination, so they weren’t real at all. But they looked real! He approached them

and ran his hand along the closest one, Jackie. They felt real. Smelled real. Even their breath

fogged in the cold air. Either they were honest to goodness actually physically real, or his

imagination was awesome!

He knew creatures like the ones in front of him were impossible, so he knew it had to be

his imagination. But, wow, what an imagination!

“So,” Farcry piped, “we gonna take out Bel’hast or what?”

Kyle looked at him. “I wasn’t sure if you were ready.”


“I’m always ready for a good scrapping,” he said, grinning evilly.

“It’s a bad idea,” Granite said, his voice deep and rumbling and gravelly, “to charge in

without a plan.” He spoke slowly, as if every word was worth the same amount of thought as the

last.

“You always say that,” Farcry said with a pout.

“That’s because he’s always right,” Jacob rasped. “We need to be careful when dealing

with goblins. Nasssssty little creatures when in a corner.” He looked around at them, and

despite looking like a warrior, he didn’t seem keen on fighting. “I know Bel’hast, he’s not

unreasonable. He’ll see me, he’ll talk to me.”

“Yeah?” barked Farcry. “An’ what if he doesn’t, eh? What if you go up to talk to him,

an’ he just goes ‘Sure, I hear ya, but I like sendin’ dragons out to torch castles an’ the like, so,

sorry, but you’ll hafta bugger off now’?”

“He won’t. He’s not like that. This isn’t like him.” Jacob turned to Kyle. “Please, Sir

Rossi, allow me to talk to King Bel’hast before we charge into this.”

Kyle blinked. Wow. He hadn’t been expecting this, it was like right out of a book! Neat!

“Of course,” he said to Jacob. “If we can avoid killing, then that’s good.” He wasn’t sure if he

was saying the right things, but it felt right.

“Thank you,” Jacob said, saluting by tapping his shield with the spear-head. “I shall

leave upon first light.”

“Sounds good.” Kyle nodded, trying to look important while really not knowing what to

do next. “So... umm... what now?”

“There is a tradition among my people,” said Tambora, her voice a chiming, two-toned

harmonic sing-song. “When a new person is introduced into the tribe, a celebration is held,
welcoming them into the fold.” She walked forward, her body swaying gracefully like a dancer.

“Would you like that, Sir Rossi?”

Kyle stared up at her. “Golly,” he said. A smile cracked open across his face. “That’d be

great fun!”

The smile she gave him was small but pleased. “Good, then.” She looked up to

Pompadoor. “Dulce? If you wouldn’t mind?” She handed him a flute.

“Of course, my dear.” He grinned as he took it. “I’ll have to admit, I was expecting

this.”

Tambora only laughed, a melodious, gleeful sound. “Now, Sir Rossi, stand yourself on

that tree-stump, please. Granite, Calista, go to either side of him. Farcry, Jacob, to either side of

me, please. Jackie, if you be so kind as to stand with Dulce? For a band to be a band, more than

one is needed, after all.” Everyone moved to their requested positions as Lord Pompadoor lifted

the flute to his lips, ready for when he was needed. “The ceremony we are about to have is a

symbolic one. It represents a new birth, a new beginning for the initiate.” She nodded to Kyle.

“Granite and Calista represent your guardians, caretakers, parents. They are the ones who must

vouch for you. Farcry and Jacob represent the people who are accepting you, the doubtful, the

ones who must be won over. I am representative of the race as a whole, and when the people

accept you, Sir Rossi, then so do I. Do you understand?”

“Yes!” he lied with a nod.

She smiled again, a small, knowing grin. “You do not. But you will, in time. I will talk

you through the ceremony, so there will be no need to worry about getting things wrong.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Nothing right away. Granite and Calista must vouch for you first. They answer the

questions posed to them by Farcry and Jacob. I will let you know when it is your time for
action.” She turned to the impromptu musicians. “Dulce, Jackie, if you two would do the

honours of a song, please? Something soothing.”

Dulce inclined his head and started to play, Jackie joining in with his bird’s song a

moment later. It was a slow, haunting song, almost sad, but solemn. It brought a lump to Kyle’s

throat. Despite this, he stood on the log with his chest stuck out in pride. Tambora stood there,

looking graceful even when still, her hands clasped in front of her. She whispered to Jacob for a

few moments, who, in turn, whispered to Farcry. When the conferring was done, Tambora took a

breath. “We are here,” she intoned, “to seek the worth of Sir Kyle Rossi and his petition to join

the Tribe of Assan. Two speak for him. Are those two present?”

“Aye,” rumbled Granite.

“Indeed,” said Calista.

“And two must speak for the people. Are they also present?”

“Yes,” said Jacob.

“Y’know I am,” said Farcry.

Tambora spared him a smile before continuing. “Would those who are questioning his

worth speak now, lest his acceptance occur without proper authority.”

Jacob stepped forward. “I ask you, have you done deeds worthy of our tribe?”

Calista stepped out. “I have slain dragons! A more worthy deed, I doubt you’ll find!”

As Jacob nodded and both he and Calista stepped back, Farcry came forward. “Are ye of

moral worth an’ ethical whet? Can we count on ye ta protect th’tribe should all fail?”

Granite stepped forward. “This you can! I protect my people with zeal, with courage. I

know not the coward’s way, nor the thief’s or the murderer’s. Even when faced against a foe, I

shall seek all opportunity to move forward without violence before resorting to bloodshed. This

have I proven today in the dealings with King Bel’hast.”


The two of them stepped back. “Are the people satisfied with the answers thus

provided?” Tambora said.

“Indeed.”

“Aye!”

“Then let it be known that the people accept Sir Kyle Rossi, as does the Tribe!” She

flowed forward and held out her hands. Kyle, his mouth dry, let her gently take his face in her

hands. “Do you, Sir Kyle Rossi, accept this? Do you confirm this as your want?” She smiled

encouragingly at him. “This is where you say that you do,” she whispered to him.

He blinked. “Huh? Oh! I mean,” he cleared his throat, “Yes. Yes, I do.”

She bent down and kissed his forehead. Her lips were warm and moist, but the kiss left

shivers down his spine. “Then let it be known from here on that you belong to the Tribe Assan!”

Then Pompadoor and Jackie picked up the tempo and turned the music into a celebratory

melody, one you could dance a jig to if you chose to. “Now,” Tambora said, picking Kyle up and

placing him on the snow, his hand in hers, “we celebrate!” She took his other hand and started to

dance, dragging him with her. He grinned and giggled and, after a few moments to get his

bearings, danced with her, forgetting his inhibitions for at least a little while. It wasn’t long

before Farcry joined in, and Jacob, dancing a graceful, slithering jig, pulled an unresisting Calista

into it, her decidedly slinky and graceful feline dance an odd compliment to his. Lord

Pompadoor stayed back, content with playing the flute and tapping his foot to the rhythm, while

Granite grinned quietly.

They danced and played for over an hour, until the sun started to set. Kyle looked up at

this point, saw the red and orange sky, and realized how late it was. “I have to go,” he said. “My

mom’s gonna be worried.”

“Of course,” Granite intoned. “Jacob, how long until you return from the goblin lands?”
“Perhaps a few days. It is not an easy journey, but I have made it before.”

“Aye, then, let’s say we all meet back here in a week’s time, does that sound good ta

people?” Farcry said.

“That long?” Kyle hadn’t meant it to sound like a whine, but that was how it had come

out.

Pompadoor smiled at him. “I shall meet with you again, young sir, in two days’ time.”

“I shall be there as well,” Tambora said. “It would not do to leave such a new member of

our tribe alone for so long.”

“Count me in, too,” Jackie announced with a squawk. “I’ve got nothing else better to

do.”

“It is settled, then,” said Pompadoor, with a small smile to Jackie. “In two days,

Tambora, Jackie, and I shall meet you here. We shall have stories to tell you. Does that appeal

to you?”

The grin on Kyle’s face threatened to split his head in two. “Yessir!”

“Excellent! Until then, Sir Rossi.” Lord Pompadoor bowed deeply and the others

followed suit, then they walked behind their respective trees and, basically, disappeared. Kyle

checked behind each tree and saw nothing. Wow. His imagination sure was something! That

had been great fun. Even the fat cat lady, Calista, had been a wonderful dancer, surprisingly light

on her feet, and amazingly graceful.

His imagination, he mused, was so good that he could still see the footprints in the snow.

They would still be there two days later, when he returned to exchange stories with

Pompadoor, Tambora, and Jackie. They spoke about their people, and told him about their

myths, their legends. For three hours the four of them sat on and around the tree stump, telling

Kyle about gods and ghosts and magic and a multitude of other wonders. It made him sad to
have to go back to the house, to the boring life behind its walls. But he had to, unless he wanted

to get in trouble with his mother, which was something he did not want. Ask any young boy: a

dragon was nothing compared to the wrath of his mother.

Time passed, as it does when one is young. The days meld together, and school goes on

and on for what seems like forever, until it is done and then the vacation starts and it feels like a

week even though it’s actually a few months long. Kyle spent a lot of his free time, when he

could, out on the hill, visiting with Lord Pompadoor and at least one of Them, sometimes a few,

sometimes all. Over the course of the months he would learn many things. The goblin king, for

example, had been under the thrall of an evil baron, Marcus, whose lust for power included

destroying or otherwise taking over every castle in the land. In exchange for his life, however,

Bel’hast promised to stop sending the dragon out. Instead, he put it to sleep using a special

powder only his people knew how to make, and it would sleep for years until the goblins gave it

the counter-agent to awaken it.

This put a kink in the baron’s plans, and while he tried to form another alliance with an

even more powerful faction, Lord Pompadoor, Jacob, and Calista pooled their resources and

convinced many of the kingdoms and duchies to rise up and take down this baron. Many were

uncertain, but when they saw the destruction that had been caused with Bel’hast, as Kyle’s castle

had only been the last in a long, long line of bullied kingdoms, and when they saw the duke he

was trying to ally himself with, Saviel, a practitioner of dark, evil magics, did they agree to help.

The duchies agreed in principle only, unable to offer actual aide, but the ten kingdoms gave them

their very best troops in order to march on Baron Marcus and Duke Saviel, along with the

kingdoms that each of Kyle’s new tribe members represented.

Sixteen kingdoms would march against the might and madness of two.
But Kyle, who had participated in the hearings, in the investigations, in much of this,

riding beside Pompadoor, his forests and plains turning into the wild and wondrous vistas and

buildings he was shown, would not be able to find out how the conflict ended. Because one

night, after his mother had asked him what he was doing so late at night, and he’d told her...

...well, they never appeared again.

His new friends, six of the most wonderful people his brain had ever created, stopped

coming to see him, without even a word.

A child’s imagination, it seemed, was a cruel thing even to them.

That night he cried in his pillow. He cried, and he cried, and he cried until he fell asleep.

But still, that very night, he climbed up to the hill, and sat on the stump, and waited. When no

one turned up, he went back home broken-hearted and disappointed, but the next day he did the

exact same thing. And the day after that. Every day for the rest of the summer he sat on the

stump and waited. Every night, no one came out.

He started the school year afraid to make real friends. If his imaginary ones wouldn’t

stick around, what were the chances real people would?

Perhaps, if they had stuck around, his entire life would have turned out better.

Perhaps, it would have turned out even worse.

* * *

He gazed at the shotglass in front of him. Dinner had been excellent, if not a bit too

expensive, but still, it wasn’t something that he did very often. The atmosphere had been good,

with music pumped through the speakers that had been loud enough to drown out other people’s

conversations, but not so loud that you couldn’t hold a conversation yourself. The service had

been prompt and courteous. Overall, he had to say, it had been worth the money to have gone at

least once.
And now he was pretty sure that he was drunk. He stared hard at the shot-glass. Yes,

definitely drunk. He had to be, there were three glasses where only one should have sat. He

made a reach for the one on the left, then the right, then finally the one in the middle. Kyle could

hear Sam somewhere in the background, flirting with some young girl, probably just old enough

to enter the bar, and knowing Sam, he’d be getting laid tonight.

Kyle lifted the drink to his lips when someone sat down beside him. “Hi there,” she said.

Wait. She?

Kyle slowly turned his head. Yes. Yes, definitely a woman, unless a very attractive man

with breasts had just sat down beside him. She looked to be around thirty, with long brown hair,

green eyes, almost elfish cheek-bones, and a slightly husky voice. He could have spent the rest

of the night looking at her. But then he remembered about his drink.

“Martini, please,” she said to barman. “How are you?” she said to Kyle as he clumsily

dragged the pretzels closer.

“Drunk.” He picked up a pretzel and took a bite. A few moments passed before he

realized that, perhaps, more was expected of him on this side of the conversation. “Umm...

how’re... how’re you?” He wasn’t slurring his words, not yet. Another drink would take care of

that.

“Thinking about getting a bit drunk, myself, actually,” she said with a smile as the

bartender gave her her drink and she gave him his money.

Kyle stared at her for a short time, watching her as she lifted the drink to her lips and took

a short sip. “Y’know,” he said, “I wouldn’t norm’lly say this, but you’re fuckin’ gorgeous.” He

tried to lift a finger but failed. Maybe he was more drunk than he’d thought. “Norm’lly I

wouldn’t say it, but I have booze, so I’m not my norm’l sel’. Self? Whatever the word, you

know what I meanen.” He frowned again. “Mean?”


She shook her head. “How many of those have you had?”

“I dunno.” He turned to Sam. “Hey, Sammy, how many’ve I had? Drinks. Drinks.

How many drunks?”

Sam turned from the young thing he was courting. “Six, I think?”

Kyle turned back to the woman. “Six. Ish.” He finished the drink and rapped on the bar.

The barkeeper, with a sigh and a roll of the eyes, poured him another one.

“Rye?” asked the woman.

“Only drinkie I’ll drinkie.” He lifted the glass. “Oh, rye, my rye, how right you are!” he

recited. “You’re my right and only rye.” He sipped it.

Sam came over. “You okay, Kyle?”

“I’m fine! My lady-friend and I are havin’ a conversationonon.” He turned to her.

“Wha’s your name?”

“Lyla.”

He turned to Sam and pointed at her. “Me an’ Lyla are talkin’. She was askin’ me if I

was drinkin’ rye, an’ I told her I was!”

“Yeah, and then you started to recite an ode to rye. I could hear you from across the bar.”

Kyle just shrugged as he took another sip.

“Y’know, I think you’re cut off.” Sam reached for the drink, but Kyle pulled it away and

gave him a dirty look.

“Listen,” Lyla said, putting a hand on Sam’s arm, the other on Kyle’s shoulder. “I’ll look

after your friend for a bit, okay? It’s no trouble. I find inebriation entertaining.”

“Are you sure?”

She smiled at him. “Go on, have your fun.”

“Okay, but if he starts getting out of hand, you let me know, okay?”
She gave him a mock salute before he walked off, rolling his eyes. Lyla looked at Kyle,

who was apparently trying to figure out exactly how to put his glass down on the coaster. She

obliged him, and he smiled at her. “So, what’s a gorgeous lookin’ gal like yersel’ doin’ gettin’

pissed?”

“I’m not getting drunk, just getting a bit drunk. Tipsy. What’s a guy like you doing

getting completely plastered in the middle of the week for?”

He sighed. “I keep seein’ ‘em.”

“I’m sorry?”

Kyle shook his head. “Nah, ferget it. Y’wouldn’t believe me, anyways.”

She lounged in the barstool, drink in hand, as best she could. “Try me.”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep for two weeks. Couple hours a

night, tops!” He frowned at his drink, still half-full. “Keep getting nightmares. Fire. Fire.

That’s all to ‘em. Fire an’ burning. Flames an’ screams an’ fire.” Kyle looked up at her, his eyes

haunted, dark bags hanging beneath them. “An’ I know, y’see, I know that I’m s’pposed ta go

there an’ help out. I know. I just don’t know how.” He shook his head. “Damned Them!” A

swig and the drink was burning its way down his throat. “Y’hear me Pomp’door?” he shouted to

the room. “Do ya? Damn you!” He turned to Lyla. “An’ today the flames came for me. ME! I

was in my chair an’ the flames came outta the comp’ter screen an’ they ate up my cubicle!” He

grabbed a handful of peanuts and shoved them into his mouth; a few missed and clattered to the

bar and floor. “So, I figure I’m goin’ nuts,” he said between chews. “Figure th’booze’ll help

make it all seem norm’l. Or somethin’.” The peanuts went down with a hard swallow. “Hey,

barkeep! I’ll take tha’ cheque, please.” And he fell, face-first, into the bowl of peanuts.

Lyla sat there, staring at him. Pompadoor, eh? She waved her hand to Sam. “Excuse

me?” she called out. He looked over her way and she pointed down at Kyle’s passed-out form,
his snores making the peanuts shake a bit. Sam sighed, bid farewell to that night’s possible

catch, and came over.

“He wasn’t much of a bother, was he?” Sam pulled Kyle out of the peanut-bowl, some of

the nuts stuck to his face, some to his drool, some both. He snored. Sam shook his head and put

him down beside the bowl.

“No. I think he’s depressed, though.”

Sam dug into his wallet. “Wouldn’t surprise me. He’s been acting weird lately. I thought

that, maybe, I could get him good and drunk and maybe laid, at least have him enjoying himself

a bit.” He pulled out a few twenty-dollar bills and smiled at the bartender. “How much do we

owe you?”

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