The ruins of an enormous theatre had been retrofitted as an arena, though there were plenty of less illustrious venues where fledgling fighters could test their mettle among themselves, or else square off with some captive creature brought in for the occasion. There was a makeshift labyrinth in which thieves seeking employment could showcase their skills by picking elaborate locks and evading (mostly) harmless traps, and even a nearby moonstone quarry where a storm witch or an alchemic sorcerer could really cut loose.
There were, naturally, several casualties during the course of the fair, but what was any good party without a few deaths?
Also, a gathering of so many warlike individuals meant that numerous other sordid types descended upon Kaladar like crows to carrion. All the usual suspects were present: claw-brokers, charm dealers, merchants selling arms and armour. There were more bards than you could count in half a day, and bookers prowled the grounds in search of ready-made heroes, because who knew if the next Saga-calibre band was out there, like chips of gold in a riverbed, waiting only to be sifted from the sand?
It occurred to Clay as he stepped from the Threshold into spitting rain that the War Fair was a great deal like Conthas, only with less rampant fire and considerably more pissing out of doors.
The Threshold in Kaladar was nestled in a copse of black pines and maples turned red by the Autumn Son’s mouldering touch. There was already a crowd gathered, gawking through the portal at the scene beyond, and now that Clay and the others had come walking out, there were hundreds streaming in from the surrounding camps to see for themselves.
Gabriel was already speaking with some familiar faces out front, men and women Clay hadn’t seen for years. There was Geralt Snakewater, and Merciless May Drummond, and Red Bob, whose illustrious locks had long since fled and left him bald.
Barret, meanwhile, beckoned a pair of youths from the crowd and introduced them to Clay. “These are my sons, Rogan and Syd. Boys, this here is Clay Cooper.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” said Rogan. He was older, bigger, and damn near the spitting image of his father, while the other was slight of build, with Avery’s blue eyes and toothy smile. Both of them were wearing more eyeliner than a Narmeeri pillow boy and had bleached their hair platinum white.
“Our mother’s told us a lot about you,” said the younger one. “Every time we misbehave she swears she should have married Clay Cooper instead of the old man here.”
Barret had a chuckle at that. “Fine by me. Whaddaya say, Slowhand, you up for swapping wives?”
Clay was about to politely refuse when a familiar voice shouted his name.
“Clay Cooper? Well slap my ass and call me sister! What’re you doing this side o’ the Wyld?”
Jain pushed clear of the crowd, followed closely by her gang, which seemed to have doubled in size since they’d last met in Conthas. They were all dressed in a plethora of silks and fine furs, though none seemed to care that the rain would do them harm.
Clay grinned. You can take the girl out of Cartea …
Jain gestured grandly at the women behind her. “Behold, the Silk Arrows!” she said. “Got a full quiver now, as you can see. You look like shit, by the way. What happened to your face?”
Clay shrugged. “I was born this way.”
“Your momma keeps an axe in her womb, eh? Was thinking of trying that myself, to keep the boys out.”
That got another laugh out of Barret. “Oh, I like this one,” he said.
Gabriel, Clay saw, was arguing heatedly with one of the Skulk brothers. He broke from the crowd and physically dragged Moog out of conversation with May Drummond. “Fucking cowards,” he muttered as the two of them drew up.
“They won’t help?” Clay asked.
“They want us to close the Threshold,” he said. “They think we should abandon Castia, forget that thirty thousand people are trapped inside! Geralt Snakewater said this! The man who knocked out a rock-hulk with his bare hands! And the Skulk brothers—they killed a dragon once, didn’t they?”
“Small one,” said Moog, holding two fingers an inch apart.
“Yeah, well, they won’t come. They’re afraid.”
“Talk to them,” Clay said.
Gabriel held up his hands despairingly. “I tried! I thought if I could get the stone rolling that others might follow, but—”
“No,” Clay waved a hand to indicate the surrounding hills. “Talk to them. All of them. Forget Geralt Snakewater. You don’t need washed-up heroes, Gabe. You need new ones.”
“Damn right,” growled Rogan, and his little brother smirked by way of agreement.
Jain straightened and tapped the butt of her bow against the ground. “I like the sound o’ that,” she said.
Gabriel looked unconvinced, so Clay went on. “When May Drummond or the Skulks see you, they see an old friend. They see the Gabriel that rode a horse up the Riot House stairs, or the one that got so drunk during the siege of Castadar he fell off the battlements.”
“Priceless,” laughed Barret. “We rallied out the front gate to rescue you and decided to break the siege while we were out there.”
“Or maybe they see a rival. Maybe they think you got too big for your own good, which you did. Or that you were a loud, obnoxious ass, which you were.” Gabe opened his mouth to protest, but Clay rolled over him. “But when these kids look at you … they see a legend. They see Golden Gabe, who killed the Crypt Queen and held the bridge at Trolltoll against a legion of lizardmen.”
Gabriel cleared his throat. “Actually, that was Ganelon.”
“Fuck it,” Clay said. “Doesn’t matter. All these others, these old names …” He trailed off, fumbling for the right words. “They’re only candles, Gabe, and you are the godsdamned sun.” He pointed to the pediment beside them. “Now get up there and shine.”
For the span of five heartbeats Gabriel just stood there, dumbfounded. Finally he blinked, as though a spell of despondency had lifted from his mind. “Right,” he said, nodding to himself. “I’m the sun. Moog—”
“On it!” chirped the wizard. He scurried to the base of a nearby pine and back, pressing something dark and wet into Gabriel’s hand.
“A pinecone?”
“Ha! Can you imagine? All this at stake and I give you a pinecone?” Moog’s cackle died in silence, and everyone simply stared until he went on. “Okay, yes, it’s a pinecone. But it’s a magic pinecone. Hold it like this.” He arranged Gabriel’s arm so that the cone was near his lips.
Gabe looked skeptical, but he climbed onto the pediment at the base of the Threshold and shouted, “Warriors, hear me!!!”
His voice boomed from the trees all around them, so loud the pines shivered and the maples shed half their leaves at once. The grey sky came alive with startled birds.
“My name is Golden Gabe,” he announced. “You know me—or you know of me—from some poem, or song, or story. You might have heard I slew the Crypt Queen Nazalin in single combat, or that I was first over the wall at Castadar.” He winked at Barret. “Those things are true. Maybe your father told you he fought beside me once, or perhaps your mother said she met me in a tavern twenty years ago. Well … if you’ve got blue eyes and the wits of an ox, that might be true as well.”
He paused while a ripple of laughter rolled up over the surrounding hills, then cast an anxious glance through the Threshold before going on. “I’m in a band, and you’ll have heard of them too. Matrick Skulldrummer. Arcandius Moog. Slowhand Clay Cooper. And Ganelon.”
He was dragging it out, Clay realized. Playing for time. As if on cue a wyvern came crashing through the portal, a tumble of burnished red scales and thrashing wings, screaming like a sickened eagle. The crowd scrambled back a few steps as the creature slid to a stop. Ganelon was with it, clinging tightly to its long, sinuous neck. The muscles in his arms bulged as he gave it a wrenching twist; there was a loud crack, and the beast went still.
Something like sixty thousand people stood in rapt silence as Ganelon got to his feet, rolled his neck against either shoulder, and stalked back toward the Threshold.
“You need help?” Barret asked as the southerner passed him by.