Cloudwalkers

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  Conn, staring into the darkness, saw movement; he could make out at least five shapes. Grounder bandits.

  The same deep voice echoed out from the narrow-walled confines, “You know the rules, Cloudwalker. You keep to your realm, we keep to ours.” Snickering came from several others. Conn stopped short when their footsteps came closer and louder. He could make them out now, a sorry band of disheveled thugs. Nary a one of them was without something clutched within a fist: a metal pipe, a length of rebar, and two of them even held long knives, a rare commodity.

  “What do you carry upon your shoulders?” the leader of the gang asked. Neither the tallest nor the shortest man there, he was the broadest, the most muscular. A moment passed before he continued. “A body? Maybe some poor sod, eh, who stepped somewhere he shouldn’t have?”

  “Let me pass,” said Conn firmly, though his heart beat hard inside his chest. “This does not concern you. I dinnae want any trouble.”

  “You know, I never liked the Scottish tongue. The strange way you people talk makes me a bit squirmy. What do you think, boys, does it make you squirmy, too?”

  “Makes me want to cut that waggling tongue from his Skylander mouth,” another of the bandits said.

  Conn released his hold on the covered body draped over his shoulders and let it stay balanced up there by gravity alone. His right hand drifted down to just below his waist, where the paw of his rackstaff hung from its peccary leather thong. “Can I ask you a quick question,” he asked, “before we take this any further?”

  “Of course! We’re as polite as a gaggle of old schoolmarms . . . until you make us angry.”

  Conn nodded. “Have you come up against one of us—a skirted freak, as you put it—before? Or maybe heard stories?”

  A new voice entered the conversation. “Are we going to talk on like this all night?” The man sniffed and spat, then began tapping the end of his long metal pipe against the brick wall he was leaning on. A drumroll beat that only added to the mounting tension.

  “Tell you what,” the muscular leader said. “I’m feeling charitable this fine evening. Leave the carcass and we’ll let you pass. His clothes—and whatever else he possesses—will be payment enough for free passage.”

  “Tempting as that is, I’m afraid I’ll have to pass. Unfortunately, the poor man had no clothes on. It seems another band of merry men beat you to the punch.”

  Conn noticed the sixth man a moment too late, coming up behind him from the street’s access to the alleyway. By the time Conn reacted, the bandit’s metal pipe was already making its downward trajectory. All Conn had time to do was make the slightest pivot. The pipe barreled down, connecting with flesh and bone with incredible force and a sharp, distinctive crack which echoed through the alley. It was only by sheer luck that the flesh and bone being crushed belonged to the dead man atop Conn’s shoulders.

  Conn abruptly jerked upright then straightened his shoulders, catapulting the dead body off him. Conn’s rackstaff, already firmly gripped within his right fist, was given a deliberate double-flick and a twist of his wrist. The staff’s intricate inner mechanism instantly extended out to its full six-foot length. He spun the entire length of hardened Ragoon wood over his head with a whooshing sound that increased as the end of the staff picked up momentum. Tactical, close-quarter fighting was as familiar to Conn as putting on his sandals every morning. In the span of a split second, his eyes spotted the leader. Clap! The end of his rackstaff whacked into the man’s cheekbone, spinning the bandit around a full 360 degrees, before he staggered and dropped to the blacktop, moaning in pain.

  One down.

  The Grounder who’d snuck up behind Conn only moments before was making a second attempt to crush his cranium, throwing a sideways blow from his metal pipe this time, but Conn blocked it with his rackstaff in time. Barely. The clang of the metal pipe striking his weapon echoed through the alley and into the city beyond. Conn felt the crack reverberate through his weapon all the way to his wrist; it had been a heavy strike even on the hardened Ragoon wood, and he knew the blow would have killed him if it had been allowed to hit home. He watched as the momentum from the bandit’s over-extended strike forced him off balance. After a step backward, Conn’s rackstaff came around in a low sweeping motion, smacking both of the man’s calves simultaneously. As his legs flew up and out, his head moved in the opposite direction—plummeting down, and striking the street with a sickening crunch. The Grounder did not move.

  Two down—four to go.

  The remaining bandits, lined up in a perfect row, were eight feet away. The two in the middle, both carrying long knives, slowly stepped forward.

  “What do you say we call this a draw, before someone really gets hurt?” Conn asked.

  They came at him at the same time, their sharp twelve-inch blades slicing through the air from two different angles. Conn, stepping sideways, avoided one swipe, but he wasn’t so lucky dodging the other. The tip of the knife raked midway across the width of his back, and he let out an involuntary roar at the white-hot sensation of sharp pain. Unsure how deep the slice was, he knew he’d have to worry about it later—if he lived that long. Clearly, these men intended to play for keeps. He blocked out the pain, as he’d been trained to do.

  Conn brought the full length of his rackstaff up a bit higher, only this time he flicked his wrist upward. The staff’s internal mechanism, complying with the physical movement, immediately withdrew part of its length. The rackstaff made an odd clicking noise Conn had never heard before, and worry spiked through him until he felt the rackstaff shift securely down into its lockwood function. He didn’t need to look at it to know that a razor-sharp blade had unfurled during the rackstaff’s mechanical process. Moving to avoid another attack, he found himself a tad clumsier as blood dripped down the backs of his thighs, soaking his kilt and threatening to ruin his footing. But the pain was still manageable, and he tried not to dwell on it. Bleeding out here was not an option. It was time to end this fight.

  Conn waited for the next attack. It came from the bandit on the right, attempting to circle around him and force him to turn his back to the other man. Letting him think he had done just that, Conn spun around in time to confront the attacker coming up behind him. The counter-movement was purely instinctive. Conn next stepped off to the side, whipping his rackstaff sideways from right to left at the same time. The attacker’s hand, along with the still-tightly clenched knife in his fist, dropped to the ground. Both Conn and the disabled bandit stared at the cleaved wrist. Blood spurted forth, rhythmically throbbing with the bandit’s accelerating heart rate. The bandit let loose a stifled howl, a raw sob cut short by his own shock. He sunk to the ground, staring at the severed hand on the ground as though he couldn’t believe it was there. He would be no more trouble for the moment. Conn turned to face the other knife-wielding bandit, prepared to do whatever was necessary to stay alive. But he was gone, as were the others.

  Conn turned back to the one-handed bandit, now squatting on his knees, his bleeding arm stump drawn close to his body, as if to protect it from further harm. Conn looked about, but of course he wouldn’t find what he needed here on the ground. He placed a firm hand atop one of the bandit’s shirtsleeves and ripped it free of the shirt.

  “Hold out your arm.”

  The bandit, tears in his eyes, shook his head.

  “If you want to live to see tomorrow, you’ll do as I say. Do it!”

  The bandit tentatively did as told. Conn wrapped the torn-off sleeve around the man’s arm, six inches above the bleeding stump, and pulled the ends of the fabric tighter until the spurting blood was reduced to a trickle. “I ken it hurts, but don’t even think about loosening this tourniquet. You ken someone who can attend the wound? A healer?”

  The bandit’s eyes fluttered. He’d already lost a lot of blood, but then so had Conn. The Grounder thug slowly nodded and Conn helped him to stand. “Go now, get out of here!” Conn waited a full moment, making sure no other surprise attack w
ould be coming. The two remaining bandits were still out cold.

  Conn then moved toward the other inert form, groaning in pain. He was unsure how he was going to carry the dead Skylander’s body up all those flights of stairs.

  “You need help?”

  Conn instantly recognized the boy’s voice. “You shouldn’t be down here, Brig.”

  “Aye, but down here I am. Do you want my help, or not?”

  Conn sighed, his back throbbing where he’d been wounded. “Aye, that I do.”

  The boy showed himself, hurrying out from the shadows that enveloped him.

  Chapter 10

  Danu Macbeth was awake before the sun crested the eastern ridge line of the distant Adirondacks. Wearily, she tucked a strand of silver white hair behind her ear. A full night’s sleep was more of an anomaly these days than the norm. She wasn’t certain if it was simply the advance of old age, she was sixty-three, creeping up on her, or perhaps a growing inner unrest—knowledge that events, both above and below, would become far worse before they got better. She often thought her Celtic knowingness was as much a curse as it was a gift.

  But all the same, Danu truly did love the early mornings above the ever-present cloud layer. She’d slept with her window wide open and now stood before it as the soft breeze floated in. A steaming mug of hot Tangine tea was held close to her breast, warming her and comforting her. She waited. Then, one by one, the distant mountain peaks caught hold of the sun’s golden rays. She had observed this same spectacle a thousand mornings before—experienced the true wonder and majesty of a life spent within the high treetops. The last of the ascending peaks now turned a bright-yellow gold, creating a heavenly crown of light that seemed settled atop a fluffy white bed of cotton. She no longer allowed the contrasting knowledge of a life lived above the cloud, with those dreary, horrid lives below, to distract her from these stolen, blissful moments.

  *

  Now dressed in her clan’s tartan plaid, a long draping material of royal blue with red, yellow, and orange pin striping, Danu moved sure-footedly across the two hundred foot expanse. The individual timber boards that comprised the tethered rope and hardwood plank suspension bridge shifted slightly under her bare feet as she made her way across to the other tree house-like structure, equal in size to the one she’d just left. Erected among thick branches, they were commonly referred to as roosts. She stopped midway to observe the thick supporting crop of Ragoons. Two to three times the height of even the tallest North America Sequoia, Ragoons were not native to this world, but they were a blessed addition just the same. They allowed folks like her to still live above the cloudbank. Not so different from those towering skyscrapers back home, so many miles away. Or is this my home now? Danu pondered. Does it really matter?

  Danu was a Celtic high-priestess, as well as a clan CloudMaster in her own right. The latter title was one she’d neither wanted nor asked for in years long past. She, among close to two hundred other Skylanders, lived high above the cloudbank—amongst the branches of the towering Ragoon trees—atop White Mountain. Today, she would be meeting with a group of Grounders. She didn’t relish the thought. Grounders always possessed such dark souls. They openly coveted the life and freedoms of Skylanders and Cloudwalkers, but did little to enhance their own stead, their own lifestyle. Why was that? Today, they would be discussing water rights, yet again.

  Danu glanced back at her roost, at the open window where she left the still-hot cup of tea. Raising her walking stick, a fully expended rackstaff, she made a subtle horizontal motion with it in the air. The little cup, still balanced atop its delicate saucer, moved silently across the open expanse. Slowing, it came to a gentle stop before lowering onto Danu’s awaiting open palm.

  Chapter 11

  By the time they made it to the top of the stairwell, Conn had grown even more thankful for the boy’s assistance. He watched Brig heft the trailing legs of the Folais Cloudwalker’s body up over the landing and drop them there. Conn, weak, sat down before he could collapse.

  “Cannae go another step,” Brig said, his hair and face wet with perspiration. The boy, jutting his chin in Conn’s direction, added, “You’re bleeding worse than this bloke.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “So who’s the stiff?”

  “I’ve already answered that same question four times. Again, it is not your concern.”

  “Why were you sent down there alone?”

  Conn stared blankly at the brash youngster. Of course Conn knew why. It was a test, one of a number of tests recently. The CloudMaster wanted each of his heirs to be self-reliant. He’d never coddled any of his three children. And as his father’s illness steadily progressed, the ailing leader had only increased his trial-by-fire methodology.

  Before Conn, again, could tell Brig to mind his own business, two tall shadows took shape upon the opposite wall of the entrance. His older brother Michael, followed by Toag, stepped into the cramped space.

  Michael, the first to speak, said, “You’re late.”

  “Aye, I stopped to admire the pretty view a few times.” Conn stifled a groan as a fresh wave of pain swept over him. Both Cloudwalkers suddenly looked concerned.

  “Who did this?” Toag asked, dropping to a knee and lifting the back of Conn’s shirt.

  “Six bandit bowbags,” Brig said. “But they’re in far worse shape.”

  Michael huffed disapprovingly. “The point was not to be seen, little brother. Did anyone else see you?”

  Conn weighed telling him about the two Grounder girls then shook his head. “No.” Almost imperceptibly, Brig’s brows arched up.

  So the boy did follow him below to where the body fell. He had been down there too, lurking somewhere in the dark, watching him.

  “Fine. We’ll tend to the corpse now. Go get that scratch tended to before it gets infected.” Michael, pointing down to the dead man’s feet, said, “Grab the legs, Toag.”

  Michael, while kneeling down, noticed Conn’s rackstaff. “What’s going on with that?”

  Jobby! Conn closed his eyes, inwardly chiding himself for not hiding the staff. In parrying away one of the bandit’s swinging metal pipes, he’d saved his noggin, but his rackstaff hadn’t fared as well. Its intricate internal mechanism was damaged to the point where it no longer allowed for the multi-use staff to fully retract. Conn had used it as a walking stick on the way up the stairs, but there was no hiding the damage now. This was no small matter, either. Michael didn’t need to remind Conn how disrespectful it was to the clan, not to mention the racksmith who’d meticulously labored near a year in crafting the thing. No one spoke for nearly a minute.

  “I’ll let you make your own explanations to Father.”

  Conn nodded, then watched as Michael and Toag left, carrying the dead Skylander’s body away.

  “You need help getting over to the Empire?”

  “No, thank you. You go on, Brig. Head on home now.”

  Brig hesitated at first then scurried out the door. Conn, now alone, sat on the landing in the dim light of the flickering lamp on the wall. Michael was right, he thought, feeling like a numpty. I’ve made a guddle of this whole situation. The sun had not yet risen, but he needed to awaken Thannis McDuffie. The old, half-blind healer would dutifully stitch him up, hopefully without complaint. As for Conn, it looked as though he faced yet another night without a wink of sleep, no thanks to his insomnia this time.

  Wincing, Conn rose to his feet.

  *

  A full day and another night had passed by the time Conn re-entered the vestibule on the Empire’s 86th floor, his back still aching but now clean and bandaged. It would heal quickly so long as he did not push himself, McDuffie had told him, but he would likely bear a scar there for the rest of his days. In stark contrast to his visit the previous night, many a man and woman was present now. Although the red tartan plaid of the Brataich clan dominated, kilts of other clans were present too. Most, like Conn, were awaiting an audience with Robert.

&nb
sp; “You move like a daft crony thrice your age, lad.”

  Conn turned to see Lidia O’Cain, a homely, middle-aged woman staring back at him. The CloudMaster was from One Penn Plaza, a relatively close neighbor among all the mid-town property towers. Her tartan garb was red and white, with opaque lines of yellow and thin, delicate lines of blue, and she watched him with calculating eyes from her place leaning against the wall.

  “Aye, Ma’am,” responded Conn with a smile. “I overdid a practice for the upcoming Skylander games. Still early days; just working out the kinks.”

  Her expression made it clear she didn’t buy his excuse. Separating herself from the wall, she joined him at the tall window, placing an open palm atop her blouse just above her heart. Together, they stared out at the mid-morning view, at the bright-white cloudbank and the buildings that pierced through it. In the distance, a broad-faced building facade reflected back at them which was missing a gaping chunk from the lower portion of the building’s flank. The area was ragged, as though a giant monster had taken a colossal bite out of the immense structure. Actually, it was a direct hit from a falling meteor that had destroyed the building, a visible reminder of the very start of the Ruin Event.

  “You need not tell tall tales, Conn. I ken verra well of your nighttime exploit.”

  Conn kept silent, and waited for another reprimand.

  “You came back with the poor sod,” she said after a moment. “And from what I hear, you defended yourself with honor. I cannae excuse your clumsiness, though.”

  Conn’s eyes fell to his belt, where the paw of his rackstaff should have been tethered.

  “Conn!” He forced his eyes up to meet hers.

  “Change is coming.” Hesitating, she added, “Not just with your father, that is inevitable. The bank . . . it’s . . . showing signs . . .”

  She was referring to the shifting of the cloudbank. It had always moved to some degree—up an inch or two one year, and down a few inches the next. Some areas became less dense to the point they couldn’t support a man’s weight, while other areas strengthened. But Conn knew such fluctuations were not what she was addressing now. She was referring to the cloudbank above Jersey City. Last year, one of the skyscrapers there lost its connection with the cloudbank. The quickfall patches that formed all around it turned the very building into an island unto itself. A once powerful clan had been humiliated, forced to scramble for residence within another clan’s tower domain.