Brian, the only one to nod, said, “There were other ways to handle things.” He looked to Sam and Leon. “Three against an army. We chose the lesser of evils: to keep watch over you. To stay behind.”
“I suppose I should thank you. At least for that.”
Brian shrugged, while Sam and Leon said nothing.
“And for that, I will let you live,” Danu said. “This will be a hard lesson . . . a very hard lesson learned this night. I am sorry.”
Now alerted, three sets of eyes flashed wide onto Danu. But it was already too late. She thrust out a hand, grasping her rackstaff and jerking it back into her own possession before any of them could make a move. Swinging it horizontally into a two-handed grip, she abruptly thrust the staff outward. An invisible energy force, coming from the staff, hurled the three men off their feet and high into the air. They fell hard, landing on their backs some thirty feet away. She kept her gaze upon them just long enough to ensure they were still alive but unconscious. Danu turned back toward the cloudbank. The last of the Grounder men had joined the end of the line. She crossed the short distance of dirt and rock, and stepped onto the far more familiar cloudbank surface. Raising and pointing the tip of her rackstaff toward the distant head of the snakelike file, she let the tip of her staff hover there for several moments. High Priestess Danu Macbeth closed her eyes then whispered the words, “Oh God . . . please forgive what I must do this terrible night.” When she opened them again, no longer were they full of remorse or pain.
Inwardly, she began drawing upon that which was ancient and eternal, the unbridled energy that waited there, deep within the cloudbank. The energy was dangerous beyond comprehension, for all too easily she knew wild bolts of lighting could ignite, then engulf, the entire surrounding cloudbank. With even the slightest conjuring misjudgment on her part, all would be lost—including herself. Faint at first, flashes of blue light began to strobe on-and-off deep within the misty sea of silvery white before her. As Danu zeroed onto a specific distant point on the horizon, her concentration intensifying, the flashes of blue light became even stronger and brighter. Suddenly, a jolt of energy shot up through her feet, legs, torso, arms and hands, coursing out through the tip of her leveled rackstaff. The increasing force—this very essence of the cloudbank—became so intense she nearly released her hold on the rackstaff. The tip wavered and became unwieldy in her grip. Danu was frustrated by her own lack of deliberation; perhaps after far too many years without adequately practicing this kind of conjuring, she’d become weak and lackadaisical in spirit, no longer the warrior she’d once been all those years past. Now angered, she doubled her efforts, concentrating to the point her head and eyes began to hurt. The pain is good. She remembered pain was a part of it; it was necessary. Tears filled her eyes as searing heat began to singe her hands where they grasped the rackstaff. Finally, in the distance, she watched as the cloudbank changed color. Colors, she knew, only those gifted with the Sight would be able to see. As the shade of the cloudbank changed from blue to green and then to red, Danu knew that though moments before, it had been almost as solid as the ground far below, the cloudbank was now becoming soft and vaporous. Quickfall. Guilt infiltrated her thoughts. It was never acceptable, this action of hers. How many years would it take for the atoms and molecules to reassemble into something substantial enough to support a person’s weight? Purposeful destruction of the cloudbank was a sinful act. An unforgivable, sinful act. She could use her abilities—her connection with the cloudbank—to rebuild its integrity, but it would not last.
Off in the distance, Danu watched as first Kyle, then Howard, suddenly disappeared from view, as if a hidden trap door had sprung open beneath their feet. Both were gone in an instant. Then, slowly panning the point of her rackstaff to the left toward the Grounders next in line—now clearly horrified at the sudden loss of their leaders—she watched as they spun around and began to run before they too found the new patches of quickfall and fell below to their deaths. Soon, all those farther down the line were also clumsily running back toward the safety of firm ground, their desperate cries and shouts carrying across the cloudbank. But Danu’s resolve did not falter. A continuous wide swath of quickfall besieged their desperate exodus. A few lucky souls were able to make their way back, and as the last of the surviving Grounders headed back toward safety, she heard their fading yells and screams as they scrambled down the mountainside below the cloudbank, where the ground was, no doubt, littered with the battered corpses of their fallen brethren.
Sometime later, as Danu approached Freish Kinloch, her decision to venture back to Manhattan, so many miles away, had already been made. The pull to return to her true home could no longer be denied. The timing was right. In the past, the threat of a Grounder attack was always a possibility and reason for concern. As the elder High Priestess, the one making the often-hard decisions, she had been obligated to stay exiled from Manhattan. But after tonight, no further threats would come from those that lurked below the cloudbank. A hard lesson learned on this night, and one that would ensure continued proper deference from those below. Freish Kinloch, and those that chose to stay behind, would be safe.
As her resolve hardened in her mind, Danu contemplated on the simple fact that her conjuring powers would not be accessible to her once back in Manhattan. Not as long as that meteorite was kept enthroned within the Chrysler Building. Nevertheless, she still felt compelled to return.
Chapter 31
Misty was bookended between two of the deacon’s men, attempting to walk but mostly being dragged along as they made their way through Lasher’s lair. With their vise-like grips clamped tightly around her upper arms, she tried in vain to squirm free. She had already been manhandled up two flights of stairs, and now she was being escorted along a hallway. She’d lost sight of her mother, who was ushered away earlier to whereabouts unknown.
Over and over, as if on a continual loop, she reheard her mother’s cold and final words to her. I’m not your mother. How could she say such a cruel thing? And she didn’t even ask about her father’s condition. Would she even care if I told her that he’s dead? With her vision blurred by tears, Misty momentarily caught sight through an open doorway of no less than five women, sitting on straight-back chairs arranged in a circle. With books open on their laps, one of the women was reading aloud from Purgeforth Scripture.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
“Be silent,” said the man to her left.
“I need to talk to my mother. Just let me see her for—”
But in that moment she was wrenched sideways through another open doorway. Both men released their hold on her at the same time. Forward momentum, combined with her sudden loss of balance, caused her to fall hard onto the hardwood floor. She then heard the door close and the sound of a lock being engaged. Lying prone in the muted silence, she was aware that a lone candle flickered somewhere in the dimly lit room. As her head rested upon her forearm, uncontrollable sobs racked her body. Was this to be her existence? Living here among all the Purgeforth zealots? Was she to become one of those stern and emotionless Purgeforth Prioresses or—worse—one of the deacon’s wives? The thought sickened her. NO! I’d rather be dead. Someway, somehow, I’ll kill myself first.
She thought of Conn. She’d gotten him into this mess. Undoubtedly, he’d been captured by now, since there were too many of the deacon’s men for anyone to fight alone, even a Skylander warrior like the ones she’d read about in her book. So this was all on her. She was responsible for what they would now do to him. She mentally replayed back the beating, the awful whipping her father endured at the hand of the deacon. I’ve been so selfish, forcing him to come with me. It’s my fault if he’s in a dungeon somewhere, beaten and bloody, she thought, miserable. Her mind flashed to the dead woman they had discovered in the basement, and she felt sick and horrified all over again. Oh God, what if they’ve killed him?
*
Conn flicked his wrist upward, causing his rackstaff
to spring back into its compacted form. He quickly sidestepped into the same doorway the deacon had escaped through to evade the growing number of blackjack-wielding, brutish men back in the hallway. The room—even the ceiling—was painted a dirty, drab orange color. From a demarcation line halfway up the walls, blackish mold hung like a dingy curtain. He sprinted past the room’s sparse furnishings to another open door he spotted at the room’s opposite end. Some moments earlier, while making his brief stand against the deacon’s men, he’d heard the religious leader’s menacing voice coming from the kitchen. So clearly there was a way to circle back around and get to Misty. And then get the hell out of here.
Suddenly, Conn found himself standing in another hallway. God, it’s a freaking maze in here! Hurrying through a doorway on the left, he found himself trapped in a small bathroom. Backing out, he heard his pursuers storming through the orange room next door. Back again in the hallway, he turned left, then quickly made another left and entered into a large dining hall. With its long wooden tables, he recognized it as the same dining room he’d spotted earlier, only from the perspective of the kitchen, now off in the distance. And also standing there, just ten feet before him, was a smirking Deacon Terrence Lasher. A small army of identically dressed men stood at his rear. Conn didn’t need to look behind him to know his pursuers from the hallway were also assembling to block off his retreat. There will be no escaping them this time. He tightened his grip upon the paw of his rackstaff, contemplating on the last two times he’d racked it out into its lockwood form. Had he lost his mind earlier, or had he somehow been magically transported back in time? He could ill afford to be dispatched in such a way right now.
“This is not a rightful place for a young Skylander such as yourself, “ the deacon said. A thin crease formed between his eyes. “I know you, boy. Were you not my own Cloudwalker, no more than . . . what, two . . . three days past?”
“Aye, that was me.”
“Your name?”
“Conn Brataich, of the clan with the same name.”
The deacon’s chin rose slightly at the mention of the ruling CloudMaster’s surname. “What are your dealings here with my wives? I warn you, speak only the truth to me.”
“Misty is not your wife. Best you just let her go.”
The deacon smiled. “Go with you? A Grounder girl leaving here with a Skylander boy?” The deacon glanced at his men and exchanged a wry smile. “No, I think I will keep her here, for myself. Besides, if I recall correctly, there are harsh punishments for a noble clansmen interacting with a Grounder of the opposite sex. Does not the Dorcha Poileas enforce clan dictums, preside over the Fall From Grace ritual?”
“It’s not like that. I dinnae really ken her. What I do ken is she doesnae want to be here. Certainly, she does not want to marry someone the likes of you, an old man.”
Suddenly gone was the deacon’s bemused smile. “You are clearly ignorant of Purgeforth Scripture. But that does not excuse your lack of respect to one’s elders. Add to that, you have injured two of my parishioners.”
“Aye,” responded Conn, his body tensing. “I was defending myself from your bowbags!”
The deacon continued, “Given who you are, and who your father is, I was prepared to let you leave here with a stern warning never to return. But your loose tongue cannot be ignored, nor your rudeness. Not in here, in this virtuous house of Providence.”
The deacon gestured to the men standing behind Conn. As strong hands took ahold of him, his rackstaff was ripped from his grasp. Next, they pulled Mr. Romano’s borrowed coat away from his shoulders. Conn, forced down onto his knees, struggled but there were too many men around him. He made no attempt to speak out, all the while keeping his eyes locked onto the deacon’s skeletal face. Startled, he felt his shirt torn open, exposing his bare back.
Conn swallowed hard and forced calm into his voice as he said, “Do you really want to start a war with a Skylander clan, Deacon? The Brataich Clan, no less? It will not end well for you, old man. I promise you that.” One of Lasher’s lackeys handed him a cat-o’-nine-tails, which the deacon held grasped in one hand. Terrific, he thought. Things were going from bad to worse. All for a Grounder girl he didn’t really know.
“You will take your punishment like a man. And, if you are fortunate, no mention will be made of your presence here, or of your relationship with the Grounder girl.”
What relationship? Conn thought. Immediately, he was forced further down, his forehead pressed hard onto the floor. He saw the deacon’s rail thin legs approaching, the cat-o’-nine-tails, like tendrils of an otherworldly creature, dragging loosely behind him along the hardwood floor.
“Hold him tight,” the deacon ordered, as Conn watched him lift the cat-o’-nine-tails up off the floor.
Crack!
Conn’s mind registered the sound a mere nanosecond before the whip struck, sending such intense pain through him he nearly fainted.
Chapter 32
Conn had never experienced such white-hot hatred—such rancor. Not for anyone, never before in his life. But he truly did hate this pretend, counterfeit man of God. As he gasped and panted through the pain, he promised himself of a reckoning to come for Deacon Terrence Lasher.
Crack!
He didn’t think a second strike could hurt him as much as the first, but he was wrong. The pain engulfed his mind to the extent he felt dizzy. He felt the blow land on his still-healing stitches from the wound he’d received just a few nights before, enveloping him in a fresh wave of agony. But the pain wasn’t the worst of it; it was the utter humiliation. Another strike with the whip and he surely would piss himself. Probably cry. Or even worse, beg for mercy.
“Eight more, boy, and then we are done,” the deacon said.
With a sudden burst of adrenaline, Conn started to buck and thrash about. His surge of crazed power was strong enough to tear him free of those grasping his arms. He bared his teeth, like something primal, a rabid animal, and a sound emanated from a place deep within him, part growl, part scream. It was a summoning cry, a battlefield hail to Charge! Now onto his feet, his hands balled into fists, Conn delivered a devastating right cross to the jaw of the man on his left, staggering him. Without pause, he kicked out hard behind him, and both heard and felt the gratifying crunch of a man’s kneecap being fractured. Something solid dropped to the floor and rolled. The deacon’s men had taken a step back, giving him a wider berth. The circle of men stared, their eyes leery.
How long can I keep up this act? Conn wondered. I’m already tiring. Something nagged at his subconscious. Something was out of place. The deacon’s men shuffled their feet, poised to close in on him from all sides. There it was again: a fast moving blur of red beyond the circle of men, a haircut worn like a boy’s. Conn continued to spin about, first one way then the next with his fists raised, ready to engage any or all of them. The corners of his mouth turned up as he realized help had indeed arrived. Bring it on!
Snap Click, Snap Click, Snap Click . . .
Conn knew those sounds well, sounds which could only mean one thing: the sound of three rackstaffs being extended after forceful flicks by three Cloudwalkers’ wrists.
Then another unmistakable sound rang out, the painful cry of a man who had either been stabbed or sliced by razor-sharp steel. A second man also cried out, and then a third. Total mayhem ensued. Angry Grounders yelled out orders in their rough voices, but Conn also heard whoops and commands in the distinct Gallic overtones of his own people. He recognized the female voice of brash, red-haired Maggie O’Brian, and caught sight of her wielding her rackstaff against two of the parishioner’s thugs. His friend Toag, smiling, momentarily caught his eye as he joined into the fray. Even more surprising, though, was seeing his brother Michael entered the kitchen, his weapon already slicing through the air. Conn stepped back fast, his elbow catching the man behind him in the face. The Grounder men continued to wield their blackjacks, but with this surprise attack, they were in disarray. Even with their sup
erior numbers, the hulking thugs were used to intimidating and beating defenseless Grounders, and were no match for these young, well-trained Cloudwalker warriors.
Conn spun around, his eyes sweeping the floor. There it is! His rackstaff lay between the feet of none other than the deacon himself. Still grasping his cat-o’- nine-tails and looking enraged, the deacon charged for him while lashing out with his bloodied implement of torment. Sidestepping, Conn dove to the floor. Reaching for his rackstaff, he felt the tips of his fingers make contact with the staff’s paw, only for it to spin farther away into the tangle of staggering Grounder men.
The toe of a boot connected hard with Conn’s right cheek just as another vicious kick painfully struck his right ear. Stars swam in his vision, and he nearly blacked out. Sensing motion above him, he spotted a raised boot heel poised to drive downward, ready to eviscerate his face. He spun his prone body sideways, and in doing so, barreled into more legs. Down came two bodies, landing atop him with grunts and curses. Trapped on the floor, lying amongst both grime and floating dust bunnies, Conn spotted it just inches away—his rackstaff. Energized again, he reached out and tightened his fingers tight around the staff. As he struggled to regain his footing, amongst the flailing legs and arms that surrounded him, he felt a strong grasp on his arm. Looking up, he saw his brother Michael. He hefted him up onto his feet.
“We need to get out of here, like right now!” Michael yelled. With an arm around his waist, helping to support Conn’s weight, his brother began to push through the crowd. The floor was slick with blood. They stepped over an immobile body—Conn was relieved to see it wasn’t a Cloudwalker. Michael raised his rackstaff, a warning: open a path or else.
Conn said, “Wait!”
“No time. We need to clear out of here.”
“Misty. I’m not leaving here without her.”
Cloudwalkers Page 18
