by Mark Carver
“Not now,” the other man scowled, turning his attention back to the buxom warrior princess who seemed more interested in getting his phone number than in looking at his sword collection.
“Shane!” the black-haired man persisted. “It’s him! He’s here!”
Shane Calhoun turned around, glaring angrily at the slender man. His balding head gleamed under the bright lights overhead and his face looked like it was carved out of granite.
“Who is here?” he demanded.
“Cameron McConnell! I swear I just saw him.”
Shane’s eyes narrowed. He had heard the online chatter, but he didn’t believe his old friend would actually show up. Cameron was famous for avoiding conventions.
“Well,” he murmured as he ran his finger along the edge of his sword, “I guess I’ll have to stop by and say hello.”
CHAPTER 19
Cameron’s face was pouring sweat, and he cursed himself for wearing his most uncomfortable boots. But his spirits were soaring. He had gotten a taste of this at the hobby shops, but that was just a snack. This was a full-course meal.
The air was thick with a bubbling kind of joy and excitement that some would consider childish, but to those in the midst of the swirl, it was paradise. There were no distinctions between blue collar and white collar, housewife or career woman, slacker or go-getter. They were all just fans; even the army of authors, sculptors, sellers, and models blended in and mixed with the swarms of eager faces. MasterCon was their church and they had all come to kneel at their respective shrines. They may disagree about which mage is more powerful, whether or not a bestselling author deserved their accolades, or which video game character could kill the other, but they were all one big nerdy family, and they didn’t care what people on the outside thought about them.
Peter couldn’t have been happier. Inviting Cameron to join him at his booth was certainly the right call. They had sold nearly half of Cameron’s cache of weapons by the time the 2:30 announcement chirped over the loudspeakers:
“Attention, MasterCon attendees. Renowned swordsmith Cameron McConnell will reveal his latest signature sword at the Doom Rift booth in Section C, Row 13 at three o’clock. That’s the Doom Rift booth at three o’clock.”
Cameron felt like orcs and goblins were battling each other in his stomach. He had seen the video and he personally thought it was the most incredible music video ever made, but what would everyone else think? He looked out at the sea of costumes and screen-printed t-shirts. They all seemed so happy. Would they gasp with awe or laugh with contempt?
He looked down at his watch. The reflection of his tattooed face seemed to tremble in the crystal watch face. Then he realized that it was his arm that was trembling.
2:45.
He stood on his tiptoes and craned his neck. Where was Chucky? Cameron thought he’d feel a lot better if his gladiator friend was around.
He felt a heavy hand fall on his shoulder.
“Getting nervous?” Peter asked. Cameron turned around and smiled weakly. He could almost see the dollar signs in Peter’s eyes.
He shook his head. “Can’t wait,” he said, forcefully injecting his voice with artificial enthusiasm.
Peter nodded like a sage contemplating age-old wisdom. “Yes…” he said in response to nothing in particular. Then his eyes refocused and he looked at Cameron closely. “At about five minutes till three, you’ll go behind the curtain and get everything ready. I’ll make sure everyone’s standing clear outside when you make your grand entrance.”
Cameron smirked. “That’s good. I don’t want to kill anyone by accident.”
“But think of the buzz that would stir up,” Peter said with a sly twinkle in his eye.
“You’re sick.”
“You just now realized that?”
Cameron chuckled as he turned back to the line of fans looking for a photo op or an autograph. Maybe it was the fantasy vibe hanging in the air, but for some reason, he thought he might be able to send a telepathic message out to Chucky, wherever he was.
Hurry up, man. You don't want to miss this…
****
“Cameron, it’s time.”
Cameron shook the young fan’s hand as he handed back the autographed poster, then turned around and looked at Peter. He suddenly felt sick.
“I’m nervous,” he confessed.
Peter’s broad face offered a comforting smile. “I promise, everyone’s going to love it. Look at that crowd. You think they’re here to see me?”
Cameron looked behind him at the dozens of people clamoring for a good view. He rubbed his sweaty palms against his jeans.
Come on, Cameron, where’s the barbarian? Barbarians don’t get stage fright!
He inhaled a long, slow breath and looked at Peter with determined eyes. “All right. Let’s do this.”
As he turned to head behind the curtain, he heard a wheezy voice shout, “Cameron!”
He looked back and saw Chucky shoving his bulk through the crowd.
“Chucky!” Cameron said with a smile of relief. “I was wondering where you went.”
Chucky’s hair hung in dark stringy strands over his eyes and his cheeks were flushed, but he looked like he had just seen the face of God.
“Dude,” he panted, “you won’t believe this place. I saw Kyle Hendrix, and Jerry Philmore, and Sandra MacPherson is here too! You won’t believe what she’s wearing…or not wearing I should say.”
“Psst!” Peter hissed. “Cameron, let’s go!”
Cameron pointed at the screen behind him. “Sounds awesome Chucky, but I’ve got to go get ready. Just watch the screen. You’re going to flip.”
Chucky clapped with glee. He reached his hand out as Cameron turned to go. “Cameron, wait! I saw him.”
“Saw who?” Cameron snapped.
Chucky smiled darkly. “Your oldest worst friend.”
Cameron’s jaw tightened. He had completed forgotten about him.
“Cameron!”
He jumped at the sound of Peter’s voice and rushed behind the purple curtain just as a thundering riff blasted from the speakers set up around the booth. Every eye stared up at the plasma TV.
A hooded figure in red materialized out of a black background. He held his hands out by his sides and tongues of flame danced upon his palms. The figure raised his eyes. Chucky squealed with delight as he saw the tattooed face.
“Cameron! Dude!”
The camera cut to the members of Hammer Star rocking out on top of a mountain. The sun blazed over the crest as hair swung wildly and power chords serrated the majestic scenery. The crowd gathered at the booth was headbanging in an instant.
As heavy metal riffs galloped in the background, the video cut to Cameron, bare-chested and gleaming with sweat in a medieval blacksmith’s forge. He raised his hammer high above his head and brought it down in slow motion against a red-hot metal blade. Sparks flew, ricocheting off his skin and the studded leather armbands that encased his forearms. The women in the crowd gasped and grinned as Cameron’s muscles rippled with each blow, but no one was more enthusiastic than Chucky.
“Yeah!” he bellowed. “That’s my best friend right there!”
As Hammer Star chugged and wailed in heavy metal glory, Cameron forged the Doomsong with rhythmic fury. Fires raged and sparks exploded. Cameron’s tattooed face glowed in the red blaze, his expression hard and grim. The Doomsong began to take shape, but the video was careful not to reveal anything more than shadowy snippets. A flash of steel here, a peek at the elaborate handle there. All the while, Hammer Star jammed on top of the snow-capped mountain.
The crowd was loving it, cheering every time Cameron appeared in all his sweaty, tattooed glory. Chucky could hardly believe it was his friend up there on the TV. The song built to a thrashing, frantic crescendo, and as digital flames erupted around him, Cameron thrust the newly-forged Doomsong into the air.
At that moment, bursts of silver confetti showered the booth and the Doomsong slic
ed through the purple curtain. Cameron leaped through the gash and hoisted the sword high for everyone to see.
Cheers and applause erupted from the elated crowd. Chucky was almost delirious with delight.
“You rock, Cameron! That was awesome!”
Cameron was smiling so widely, his cheeks were beginning to ache. He watched as eyes widened with awe and mouths fell open.
They love it. THEY LOVE IT!
Peter stepped forward, his bald head covered with silvery snow.
“Ladies and gentlemen... The Doomsong, a Cameron McConnell original!”
More cheers and applause. Everyone was clamoring for a better look, and Chucky defiantly held his ground. The crowd was pulsing with energy, and Peter was determined to milk it for all it was worth.
“Forged in the fires of Cameron McConnell’s diabolical imagination, the Doomsong is one of the most beautiful and terrifying swords ever created!”
“Is that a fact?”
Everyone turned around towards the voice at the back of the crowd. Cameron blinked away the confetti that had fallen over his eyes and peered at the figure moving through the sea of people.
His heart froze.
Shane Calhoun strode forward like a conquering warrior, a massive broadsword resting on his shoulder. His eyes simmered with contempt as he glared at the peasants who scurried out of his way. He shoved Chucky aside, who bared his teeth at him like an angry dog, but he took no notice.
Cameron lowered his weapon, though he held it in front of him as if poised to strike.
“Hello Shane.”
Shane nodded in reply, then jutted his chin towards the Doomsong.
“That’s a nice little trinket you’ve got there. The entrance was a bit dramatic though, but that’s what it takes these days to get noticed.”
“You should know, Shane. You’ve been whoring yourself out to anyone with a camera and a pen.”
Shane snorted. “Me? Look who’s talking! I saw your pathetic photos in Inkling Magazine. I’ve heard about how you’ve been showing up at hobby shops, pretending to be everyone’s buddy just so they can put you on their Facebook page. You’ve spent more time getting your name and face out there than actually making things. That little toothpick is the best you could come up with after all this time?”
“Hey!” Chucky was red-faced with anger. “Cameron is a master! His swords are the best!”
“Shut up!” Shane snapped, whirling around and pointing his sword at Chucky’s face. The rock-steady blade hovered inches from his nose. Shane’s eyes blazed as they took in Chucky’s gladiator costume. “Children like you shouldn’t be out of the arena, anyway.”
A few people in the crowd snickered. Everyone else was silent, captivated by the drama unfolding in front of them. Cameron’s eyes darted back and forth, wondering what direction this was going to take. He didn’t like the hostility written on Shane’s face.
With a click of his tongue, Shane turned towards him, eyebrows arched in haughty contempt.
“Your swords are the best, huh? Care to prove your friend right?”
Cameron’s eyes darkened. “What do you mean?”
“Just a little friendly duel.”
“What, here?”
Shane laughed loudly. “Don’t be an idiot. Of course not here.”
He turned around and gestured towards the door.
“Out there.”
The crowd murmured and gasped, and Cameron’s jaw dropped. Every eye was on him.
Shane leered at him. “What do you say?”
Cameron’s heart hammered inside his chest. “I’m not going to fight you, Shane.”
“Who said anything about fight? This is just a test of our swordsmithing skills. First sword that breaks is the loser.”
Cameron could feel the bloodlust radiating from the crowd. Shane felt it too, and he smiled coldly.
“I won’t do it, Shane,” Cameron declared, tightening his grip on the sword’s handle. “Someone could get hurt.”
“You’re right. Most likely that dainty little butter knife you’re holding.”
“I won’t do it, Shane.”
“Fine.” Shane slapped his own sword against his shoulder with a meaty thwack. “You always were a coward, Cameron. Getting that moronic tattoo branded on your face didn’t change a thing.”
He turned to leave, challenging the crowd to even consider blocking his path.
“Hold it!”
Shane stopped, then slowly turned around. The Doomsong was pointed right at him.
Cameron’s eyes were venomous. “Let’s go.”
Shane grinned, then motioned with a sweep of his hand for Cameron to step in front of him. Chucky gasped as Cameron marched past, his eyes smoldering with hatred.
“Cameron…” he cried, reaching out to his friend, but Cameron didn’t even look at him. Shane followed behind, and the crowd trailed after them. Peter stood in the middle of his confetti-strewn booth for a moment, then jerked as if from an electric shock.
“Caleb, watch the booth!” he commanded the green-haired young man as he rushed after the crowd.
Cameron and Shane marched shoulder to shoulder through the front doors of the convention hall and out into the blinding sun. The attendants at the door watched in speechless wonder as a throng of spectators followed the two men brandishing swords. One of the attendants raised a walkie-talkie to her mouth.
A large concrete plaza stretched out in front of the convention hall, and Cameron and Shane stood in the middle of it, facing each other. The crowd quickly formed a ring around them, though they were sure to keep their distance.
Cameron blinked away a drop of sweat that trickled into his eye. He had a hard time not swinging the Doomsong right through the smug little smile on Shane’s face.
“First sword that breaks, huh?”
Shane nodded. Then the smile disappeared. He swung his broadsword high over his head and brought it down with all his force. Cameron jumped back and thrust the Doomsong forward to counter the blow. The sword rang in his hands as Shane’s blade crashed down like a hammer but the Doomsong held together. The crowd gasped.
Shane took a step backwards, one eyebrow raised with mild surprise.
“Impressive,” he admitted. “Not many swords can withstand the crushing power of the Cross of Winterdark.”
Cameron blinked, then laughed with scorn. "'The Cross of Winterdark?’ Is that what you call it?”
A wounded expression flashed across Shane’s face. “What, you think ‘Doomsong’ is better?”
“Hell yeah!” Chucky shouted.
Cameron nodded his appreciation, then swung the Doomsong in a lethal arc towards Shane’s weapon. Steel met steel with a piercing shriek, and the crowd jumped back.
“You were always a hack,” Cameron grunted as he swung with all his might again and again.
“Don’t take your frustrations out on me,” Shane retorted, deflecting Cameron’s blows. “I know why you did that to your face. Jealousy always leads to rash decisions.”
“Hah!” Cameron crashed the Doomsong against Shane’s sword, causing it to shimmy and wobble like a saw blade. He saw an anxious look cross Shane’s face, and he smiled.
“Jealousy? You want to talk about jealousy? How about we go back a few years, huh? When we were apprentices at Mike’s.”
Shane clenched his jaw as he struggled to counter Cameron’s attacks. He noticed with dismay that several pieces of steel had been chipped away on his blade.
“So what?” he snarled, lashing out and landing a ferocious hit against the Doomsong. He felt confident it would be the killing blow but he was shocked when the Doomsong held fast. It hardly even seemed damaged.
“So what?” Cameron’s veins flooded with rage and he lunged forward. “You stole my work! Right off of my art desk! You know what Mike said when I showed him my drawings? He said, ‘Cameron, copying someone else’s work is a felony in this business.’ Me! Copying you!”
The eyes of the mesmeri
zed crowd shifted towards Shane. He felt the weight of their angry stares.
“Say what you want!” he snarled, lashing out blindly. “That’s a lie! You’re just making that up to cover your own inadequacies!”
At that moment, the Doomsong swooped down like a steel bird of prey. It bit into the Cross of Winterdark and the broadsword severed in two. The blade fell to the ground like a decapitated head.
Shane and Cameron stood frozen, their feet rooted to the ground. Sweat streamed down their faces, and their chests heaved with panting breaths. The crowd was as silent as a graveyard.
Shane stared at the decimated weapon he still clutched tightly with both hands. He looked up at Cameron, then at the Doomsong trembling in his hands. Hatred roared like fire in his eyes, and his muscles twitched as he started to raise the broken blade.
“All right, break it up!”
Everyone turned as four gruff security officers shouldered their way into the middle of the circle.
“You know the rules,” one of the men barked, staring down at Cameron and Shane. The two men wilted under his fierce gaze. “What do you think this is, a Renaissance fair? No fighting, period. Put those things away and get back inside before I write you up. And the rest of you, too!”
The crowd instantly dispersed, leaving Cameron and Shane alone with the guards. Moving like an arthritic old man, Shane reached down and picked up the broken blade lying on the ground. The guard pressed a ham-sized hand against his back and shoved him forward.
“Back inside, hotshot.”
Peter came alongside Cameron and squeezed his neck.
“Cameron, that was crazy, man!”
Cameron glanced over at Shane, who was walking like a man condemned to die. He held the jagged sword in his hands as if it were a shattered Ming vase. For Shane, it probably was.
He looked at Peter and forced a smile. “Thanks. That felt good.”
It was the truth. He had just defeated his worst rival in a public swordfight.
“Cameron!” Chucky piped up, rushing up to them. “Dude, you are a maniac! That was straight out of a movie or something.”
Cameron handed him the Doomsong. He took it and held it gently, his eyes shining with reverent awe.
“It’s beautiful,” he whispered in a shaky voice.
Cameron grinned as he walked back into the buzzing convention. He shot a quick glance towards Shane, who didn’t turn around as he made a beeline for his booth at the other end of the hall.
