Cloudwalkers

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  Conn shook his head; he’d known Lili since they were children, but physical distance and political tension between their families meant they had never been more than mere acquaintances. Conn thought ahead to the upcoming Skylander games; he would have a chance to get to know his fiancee then. He didn’t know the girl at all, not really, but he knew that their betrothal was virtually all that stood between a tremulous peace and outright war.

  Conn’s status as a cicerones meant he was tasked with keeping people safe, he thought as he led his procession of Grounders onward through the clouds. If his marriage was the thing that kept his people safe from needless slaughter, then he would make the best of it.

  Chapter 2

  As they reached their destination across the city—a blockish and unremarkable building which rose a mere three floors above the cloudbank—Cloudwalkers up ahead ushered the last few Grounders inside, Conn felt himself dragging, tired after a long day and another sleepless night.

  Three Dorcha Poileas stood guard at the entrance to the building. Only men were allowed within this tight-knit gendarme guard. None were of noble blood. Men of the Dorcha Poileas were selected from septs, the common folk among the skylands, and upon taking their oaths they swore allegiance to no clan, or any CloudMaster. The Dorcha Poileas served the law, and the law only. Their uniforms were bland and colorless—grey trousers and grey shirts, with a long, navy-blue cloak stretching from their shoulders to the heels of their boots. Their education and training started early—not so different from that of a young Cloudwalker—within the Onyx Building headquarters. Its obelisk was the only remaining high-rise structure in Manhattan south of the Empire State Building. None within the Dorcha Poileas possessed the Cloudwalker’s special Sight—found only in the pureblooded Celts of the noble class—and the necessity of having to rely upon a Cloudwalker before venturing onto an untrodden cloudbank had been a hot point of friction between them for centuries.

  But Conn supposed the Dorcha Poileas were necessary. Probably more so in the distant past, but today they still had their usefulness. He recognized the tallest of the three standing guard—thin as a rail, Captain Bryant Peirce. Peirce’s father served Clan Brataich, and Conn and Bryant had been friends as young boys until they entered their respective organizations at the age of thirteen. Once, they had conspired and laughed together as they helped Dob with his experiments and listened to him ramble about science. Now they detested one another.

  “Hold up there, Brataich . . . I’m writing you up.”

  Conn closed his eyes for an extended beat. Any overreaction on his part would make Peirce’s day. He watched as the rest of his flock disappeared into the building, signaling for Toag to go on without him.

  Bryant looked smug, “This, I believe, will be your fourth dereliction tag, which means you’ll be going up in front of the chancellor—”

  “Oh come on. Don’t be a boaby, Peirce. Everyone has a medallion. My Grounders are legit; no one’s here who isn’t supposed to be!” Conn stepped in closer. He’d never backed down to Peirce before and he never would. Now within a foot of the Dorcha Poileas Captain, they stared eye to eye. His once childhood friend fully embodied the look of his ilk. His hair was long and stringy, his eyes two inky pools of darkness. An ugly gash of a scar marred the left side of his face. Conn imagined he saw a trace of sorrow in the dark eyes of his former friend, and wondered if he, too, was missing Dob. Once upon a time, the three of them had been inseparable, and Peirce had loved Dob as much as Conn did. He resisted the urge to soften his gaze, and forced himself to remain stoic. It was far too late for empathy; Peirce’s actions would not—could not—ever be forgiven.

  “I found this here on the bank, mere feet from where you stand.” Peirce’s breath was stale as he lifted his hand up, holding onto a long chain, its wooden medallion swinging back and forth like a pendulum. “Clearly, one of your flock has moved about unregistered. And since it’s your flock, it’s your responsibility, and that will be in my report.”

  Conn knew exactly what Peirce had done. He’d elusively tugged the chain off one of the unsuspecting Grounders as they’d passed by, then hidden it in his pocket. Conn wanted to smack the smirk off his face, but instead he forced calm into his voice and said, “Do what you will, Captain. I have little time for your games. Now stand aside, so I can perform my duties.”

  Conn turned, then stepped around the three other Dorcha Poileas and proceeded into the building, where he found Toag waiting for him next to a concrete wall half their height. Toag shot a glance out the door toward the three guards, his expression quizzical.

  “Don’t ask,” Conn said, joining him. He peered down at the descending line of Grounders as they made their way down the stairs. Circling around and around below, they followed behind Maggie O’Brian, who’d taken the lead. Already two levels down in the long winding stairwell, her bright red hair, worn short like a boy’s, was hard to miss.

  “You’re looking a good bit peely-wally,” said Toag, studying him. “Why don’t you head on back? We’ve got this.”

  “You sure?” Conn knew he had his duties, but he was exhausted.

  Toag nodded and asked, “Hypnos’ drum keeping you awake at night?”

  Conn shrugged, not wanting to get into it. He had begun to wonder if Hypnos, the Greek god of sleep, was personally targeting him. In fact, since the terrible accident that had caused Dob’s death a few weeks prior, Conn hadn’t had a single night of uninterrupted sleep. A few hours here and there—often in the middle of the day, like today—were all he could manage.

  “Sleep well, laddie boy. Tomorrow we begin practice. The games are abreast, ye ken?”

  “Aye, that they are,” Conn said flatly. Normally, the prospect of competing with the best and most athletic Cloudwalkers of every clan in the Skylander games would excite him, but at the moment, the very prospect of the games—and the rigorous training he needed to compete in them—just made him feel more tired.

  He watched as his friend fell in line behind the last of the Grounders. He felt guilty shirking his responsibilities even though the Grounders weren’t in any kind of danger at this point. He would make it up to Toag and the others another time. He watched them descend lower for a while, as flames in high, wall-mounted lanterns danced in the drafty air. When he turned to leave through the still-open rooftop door, dusk was turning into night. A slight chill in the air foretold the approaching fall season.

  “Conn! Conn!”

  The voice was unmistakably that of young Brig, a boy of nine or ten who often served as a messenger for the Skylanders around him. Like most people living above the cloudbank, Brig was not of noble blood. He was a commoner, known as a sept. Some septs did possess drops of Celtic blood within their veins, but not enough to give them the Sight that allowed Cloudwalkers to traverse the cloudbank. Septs kept to the skyscrapers and the demarcated areas of cloudbank that were deemed safe by patrols of Cloudwalkers. Many of them were directly allied with certain clans, but most were simply skilled workers that supported the basic necessities of life above the cloudbank. Most carpenters, cooks, masons, pigeon breeders, professors, glass-masters, healers, and mechanics were septs, as were the racksmiths, who would labor for a full year carving and assembling the intricate mechanics of a single three-way, collapsible rackstaff from the wood of the Ragoon tree. There were very few racksmiths alive who had the skill and knowledge to build a rackstaff, and those who excelled at their craft were as highly respected as any noble.

  Conn first noticed the lantern flame as it approached in the distance, then the boy running along the same path he himself had traveled not ten minutes prior. Out of breath, Brig slowed, gasping in several deep lungfuls of air.

  “What is it?” asked Conn. “And why in God’s name are you traversing the bank without the aid of a Cloudwalker? It’s nearly dark!”

  “I can see where it’s been trod. I may not have the Sight, Conn, but any bowbag can see a path well trodden.” The exhausted boy’s darkened hai
r, wet with sweat, was plastered down onto his scalp. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

  “Well, you found me. So what is it?”

  “The CloudMaster . . .” Brig paused, drawing in another desperate breath.

  Instantly on alert, Conn asked, “What is it? Has something happened to my father? Damn it, speak up, lad!”

  “No,” Brig said hurriedly. “He just needs to talk to you at the top of the hour. Those were his words: at the top of the hour. I suppose something has happened; it’s all hush hush, though. No one will tell me anything.”

  Conn’s racing heart slowly returned to its normal cadence. Robert Brataich, the reigning CloudMaster of Manhattan—actually more akin to a CloudKing, though the term has not been used in many a year—was sick. For three years now, he had been dying a slow death due to a congestion of the lungs that his healers had been unable to treat. Although his father went to great pains to hide his ever-weakening state, everyone knew he was very ill, especially the other clan CloudMasters within their own castle-like skyscrapers. For sure, those dogs were chafing at the bit for his early demise. Robert still maintained a firm grip of control over the seven other Manhattan Skylander clans, but once he was gone, the surrounding CloudMasters would jockey hard to take over and acquire the prized, more expansive Brataich Clan skylands for their own respective clan’s usage. The next Brataich CloudMaster—probably Conn’s older brother, Michael—would need to work hard to protect the skylands the Brataich Clan had maintained for decades.

  “Hand me your lantern, boy,” said Conn gruffly to Brig. “Follow close behind me. Keep up or get left behind.”

  Chapter 3

  Six years earlier . . .

  Conn and Bryant burst through the Empire State’s front doors into a crisp early spring afternoon. Both boys, thirteen, had their bows slung over one shoulder, along with quivers packed with fowl-targeting arrows. A Saturday, the cloudbank was as crowded as Conn had ever seen it. Skylanders were out in force, enjoying the warmer weather, and the bright sunshine. Conn was unaware that today would see the end of his long boyhood friendship with Bryant Peirce.

  “Hold on, where are you off to?”

  Conn, not slowing down, turned to acknowledge his father, the reigning Brataich CloudMaster, walking alongside Bishop Hennessey.

  “Lower West side, sir,” Conn responded. “A whole flock of Band-Tails was spotted there.”

  “Well, good hunting, but slow down and use your damn rackstaff!”

  “I will!”

  “And be back by supper. Guests are coming tonight!”

  “I won’t be late,” Conn yelled back, his mind already focused on today’s adventure. Sightings were rare for Band-Tailed Pigeons. The birds were big and plump and lived in the wild, perhaps nesting in a copse of tall Ragoons many miles away, as opposed to everyday Feral pigeons, which were smaller in size and pretty much the prime food staple for most living above the cloudbank. Band-Tailed Pigeons were considered a culinary specialty, but all Conn knew was he loved hunting the big, stupid birds.

  Out of breath, the boys slowed their pace down to a hurried walk. Since much of the cloudbank around them was untrodden, Conn used his rackstaff to stab the cloud every few paces. Possessing the Sight was relatively new to him. Sure, he could distinguish various hue differences, but if he was really honest with himself, he didn’t fully understand which shades meant what. Since Bryant was not of noble blood—didn’t inherit the genetic mutation that affected one’s vision and allowed them the Sight—Conn would take the lead. They needed to progress a bit slower from this point on.

  It was a four mile walk to the Lower West Side of the Manhattan cloudbank. Only once before had Conn and Bryant been allowed to venture this far on their own. At that time, Emma, Conn’s older sister, had argued vehemently that Conn was neither old enough, nor smart enough, to venture so far out.

  “What’s your father talking to old Hennessey about?” Bryant asked.

  “I don’t know. Who cares?”

  “Is he the one who’s coming to supper?”

  “I don’t know. Why so interested?”

  Bryant shrugged. Today, his long black hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Conn thought he resembled some kind of ancient warrior, especially now, with his bow and arrows. Bryant was a far better shot than Conn; something his friend took great pleasure in reminding him. To some, Bryant was something of a braggart. He sometimes could be insulting, or speak cruelly to people. But Bryant was usually nice enough to Conn, and he made him laugh.

  Three miles from the Midtown towers, the far-reaching expanse of white was breathtaking.

  “Strange, there’s no buildings around here,” Bryant said, looking around at the empty space.

  “There used to be, like four hundred years ago. Looked like Midtown.”

  “You’re shitting me!”

  “All the buildings fell, one after another, due to the rising sea levels, and the acid waters. That’s what got them to building the ramparts in Midtown.”

  “You ken a lot about a lot of things, Conn. Guess you’re smarter than me.”

  “Nah, I just like school. And I spend a lot of time with the professor, that’s all.”

  “Septs dinnae have the same opportunities. You blue bloods like to keep the rest of us in our place. Everyone kens that.”

  Conn had never heard Bryant talk like this before; he’d never played the woe-is-me card. Conn didn’t know how to respond.

  Bryant, hands on hips, gazed into the sky. “I think this is a bust. We haven’t seen even one Band-Tailed Pigeon flapping around.”

  Conn could see Bryant was irritated, though not from the lack of Band-Tailed Pigeons.

  “Hey, over there!” Bryant exclaimed, pointing a finger toward the east. He smiled, “You know what those are?”

  Actually, Conn did. Most anyone who’d travelled south from the Midtown area knew about the Feral Farms—the hundreds upon hundreds of pigeon cages where birds were bred and kept. Made only of twigs and twine, the cages were ultra lightweight, which made them more resistant to falling through the cloudbank. Homing pigeons were bred there, also plain ol’ Feral pigeons that ended up on everyone’s dinner table.

  “Must be a thousand birds in there,” Bryant said, jutting his chin out toward them. “Let’s take a quick look.”

  “Nah, we’re not supposed to disturb the birds. Breeders will throw a fit.” Conn peered at the lowering sun and figured they’d best be heading back soon anyway. It was rare his father asked anything of him, let alone acknowledge he was even alive. He sure didn’t want to show up late.

  They walked slowly as they approached the interconnected birdcages. Maybe a foot wide and a foot tall, Conn figured there had to be at least five hundred or so. He glanced about, checking to see if someone was overseeing their approach, but couldn’t see anyone around. The birds certainly seemed happy enough. A soft chorus of cooing sounds filled the air, which he thought was nice, even relaxing.

  Bryant, kneeling in front of an outside row of enclosures, poked his finger into the nearest cage.

  “Hey, I dinnae think you should be doing that.”

  “Oh, so now what? You’re an expert on birds, too? A professor of pigeons?” Bryant stood and looked about the bird farm. “I hate birds. They stink and never shut up.” He used the toe of his shoe to tap on one of the cages. Startled, the pigeon inside began to flap its wings.

  “Come on, don’t do that,” Conn scolded.

  But Bryant was laughing now, captivated by the bird’s frenzied response. “Stupid birds, look at them. Rats with wings.” Raising his foot, he placed it atop the flimsy cage while staring at Conn. “These cages are no more than sticks. A big wind could do a lot of damage.”

  “Stop, Bryant! It’s time now to head back,” Conn said, just as Bryant let the full weight of his foot pound down upon the cage. The pigeon stopped fluttering as it died.

  Conn, sickened by his friend’s act of cruelty, knew that challenging Bryant
would only spur him on to do something worse. “I’m leaving. You dinnae want to be left alone without a Cloudwalker.”

  “Oh, so you think you’re a full-fledged Cloudwalker now too? You want me to do what? Bow down and kiss your boots?”

  “I’m going home. Bye, Bryant.” Conn turned and strode off. Every so often he tested the cloudbank before him, giving it a few stabs.

  Behind him came a torrent of high-pitched squawks. A thousand wings flapped wildly, desperately. It was the sound of countless terrified birds unable to escape from their pens. Conn turned around just in time to see Bryant, thirty yards out, running back and forth along the rows of cages. Stomping down on one cage after another, he was laughing hysterically. Conn wanted to scream back for him to stop, or to go face his friend. He could go back and bring about his lockwood to get him to stop. But instead, Conn dropped to his knees and threw up.

  Chapter 4

  Conn, with Brig in tow, passed by a group of four huddled Dorcha Poileas who seemed disinterested in them, and entered the Empire State Building at cloudbank level, the skyscraper’s fortieth floor. Once inside, Conn expected Brig to head on home, but the boy stayed glued to his side. Together, they hurried to the stairwell access to begin the long ascent up Manhattan’s tallest remaining building.

  Robert, the Brataich CloudMaster, conducted all official clan business on the 86th floor. At times, he sat upon an actual throne there. But it wasn’t unusual to find the clan leader outside, pacing the adjacent observation deck, which provided spectacular views of the Manhattan skylands and the few remaining Midtown high-rise spires. Conn and Brig entered the towering high-ceiling vestibule of the 86th floor. The view from here was amazing and he never tired of it. In the distance he saw the other clan castle-like structures, now looking more like giant candlesticks glowing in the night. The buildings of Manhattan had certainly aged in the centuries since the Ruin, in spite of the near constant care by Skylander craftsman and artisans. Each of the buildings here above the clouds was controlled by a different clan who called the towering structures their home.