Cloudwalkers

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  “Nah, I won’t abandon you, Misty. I promise. “ He pulled her even closer, breathing in the scent of jasmine perfume. “How you holding up? You’ve had a lot of changes in the past few days. I know you’re not used to any of this.”

  When she finally looked up to him, he thought, God, I could get lost in those emerald eyes—if I let myself. Her smile was warm, with a hint of shyness. Now, so close to her, Conn noticed the ever so faint freckles that dappled the bridge of her nose, a detail he hadn’t observed before.

  Conn was faintly aware of the music changing, the musicians flowing seamlessly from song to song as he and Misty remained on the dance floor. He knew he should stop, that he should go and find Lili, but with Misty in his arms, he didn’t care.

  “Conn!” Michael was at his side, looking perturbed. Conn, distracted, hadn’t even sensed his approach. “Are you deaf? Your presence has been requested by Father.”

  “What? What are you talking about?” But even as he spoke, Conn remembered his sister’s words as he entered the Gala. Father wants to speak with you. He said it’s important.

  Michael glanced at Misty and seemed surprised.

  Conn lowered his voice, “Yes, it’s Misty. But remember, she’s going by Adaira.”

  “I know who it is. Hi. You look . . .”

  Conn cut him off. “Where’s Father?”

  Michael, still staring at Misty, said, “The Callanish; there’s a dinner for all the CloudMasters and immediate family members. Lili’s there. Alone. She said you abandoned her.”

  Conn glanced about the dance floor and sure enough, she and Toag were nowhere to be seen. He turned his attention back to Misty, still held closely in his arms. “Sorry, I have to go.”

  “That’s okay, I see Maggie over by the side tables.” Waving, she smiled at her across the room. When she released Conn’s hand and moved away, he could still smell the scent of jasmine in her wake.

  Conn followed Michael through a rear door, down a winding flight of stairs, then through another door leading into the Callanish Room. Upon entering, he immediately knew something was wrong. There was conversation, even some subdued laughter around the massive, raw timber-planked table that seated forty comfortably. But at the head of the table, seated at the far end, was none other than Gordon Folais. Conn’s father, Robert Brataich, the only real Skylander leader in Manhattan for as long as Conn could remember, was seated to Gordon’s left. Robert coughed and struggled to clear his throat of accumulated phlegm. Hunched over, he looked as sick as Conn had ever seen him.

  Then realization hit him. There was but one CloudKing. The Midtown clans hadn’t rallied together yet to promote Robert Brataich. Only now did Conn see beyond the smiles and joviality; as he met the eyes of individual Manhattan CloudMasters, he saw through the pretense to the forced smiles and uneasy chatter. CloudMaster Lidia O’Cain showed fear in her now-downturned gaze.

  Standing behind Gordon Folais, one at each shoulder, were his two sons Dearth and Garret. Seeming larger than life, both big and muscular—like identical cast statues—they appraised the new arrivals. Their eyes were cold and unblinking in their sunken sockets. Conn could feel their hatred bore into him. Spinter Row Folais, the third son, sat quietly to the CloudKing’s right. But it was Gordon Folais’ demeanor that was most unsettling. He looked both calm and confident, as if he’d just heard a bit of good news. Perhaps a healer’s proclamation, telling him he’d been cured of a terminal illness. Without a word, Conn and Michael crossed the room to stand by their father.

  A loud thunderclap outside the windows, followed by a flash of lighting, brought silence into the room. Conn still didn’t know what was going on—what sort of discussion he’d just walked into. One thing was for damn sure, there was tension in the room. He could both feel it and smell it.

  Gordon Folais suddenly stood, his chair pulled back and set aside by Dearth.

  “Very good; we are all present. And good that the entire Brataich family is in attendance.” Gordon paused a moment to survey the faces around the table. “This is a momentous occasion. Soon, each one of you will have a choice: either to embrace change or attempt to fight it. We are but one people—a proud people—each of us a derivative of Celtic heritage. God has bestowed upon us a unique blessing. Our genetic mutation, which allows us to live upon the cloudbank, is a blessing which makes us superior to all others alive on this good earth.”

  Conn caught sight of Lili, leaning against the far wall by one of the windows. Her bemused expression irritated him almost as much as her father’s talk of genetic superiority.

  “It is time we come together and unite as one people, living in one city.”

  Cross-talk murmurs rose from those seated at the table.

  “Silence!” Gordon barked, his face momentarily contorted in anger. He pulled his rackstaff from his belt and, with the flick of a wrist, extended it out into its lockwood prolongation. The unfurled blade glimmered, reflecting the room’s ambient light. Gordon raised the weapon, pointing its tip toward the window. Every eye in the room was upon him; it was a serious sign of disrespect to unsheathe a weapon in polite company, but no one spoke. “Out there—not far to the east—are thousands of souls in dire need. Our Jersey City cloudbank is succumbing to quickfall. Conditions are worsening by the day. My people must migrate, and soon.”

  Conn’s father finally looked up. His eyes were furious, wild with rage. He tried to stand, but needed the assistance of CloudMaster Baird to help him rise to his feet. “I have told you time and time again that we cannot accommodate your people. There is simply no room. I am sorry, Gordon.” Robert glanced toward the window and shook his head, releasing a sigh of resignation. “Perhaps there is minimal Midtown vacancy on select floors . . . those deep within the cloudbank. I can check. “

  Gordon slowly nodded, offering a condescending smile. “So that is it. The very crux of the matter. Your unwillingness to bend. You refuse to assist a friend in need, and deign to offer your Jersey City brethren only those floors hidden deep within the cloudbank? The dredge of Skylander real estate, where my people would live only a notch above the lowly Grounders?”

  “It’s a start, Gordon! And one hell of a lot better than the alternative, which is staying where you are now.”

  Conn and Michael, still standing at their father’s side, exchanged wary glances.

  “You have conveniently forgotten, Robert, old friend, that there is but one reigning CloudKing. The matter is not for you to decide.”

  “That’s quite easy to correct,” Lidia O’Cain said, also rising to her feet. “All ye in favor of reinstating Robert Brataich, of Clan Brataich, as CloudKing, say Aye. Say Aye now!”

  “Aye!”

  “Aye!”

  “Aye!”

  “Aye!”

  Before the fifth CloudMaster could rise to his feet, be the next to say ‘Aye,’ a man suddenly stepped forward. Conn had never laid eyes on him before. He strode forward from his hidden place in the shadowy corner of the room, and gasps of shocked recognition rose from those around the table. Apparently he was not a stranger to everyone. He appeared to be in his fifties or early sixties; his hair, obsidian black, had a single white streak running from his forehead to his crown. He wore a long robe, not too dissimilar to the kind Dob once wore, although this man’s robe was black.

  Gordon said, “Please, allow me to introduce you to—”

  “We know exactly who he is,” Lidia O’Cain said with disgust in her voice. “High Priest Dwaine Kincaid, purveyor of dark conjuring, instigator of war and misery. How dare you, Gordon! For two decades we have had peace and prosperity atop the cloudbank; we’ve quelled disputes between clans that had lasted for centuries. All thanks due to our vanquishing the likes of him to far away places. Why? Why have you brought this abomination back to our realm?”

  Robert, frail and needing the support of Baird’s shoulder, turned around to face the robed man. He spoke just above a whisper, but his voice was commanding. “You will leave he
re. Leave and never return. “

  High Priest Dwaine Kincaid gazed placidly at the ailing CloudMaster. “Or what? You’ll cough on me? Or maybe you’ll wet yourself?” The High Priest smirked as he raised the point of his fully extended rackstaff. Robert Brataich’s eyes suddenly went wide, and he looked down, horrified. Urine, now freely flowing beneath his kilt, was visibly running down his legs. “No, CloudMaster, my people have suffered under your exile long enough.”

  Both Conn and Michael watched their father’s humiliation in horror. Without a word spoken, both sons charged, Conn around the left side of the table and Michael to the right. But then Robert Brataich was lifted suddenly into the air, first vertically, then abruptly spun around horizontally and onto his back. Conn slowed. He had no idea what was happening, or how, but he was desperate to assist his father. Now everyone was up on their feet, yelling for the priest to stop, to put the poor man down, as Robert was slowly lifted higher and transported through the air. Even Lili, still at the edge of the room, looked shocked. Hands reached up, attempting to grab an arm or a leg, but Robert’s struggling form rose ever higher out of reach.

  Gordon, who had moved back into an unused portion of the room, stood perfectly still, only his eyes tracking the elevated approach of the Manhattan CloudMaster. Then, in a blur of motion—with an overhead two-handed strike—Gordon Folais severed the head of Robert Brataich. It fell to the floor with a wet-sounding thunk, and rolled until it came to an abrupt stop at the feet of Robert’s youngest son, Conn Brataich.

  Chapter 42

  In the breadth of the two seconds he stood there, Conn initially experienced a state of confused mental paralysis, one that then transcended into some kind of foggy disbelief. Inner trepidation came next, and the faint understanding that something so, so, so terrible had just occurred. Then he realized that the odd-looking bloody object lying at his feet actually was his father’s decapitated head. My father is dead.

  Reaching for the paw of his rackstaff, nestled by his hip, was as unconscious an act as blinking his eyes, or taking a breath. His gaze leveled onto the man wearing the long dark robes, and Conn moved without thought or calculation. A flick of his wrist brought his rackstaff into lockwood position. He stormed forward, crossing half the space between them while bringing up his blade into position. High Priest Dwaine Kincaid’s eyes caught the movement of his charge. Conn came at him with a Fleche move, an all-out attack that provided Kincaid no recovery to guard against. Conn leapt into the air toward his opponent, bringing his rear foot forward for the landing. Even before his foot touched the floor, Conn’s thrusting strike came at Kincaid’s heart as fast as an inflight arrow. Conn expected Kincaid to attempt a Counter-Riposte—a defensive parry with his own extended rackstaff—but none came. Somehow Kincaid had maneuvered out of the way. Conn’s thrust—one that was certain to end the man’s life in an instant—missed its mark. The high priest, still alive, was now in a far superior position. As Conn attempted to regain his off-balance footing, he realized Kincaid had not moved even an inch. His forward thrust had somehow been diverted. And had he not, in fact, felt a subtle, invisible push against his outstretched arm? Conn, still off-balance, stumbled forward onto the floor.

  In that instant, Conn was suddenly aware of the others in the room. The clamor of turned-over chairs, the snapping sounds of rackstaffs being engaged, and loud voices shouting as orders were issued. No less than eight CloudMasters charged toward the robed man.

  But High Priest Dwaine Kincaid looked as calm as a man taking an afternoon stroll. Raising the end of his rackstaff, he made a gentle sweep of the room from left to right. As if struck by the force of an invisible, oceanic wave, one by one the priest’s attackers were lifted up and thrown backward. Some landed on the long dining table, while others crashed hard into the wall behind it.

  Rising to his feet, Conn took in the surrounding chaos. Michael, somehow, had managed to get to his feet before anyone else. With ease, he jumped onto the table top and leapt, not toward Kincaid but toward Gordon Folais. Of course! He was the orchestrator of this barbaric, ungodly act. But the high priest, also quick to act, targeted his rackstaff’s tip toward Michael’s inflight location. Conn’s brother’s trajectory came to an immediate halt in midair. Immobile as a sculpture, Michael ceased to blink—his chest no longer expanding and contracting with his breath. The room became quiet, and everyone stilled. Only faint sounds of music, and of happy partygoers, spilled down from the ballroom above.

  Lili, along with her three brothers, Dearth, Garret and Spinter Row, and their father, Gordon, weathered the commotion without so much as a scratch. The twins remained captivated by the sight of Michael Brataich’s motionless form, hovering high above the dining table. Lili was breathing hard, her eyes wide as her gaze darted around the chaotic room, but her expression remained stony. Together, they all stood at the back of the room in a dimly lit area. Conn spotted a pretty, wide-eyed steward, probably no older than Misty, standing motionless and terrified behind the bar.

  Gordon said, “Things dinnae have to progress this way, with all this unnecessary upheaval and violence. Are we not one people? All I ask here is for a little accommodation for your brethren in need, that’s all.” Gordon didn’t seem to notice, or care, that his so-called brethren were shooting cold glares of hatred his way. “Now, there can be no mistaking who the master of the realm is. After all, there can be but one CloudKing. Make no mistake about that.”

  Gordon’s focus shifted to the floor, to the headless body of the late Robert Brataich. Bemused, he tilted his head. It looked as if he were contemplating something—something only he could fully appreciate. When he spoke, his voice was calm, almost jovial. “Each of you is thinking this is war. That you will defend your Midtown realm to the death, if that is what’s mandated, aye?” Gordon surveyed the stern faces glaring back at him. “High Priest Kincaid, if you would be so kind?”

  Kincaid, bowing his head in deference to the CloudKing, walked over to the far right window, which exploded in a flash of light. Some of the glass shards fell outward while others cascaded onto the floor inside. Cold winds buffeted the Callanish Room. The High Priest stood aside, providing them an open view to the darkness outside. He raised his chin and held up his rackstaff with the gauche posturing of a stage magician. His extended rackstaff, all six feet in length, pointed outward through the open window. In the far distance they could see the ignition of a tiny spark. A moment later, a burst of brilliant lighting erupted, emanating from both above and below. The Midtown realm was momentarily illuminated, the blackness of nighttime now turned into the stark brightness of day. And in that brightly lit moment an army could be seen off in the distance. A thousand armed men and a hundred CloudWalkers marched toward Manhattan, interspersed together upon the cloudbank.

  Lidia O’Cain, a bloody gash marking her cheek, was the first to speak. “You have no idea what kind of hell storm you’ve unleashed here this night, Folais.”

  “Careful, Lidia,” said Gordon. “This is not the time to be making idle threats. Or shall I have your head cleaved from your shoulders as I did your dear friend Robert?” Gordon eyed his family, and gestured toward the closest door. “Come children, I believe we’ve outstayed our welcome. The rest of you, you have one week to prepare proper accommodations for my Jersey City populace. All floors now occupied above the cloudbank must be vacated. Once my people have found accommodation, perhaps some of you may move back above the cloudbank, if you prove loyal to your CloudKing.” His eyes found Conn’s. “Any remaining members of Clan Brataich will have to find somewhere else to live, perhaps in Jersey City? It’s up to you. But the Empire State is now mine, and you are no longer welcome in Manhattan.”

  Together, the Folais family moved toward the lower-level exit. Lili looked straight ahead, not meeting Conn’s eyes. The high priest fell in behind them. One by one they filed out until only Kincaid remained in the room. He turned back, standing within the door’s open threshold, and pointed his rackstaff abov
e everyone’s heads. Michael Brataich, his arms and legs suddenly beginning to flail, dropped with a loud crash onto the large Ragoon timber dining table.

  Chapter 43

  Two Days Later . . .

  The Jersey City army was gone. Only the trampled surface of the distant cloudbank provided any evidence that they indeed had been there. The news came from the band of Brataich Clan scouts, who’d returned the day before from the southwest.

  Appropriately, the morning was bitter cold and the encroaching fog had enveloped the surrounding building tops like a blanket. Translucent white puffs glided wistfully across the bank like angel effigies, like a half-forgotten dream coming to life.

  Eight bagpipers played a sorrowful, mournful melody. The pipe major, striding a few steps ahead, led the funeral procession heading now for the cloudbank above the Hudson River. More than two hundred Cloudwalkers—some very young and some very old—stood watch for quickfall along the winding route. Of all the cicerones’ duties, this one was the most dreaded. Nary a Cloudwalker’s cheek was dry on this frigid fall morning.

  Behind the bagpipers came the six pallbearers. Upon their strong, rigid shoulders, they supported Ragoon poles, which in turn supported a polished brass bed upon which was the body of deceased CloudMaster Robert Brataich. Conn and Michael had taken the forward left and right carrying positions, while the late leader’s closest friends took up positions right behind them. These two were CloudMaster Morg Baird, and his son, Fib Baird, on his right. The other two pole-carrying positions went to Hansen Brataich, a cousin of Robert’s, and to CloudMaster Lidia O’Cain.

  Behind the pallbearers carrying the bedded CloudMaster’s remains were all those Midtown Skylanders who wished to pay their final respects, and offer a fond farewell to a leader they would wholeheartedly miss. Tightly bundled within their long dark coats, the precession of thousands—men, women, and children of both the nobility and the sept class—snaked along the funeral route that stretched two-and-a-half miles in its entirety.