Cloudwalkers

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  With a start, Conn jerked awake, screaming into the darkness of his bedroom. His arms were raised defensively to fend off the incoming strike. One moment passed, and then another. His chest heaving, he tried to catch his breath. Conn figured the mortal battle had occurred centuries prior. Another vision, but this one felt all too real. Conn was beginning to have trouble defining the lines between himself and the ancient warrior, Darryl.

  “You scared the shite out of me, Conn,” came a small voice from a darkened corner of the bedroom.

  “Sorry. Go back to sleep, okay? There’s still a good many hours before dawn.” Brig didn’t answer. Several minutes passed before Conn heard the boy’s slow steady breathing. He envied the boy’s capacity to fall asleep at will, and to sleep so soundly, too.

  Jumbled segments of the prior day’s events invaded Conn’s thoughts, especially the funeral march ending above the Hudson River: his sister’s concealed giggles turning into grief-stricken tears of anguish, Michael’s face as they’d dropped their father’s body through the clouds. He thought of Misty, her eyes locked onto his—I’m so sorry, Conn. He had wanted to go to her, had felt the pull of her like gravity.

  Soon after the funeral, he, Michael, and Emma had been individually tracked down by sept assistants. There was to be a reading of Robert Brataich’s Last Will & Testament. Their presence was needed immediately on the Empire State’s 86th floor.

  Barrister Thomas Argive, ancient and emaciated-looking with his tufts of wispy white hair protruding from ears and nostrils, was waiting for them within their father’s personal office. Standing up on shaky legs as they entered the room, Conn could see the prepared documents laid out on the table in three separate stacks. Conn, third in line to his father’s title, hadn’t had many dealings with the Brataich Clan business. Emma and Michael, both older, were far more involved in such matters, while Conn was content pursuing his work as a cicerones and his love of the natural sciences. It occurred to him that no one here would have his best interests at heart. He thought of Dob. He wondered what counsel he would have given him to deal with this situation. Break each problem down into its most elementary parts. That, sometimes, works best. Then you can approach the problem from multiple angles!

  Argive cleared his throat and glanced at the three through watery eyes. “I am beyond sorry for your loss. Robert was a dear friend to me for many years. I had hoped he would long outlive me. But since that was not to be, I am here with you now.” Motioning for them to sit, he waited before reseating himself.

  Emma and Michael nervously exchanged a quick glance. Conn simply watched the proceedings with interest.

  “Your father’s holdings were substantial. I suspect far more than you may have surmised.”

  “Yes, the Empire State. Father already told us he owned it outright. No liens, no debts,” Emma said, a little impatiently. She obviously wanted him to get on to the reading of the will.

  “Well, he had other holdings too, Emma. Other Midtown real estate,” Argive said, rising back onto his feet. Conn could almost hear his dry old bones creaking as he unrolled a four-foot-long sheet of paper. A blueprint-style diagram, it showed all the Skylander towers locations within Midtown. The page was nearly covered with handwritten comments; corresponding arrows pointed to this or that. A circle encompassed the Empire State building. Circles in different colors were drawn around other high-rise buildings. Conn noticed a key diagram, located at the bottom right-side corner of the page. It revealed the particular color of a circle denoted other owners. He recognized several names, mostly other CloudMasters, such as CloudMaster Baird, and CloudMaster O’Cain.

  “As you can see, there are significantly more red circles than circles in other colors.”

  “Looks like six more, to be exact,” Emma said, leaning closer to inspect the page.

  One after another, the old man tapped a crooked finger at each red circle. “It was not common knowledge that Robert Brataich was both owner and landlord of these other buildings. That he was collecting, from both nobles and septs alike, significant rental income.”

  Now Michael and Conn exchanged a glance.

  “What is to be done with them?” Emma asked.

  “Your father and I had a number of conversations on this same matter. More so recently, with his illness.”

  “Just tell us,” Emma urged.

  “We should go through the will, at this point. There is much detail, and much explanation we’ll need to wade through.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Emma. “We will do all of that, I assure you, sir, but first just give us the bullet points.”

  “There’s far more here than financial holdings. There is also the matter of his position as CloudMaster,” Argive glanced from Emma to Michael. “Are you not interested to learn which one of you was bequeathed your father’s title?” he asked, a bit flabbergasted.

  “Of course we are,” Emma said, a bright flush rising high on her cheeks. She’s always been like this, Conn thought. Preoccupied with money and material things—and being magisterial. Not superior, so much, for she was kind and self-effacing, too, but behind all that she loved being the daughter of the ruling CloudMaster. It gave her an elevated place within society; queen-like within Midtown’s clan aristocracy. Conn didn’t mind. None of it affected him. He suspected little would change now; her holdings would only increase. His brother would become the clan’s next CloudMaster. And that was how it should be. Michael was ready for it; he had been groomed for it since childhood.

  Argive looked from Emma to Michael. “Okay then. The six Midtown tower holdings, as well as their earnings, are to be split evenly amongst you two. Three buildings apiece. I assure you, their values are equitable.”

  Emma turned to Conn, sympathy in her eyes. He’d apparently been left out of the will. He shrugged. It mattered little to him. What would he do with a Midtown building or two?

  Argive continued, “Michael will indeed take the title of Brataich CloudMaster.” Michael let out an anxious breath and smiled.

  Apparently, Michael wasn’t as certain of things as Conn assumed he’d be. He gave his older brother’s shoulder a squeeze. “You’ll do our father proud, Michael.”

  “There’ll be a meeting of CloudMasters this evening,” continued Argive. “It is imperative you attend, Michael. A vote will be taken. The Midtown CloudKing will be elected.” Argive shook his head. “That will not be you, son. You are much too young and untested. It is presumed that CloudMaster Lidia O’Cain will be selected.”

  “That’s all well and good, sir, but can we get back to learning the details of the will?” Emma asked impatiently. “What about the Empire State?”

  Only then did Barrister Thomas Argive turn to Conn. “It is his and his alone.”

  “What? No!” Emma said defiantly. “There must be a mistake.” Reaching out for one stack of paper, she began rifling through them. Brows set in a V, she huffed as she whipped through one page after another. “Show me! Show me where it says my home belongs to . . . show me the page, you stupid old relic!”

  Brig’s snoring brought Conn back to the present moment. He lay in bed, trying not to think about his sister’s indignation. The way she’d glared at him—as if he had conspired to take the building away from her. He hadn’t. He would never do that. But he’d never seen that side of his sister before, and it made him nervous. He understood her fears, he supposed, but he tried to assure her that she and her family would have a home in the Empire State for as long as they wished. She hadn’t seemed so sure, and despite Conn’s claims that he didn’t care if he was left out of the will, when the exact moment came for him to volunteer handing the building over to her—signing all applicable papers or deeds—he hadn’t done so. Conn thought about it now. Why didn’t I? It occurred to him—he wanted this old building. He loved the Empire State, and he had inherited something that was so important to his father. He felt deeply honored being bequeathed something so precious from the man he barely knew.

  Chapter 4
6

  The second day after his father’s funeral, the young crier boy’s wailing call came echoing across the cloudbank: “Hurry, hurry, report for duty! Septs and Cloudwalkers, defend our home!”

  Conn and Toag ran together toward the distant, chrome-topped tower. The town square, with its gold-topped bell tower and cupola, was teeming with activity. All around them, nervous excitement permeated the air. War was abreast.

  “You’re handling your loss better than I would be,” Toag said.

  “We all deal with things differently.”

  “Still, he was your—”

  Conn stopped and stared at Toag. “Look, I ken perfectly well who my father was. I was right there, remember? Just feet away from him. I saw his head cleaved from his neck. It landed at my feet, Toag. I’m going to kill Gordon Folais, and that damnable priest too, if it’s the last thing I ever do. I’m going to kill them both, then spit on their cold, dead corpses. I think of little else, Toag. So now can we go and get checked in?”

  Looking sheepish, Toag nodded. “Aye. I’m sorry, I’m such an obtuse arse.”

  The entrance to the Chrysler Building, even more so that day than usual, was bustling with people. Conn and Toag were forced to dodge around three hurried sept boys as they entered the building. Each had a strung bow and a quiver of arrows upon his back. Clearly, they did not want to be late checking in to verify their assigned clan postings. In most cases, the Midtown high-rise in which they were domiciled, would, by default, be the same clan to which they would be assigned. But not all of the buildings which above the cloudbank had such clear-cut clan ties. There were close to one hundred buildings that rose a mere one or two stories above the bank, and other buildings which pierced up through the bottom of the cloudbank, but did not crest out through the top of it. Clan nobility rarely visited, let alone lived within such meager quarters. But all structures that rose up, even partially into the cloudbank, were considered part of the Skylander realm. Subsequently, they came under the purview of one of the Manhattan clans. Territory was often disputed, and the rightful purveyor of the real estate as well as the sept populace within them came down to historical records. More often than not, back-and-forth wrangling between the clan CloudMasters ensued.

  The Midtown Skylander realm—close to twelve thousand souls—had sustained a relative peace for twenty years now. Two decades had passed since the eviction of the High Priests and Priestesses of the Elysian Alchemy practice, so conflicts were rare, and violence almost unheard of. The need for individual, full-time clan armies had become too expensive to maintain, and were considered unnecessary.

  But so much had changed during the last few days. Conjuring was possible again. Conn’s thoughts flashed back to High Priest Dwaine Kincaid’s powerful wizardry the night of his father’s death. Shortly after his father’s murder, it had been discovered that the Sùilean Uamhasach, the alien meteorite counted upon to curtail such dark psychic activities, was now gone. It had been stolen, if Midtown gossip could be believed. In any event, it no longer pulsed out any dampening affect on those able to evoke the ancient, mystical art of conjuring.

  Conn and Toag, entering the Chrysler building’s packed lobby area, headed past the banks of closed, long-inoperable elevators toward the wide marble staircase in the back.

  Toag had to yell to be heard above other loud voices, “Brataich Clan duty officers are set up on the 60th floor.”

  “Lead on, I’m right behind you,” Conn yelled back, weaving through the throngs of hundreds. Most of the people there, both sept and Cloudwalker alike, had brought along their own Ragoon bows and arrows. Hunting pigeons was a necessity of life atop the cloudbank, and if the septs weren’t actively trained in war, at least they could be expected to know how to shoot. It’s good that they brought their own weapons, Conn thought as he watched them. Going to war with an unfamiliar bow, or rackstaff for that matter, was never a good idea.

  When they reached the 60th floor, they joined the end of one of the numerous Brataich Clan lines, where there were easily two hundred Skylanders rushing about and clamoring for attention. Tables had been set up, arranged all around the room’s perimeter. Hand-penned overhead signs gave some directional insight to lost and confused clan members. Conn scanned the myriad of faces, and found he was pretty much familiar with most everyone there. Several young cicerones, caught roughhousing in line, were quickly chastised by older men who showed little patience for any kind of rowdiness.

  “Hey, have you seen Maggie around here?” Conn asked.

  “No. But checkin continues until late tomorrow. She still has some time,” Toag said.

  When they reached the front of the line close to a half hour later, they each were put in charge of their own company of one hundred-and-thirty septs. The novice warriors, those assigned specifically to be under their command, were now their responsibility. A gruff older Cloudwalker told them to move along, and directed them to another line. Another half hour later, they were given instructions of where to meet with their assigned companies to commence training exercises. Yet again, they were directed to another line where new Cloudwalker uniforms would be issued.

  With a sigh, Conn once again surveyed the faces around him. Everyone looked just as tired and hassled as he felt. Feeling a tug on his sleeve, he looked down. “Brig, you’re not supposed to be in here.”

  The boy rolled his eyes and motioned for Conn to lean down. “We need to talk.”

  Toag laughed, “Top secret, huh?”

  “Don’t be a fud, Toag,” Brig replied.

  “Language, young Brig,” responded Toag with a laugh. “You’re speaking to an officer, ye ken.”

  Brig ignored him, his expression serious. Conn leaned down, his ear close to the boy, who said, “We have a problem.”

  “What is it?” Conn asked.

  “The Drummond girl completed her three years when she was younger.”

  “So? Brig, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  The boy glanced around, making sure no one else was listening. “I’m talking about Adaira Drummond. The real Adaira Drummond. She’s expected to report. She’ll be required to serve, just like any other Cloudwalker.”

  Conn stood back up and looked at Toag. “You hear what he said?”

  Toag nodded. “Could be a problem, actually a big problem for Misty. Maybe for us, too. More than a few people saw her at the Gala.”

  Brig waggled two fingers for Conn to bend down again. “Maggie has a plan. But we need your help. Tonight.”

  “Where and when?” Conn asked. Thinking of Misty, he felt his heart rate accelerate.

  “Midnight. Meet us outside the Empire State. We’ll go over to 432 Park, where the Drummond’s live, together.”

  Conn pursed his lips. Ten o’clock curfew was now in place, so Dorcha Poileas would be out in force. “Fine, I’ll be there.” He looked over to Toag. “I may need your help, if you’re up for a little troublemaking?”

  “Sure. Why not? A week from now I might be killed at the hands of some Jersey City bowbag. So, whatever you need.”

  *

  Just before midnight, Misty saw Conn’s tall form emerge from the Empire State’s front entrance. Wearing a long dark coat, she spotted his exposed ankles below the hemline and held in a smile, remembering how ridiculous his bare legs looked that day on the ground when she’d first met him. She and Maggie had made it over from the Pavicon building without being spotted. The Dorcha Poileas, making their rounds in groupings of three and four, were easy to both spot and hear since they made no attempt to be stealthy.

  Conn, spotting the girls in the darkness, hurried over. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” Maggie said. Misty noticed his hair was wet, like he’d just stepped out of the shower. He smelled of soap.

  Conn looked at Misty. “How you doing?”

  She shrugged. “I’m nervous. All day I figured the real Adaira Drummond would come out of hiding. Maggie says she’s supposed to report for duty.”

 
Conn shrugged. “I didnae see her. Not that I’d ken her even if I tripped over her.”

  Maggie said, “We should go.”

  Conn looked about. “And Brig?”

  “He told us not to wait up. I expect he’ll meet us there.”

  Maggie led the way, heading north. They jogged, sometimes walked, keeping a good distance away from the illumination of lanterns in the windows of the high-rises.

  “You there! Stop!”

  Misty spun to see a group of five men, wearing long dark capes, emerge out of the darkness to the west, some fifty yards away. The Dorcha Poileas. Two looked to be clutching blackjacks in meaty fists, and the other three were unslinging longbows from broad shoulders.

  “Run!” Maggie said.

  “No . . . wait,” Conn said.

  Chapter 47

  Misty watched as Conn put two fingers into his mouth then whistled so loud she was tempted to cover her ears.

  “What are you doing?” Maggie said to him accusingly. “You want every Dorcha asshole atop the bank to come running?”

  “We need to go!” Misty said.

  “Just wait a second,” Conn said, staring up at the Empire State Building.

  “Look!” Misty said, as two more groups of Dorcha Poileas emerged from the darkness. She searched Conn’s face, wondering at his bemused expression. Whatever he was up to, he seemed to be enjoying himself. Although part of her was beyond scared, another part was a little intrigued. “Just what is it you’re up to, Conn?”

  “Wait for it . . .”

  The closest of the Dorcha Poileas began notching arrows onto their bowstrings. “Halt!” one called out.

  Maggie, desperately yanking on Conn’s sleeve, urged him to move. “Come on!”

  Suddenly loud pops and cracking sounds came from the south. Bright shooting lights flared out through all lower windows of the Empire State building. Within seconds, additional showers of bright light could be seen shooting upward, moving vertically higher and higher up the tower as they exploded out one window after another.