Cloudwalkers

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  “Tell me nothing will get in the way of our marriage, Father,” she said, raising an eyebrow in warning. “Your constant talk of war scares me. It scares everyone. Once Conn is my husband, there will be no need for war. Our two skyscapes will be united, and he will help us save our people, once they are his people as well.”

  Her father ignored her hopeful statement, and moved over to the decorative ironwork banister, which rose to nearly chest high on the height-challenged ruler. “Someday you will rule all of this, Lili. And your offspring, after you.”

  Lili, joining him there, gazed out across the cloudbank. In the far distance, the tall towers that made up the Manhattan skyline sparkled and glimmered in the morning sunlight.

  “If there’s anything left to rule, Father,” said Lili quietly. That very morning, Clan Haig had discovered a growing patch of quickfall near the entrance of their building. They still had cloudbank access for now, but no one knew for how long. Evacuations had already begun.

  “I have taken steps to ensure there will be, daughter.” Gordon met her gaze evenly, and continued, “The approaching Skylander Games festivities . . . I have decided we will attend the opening evening ball after all. We must put the terrible fate of our young Janis behind us. While there, you will announce the date of your wedding day.”

  “I haven’t discussed that yet with my betrothed, Father,” Lili said. “Truth be told, our time together has rarely been cordial. The news of Janis’ death, it surprised me so, and I acted so—”

  Lili felt like crying again at the thought of Janis, and Gordon lifted a hand to his daughter’s cheek. “I know,” he said, raw grief in his voice as well.

  “Conn and I,” Lili continued. “We just need to spend some time together. We barely ken one another, and he barely seems to give a whit about me.”

  Gordon shook his head. “The cloudbank here is weakening by the day, Lili. We have to move up the date. A year’s span is far too long; who knows what Jersey City will look like by then. Use the Skylander Games, and the Gala, to get to know your betrothed. Do what you must to get him to agree to having your wedding nuptials in . . . say . . . one month?”

  “A month?” Lili was flabbergasted.

  “Aye. You must be married soon, so our families are irrevocably united. Robert Brataich has no taste for war. What balls once filled his scrotum have all but withered to naught from that sickness of his.”

  Lili raised her nose at her father’s crude language. “And the foreigners that travel this way across the cloudbank,” she wanted to know. “Those wizards and witches you spoke of from days past, yes? Tell me, was there not good reason they were shunned and repelled? Were they not a dangerous breed overstepping their place? Aren’t these same concerns still relevant now?”

  The CloudKing shrugged. “Perhaps,” he admitted. “But without their adept conjuring, I fear our cloudbank will not survive the year. We’re well beyond hiding the fact that quickfall worsens by the day here in Jersey City. And what then, my daughter? Grounders will invade upward. It has happened before, and could happen again. We would become no better than them. Can you resign our people to that fate? Could you see yourself living in the darkened depths below? Roaming beneath deserted city streets, just one more Grounder girl on the brink of survival?”

  The mere thought of such a thing happening did more than frighten Lili. She’d just as soon fall from the cloudbank as Janis had done. “Aye,” she conceded after a moment’s thought, determined now. “We must welcome our new guests with open arms, Father. For my part, I will ensure that Conn Brataich foretastes our wedding night with unbridled anticipation.”

  Chapter 27

  Conn led the way into the basement of the deacon’s compound. The murky dank space smelled of rot and mold, but something else too: the unmistakable stench of decomposing flesh. It’s just a very large dead rat, Conn told himself firmly. He almost believed it.

  They moved single file, winding their way through the dim space where barely recognizable shapes could be seen, such as tables, chairs, and couches, along with innumerable high-stacked boxes, precarious towers that could easily be toppled over with the slightest nudge of an arm or a misplaced foot.

  Conn’s torch, held out before him, suddenly began to flicker. Its bright flames, now diminished somewhat, were nearly blown sideways. He felt a strong, cool, steady breeze against his left cheek. It was slow going, and the two of them had progressed no further than fifty steps into the cellar. Misty moved within inches of where Conn stood waiting. He heard one of them was breathing hard, more like frightened panting. Between the bad smell and oppressive darkness, he had a bad feeling about this place.

  Ancient floor joists, directly overhead, suddenly began to creak under the weight of footsteps. Carefully, Conn turned his body clockwise, attempting to at least partially block the strong air currents from further tampering with the torch’s flame. The torch flickered brightly again, its warm amber glow fanning out around them. Conn glanced back to see Misty, he was surprised to see she looked neither scared nor daunted by their current endeavor.

  “What are you waiting for? Maybe you should just give me the torch,” she said impatiently.

  Like that’s going to happen, Conn thought. He continued on, now more cognizant of the strange cross-breezes around them. “You haven’t been this far into the compound before?” he asked Brig in a hushed voice over his shoulder.

  “Uh-uh.”

  “So you don’t ken the layout of the rooms up above?”

  “He just said he hasn’t been here before,” Misty said. “You should give me the torch. At this rate we’ll be too old to climb the stairs if we ever find them.”

  As if on cue, the still-agitated fluctuating torchlight allowed barely enough illumination to catch the outline of a rickety staircase just ahead.

  “That smell . . . it’s getting worse,” Brig said, a little too loudly.

  “Shhh, keep your voice down!” Conn scolded.

  “What’s that?” Misty asked, pointing a raised finger.

  Conn was wondering the same thing. He repositioned the torch to illuminate the odd shape they’d spotted below the staircase. Stepping closer in, he lowered the torch. The supporting vertical studs on the staircase cast dark shadows onto what clearly was a female body. The woman was lying face down, her head turned away from them.

  Misty gasped. “Oh no. Oh God.”

  Conn handed the torch to Brig, fighting back a reflexive gag. The smell of death was overpowering. Burying his nose and mouth into the crook of his sleeved elbow, he turned again to the human remains on the floor. In a muffled voice he said, “Misty, maybe you should turn away.”

  “Turn her over,” said Misty, her voice steady again. “I need to know.”

  Conn nodded. He’d never met Misty’s mother, so she needed to make the identification. Slowly kneeling down, he reached for the dead woman’s shoulder when suddenly a blurry black shape suddenly scurried out from the shadows, startling them all.

  Misty covered her mouth, quickly quieting her shriek of surprise, but not before the sound echoed through the room. Conn reached for his rackstaff as the large rat squealed then darted back into the darkness.

  Both Conn and Brig glared at Misty, then up to the top of the stairs, expecting to see a door suddenly fly open. But the deacon’s men did not come rushing down the stairs brandishing knives and pipes. Conn gave Misty a wary glance before reaching out again for the dead woman’s shoulder. Stiff with rigor mortis, the body flipped over like a plank of wood. Conn recoiled as a waft of putridness rose into the air. He could tell the woman was attractive once, before she was savagely struck with something hard on her right temple; a force hard enough to crush a portion of her skull. Blood, now dried, had seeped out from both nostrils and the left corner of her open, gaping mouth. Her half-lidded eyes were cloudy white. Conn looked back to Misty for confirmation.

  She stared for several beats before shaking her head. “It’s not her. It’s not my mother.
”

  Conn stood all the way up. Each let out collective breaths, sighs of relief.

  “Give me that,” Misty said, taking the torch from Conn’s hand. Moving towards the stairs, she lifted the hem of her dress up with one hand as she began climbing. The fourth step creaked so loudly Conn grimaced. Again, he shot a glance toward the door at the top of the stairs.

  Misty, letting go of her dress, waved her free hand at Conn and Brig to follow. Carefully stepping over the fourth step, they met at the top of the stairs. A flickering light could be seen beneath the door. When Conn pointed to an empty torch bracket high on the wall, Misty let him take the torch from her hand. Carefully, he secured the torch handle into place.

  Misty, taking a firm hold on the brass doorknob, ever so slowly turned it. Cracking the door open an inch, she peered through the gap then swung the door open wider, until there was sufficient room to poke her head through. Conn watched her as she peered about. Apparently satisfied that the coast was clear, she opened the door wide enough to pass through. Brig followed her next, then Conn.

  Entering into some kind of foyer, there was a large door off to the left. Conn was fairly sure it was the same front door they’d spotted earlier from the street. The walls here were clad in worn, wood paneling. Two windows flanked the front door, blackened from the rubber tiles on the other side. Overhead, a swaying chain with interwoven wires hung down minus an attached chandelier, which had undoubtedly been removed many long years past. There was a large fabric scroll hanging six feet, nailed high on the wall opposite the front door. It had ten numbered lines of text; Conn figured they had something to do with the Purgeforth Scriptures.

  Misty, walking on her tiptoes, hurried forward into an adjoining hallway. “Wait!” Conn ordered in an angry whisper, but she was already gone. Following after her, Conn noticed the hallway, paneled in the same drab wood, was easily twenty-feet long. Several open doors flanked both side walls. From up ahead came the sound of multiple men and women conversing, and the clattering of dishes and metal flatware being put away. Misty, glancing back over her shoulder, mouthed the word, “Kitchen.”

  Hugging the wall, she slowed and checked each of the open doorways before proceeding. Conn and Brig were close behind. Reaching the end of the hallway, Misty peered around the corner. Bringing his face close to her level, he took a looksee for himself. Sure enough, it was a large kitchen. In the distance beyond was a dining area with a wooden table that could easily seat twenty people. There were six men seated together at the far end. Mere feet away, three women, scurrying about inside, were identically outfitted in long, wine-colored dresses, aprons tied about their waists, and white bowed bonnets secured atop their heads. One dutifully was washing dishes in a large copper tub, while another was drying then stacking the dishes. The third woman had suddenly stopped what she was doing to stand in the middle of the kitchen, statue-like. She stared back at them. Clearly caught off guard, she wore a confused expression on her face, like she couldn’t believe her own eyes.

  “Mom?” Misty asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

  Clack!

  Conn instinctively knew that was the sound of the front door latch sliding clear behind them. He heard the door swing open on rusty hinges, followed by sounds of multiple heavy boots striding into the foyer. Both Conn and Brig spun around to see Deacon Terrence Lasher turn the corner into the hallway. He took three long strides before looking up and seeing them standing there. Four other men came into view behind the skeletally thin, towering deacon. His men didn’t hesitate. Pulling their long coats aside, they exposed their standard issue weapons of choice: Blackjacks. Their wooden handles were connected to a short section of rope that, in turn, was connected to a wrapped canvas ball. Balls that were probably filled with sand, or even something heavier, like lead. Swung with sufficient force, the ball weapon could crack bones—even fracture a person’s skull. Conn thought of the poor woman, lying dead beneath the staircase. He took hold of the paw of his rackstaff. The deacon moved with surprising speed, not to attack, but to escape. He fled into one of the hallway’s side doors. His men were already twirling the balled ends of their lethal blackjacks.

  Conn knew, in addition to these four thugs, there were six more waiting in the dining area. Plus, how many others are in the building? he wondered. It was too late for that sort of thought now, he thought, preparing himself as they approached.

  Chapter 28

  Misty took a tentative step forward into the kitchen. It felt as if time had suddenly come to a screeching halt. No longer was she concerned about Conn, who was somewhere behind her, or the group of men getting up from their chairs in the dining area.

  “Come with us, Mom,” Misty said, reaching out her hand. “We’re here to take you away from all this,” Her hand hovered extended in the air, a lifeline—a means of escape—to a new life, one far removed from the deacon and the tyrannical rules and physical assaults he made in the name of Purgeforth.

  Astrid Casper, the only mother she had ever known, was still beautiful, though the clothing she wore now made her look like an actor playing an alternate character in a play. She stared back at Misty, her eyes filled not with nurturing love, but with contempt.

  “What have you done, child?”

  “What do you mean? I’ve come for you . . .”

  Her mother’s lips parted, ready to speak, but then he was there, rushing to her side. The deacon pulled Astrid toward him, looming over her. With an arm clutched possessively around her, his long knobby fingers grasped hold of her shoulder like the spindly legs of a grotesque tarantula.

  “I will never leave here, Misty. This is my home now. Where I am loved . . . where I am needed,” Astrid said, gazing up to meet the deacon’s cold black eyes. “I am home.”

  Misty’s knees went weak and she found it hard to breathe. This isn’t happening! This couldn’t happen! Her mother loved her. Didn’t she?

  “Mom?”

  Astrid’s face twisted into an angry snarl. “Don’t call me that! Don’t ever call me that . . . I’m not your mother. You’re one of them, and I’ve done my part. It’s over!” She turned away, burying her face into the deacon’s chest.

  Only then did Misty notice the hulking men lurking behind their towering leader. Each one grasped something in his hand, a club of some sort. She heard Conn yell in the background, “Misty! Run!”

  The deacon glanced over to the hallway. “Take my wife and the girl upstairs to my quarters. Kill the Skylander.” With that, Deacon Terrance Lasher hurried out of the kitchen.

  *

  Conn assessed the small army of men advancing forward with slow, steady deliberation. Close quarter fighting had been an important part of his Cloudwalker training—with scenarios not so different from these now. With a flick and a twist of his wrist, he felt the rackstaff’s finely tuned internal mechanism come to life. In the blink of an eye, the rackstaff ratcheted out to its half-extended, sword-like lockwood position. Ten feet separated him from his nearest opponent. Tightly grasping the paw of his weapon, he felt a familiar jolt of stinging electricity. Oh no, not again! In that brief instant, Conn was no longer standing within the confines of the deacon’s seedy, wood-paneled hallway.

  The sun was incredibly bright, and the reflection coming off the dazzling white cloudbank was bright to the point that he found it difficult to see his opponent’s fast-as-lightning movements.

  In the absence of sight, a distinct whipping sound was the only indication of Glen Garry’s rackstaff slicing through the air—missing his head by mere fractions of an inch. Conn, who was no longer Conn but once again the one called Darryl, inwardly yelled, “Parry, you damn fool!” then sidestepped and lunged. The razor sharp tip of his rackstaff made a glancing slice, penetrating his opponent’s upper arm. A crimson flow spread first across then down Glen Garry’s torn sleeve. Undeterred, Glen Garry spun away and ducked just as Darryl furthered his driving attack. Thrust . . . miss . . . slice across . . . miss, Glen Garry moved with grace
and fluidity, anticipating Darryl’s attacking barrage. The two men separated and circled each other. Leaning over, both out of breath, their chests heaved in and out. Conn—Darryl—noticed there were far more high-rise buildings encircling this vista than in his own time. His tartan was that of the Macbeth Clan. He knew his opponent was none other than Glen Garry, the very same man whose portrait hung up high in the Chrysler Building’s refectory chamber.

  A smile found its way on to Glen Garry’s lips. “You’ve been practicing, Darryl, aye? Not sure it’ll be near enough, though, lad.”

  And then, suddenly, Conn was back, standing within the dimly lit hallway. Two of the deacon’s men lay moaning on the floor amidst an expanding pool of blood. Conn had no memory of cutting them down, but evidently he’d performed well enough. But two still-standing brutish men were poised before him, ready to make an attack. Chancing a quick glance behind him, Conn watched as six men entered the hall from the kitchen, no sign of Misty or her mother. He knew going up against this many combatants would be a losing battle. And the truth was, it wasn’t even his battle—it was that infuriating girl’s.

  Facing forward again, Conn raised his rackstaff high overhead, then—letting out a war cry, of sorts—charged toward the deacon’s men in what looked akin to a wild and crazed attack. Surprised, his opponents flinched and staggered backwards, several tripping and falling over their comrades in the process. Conn quickly sidestepped away, exiting into the same open doorway the deacon had slipped through earlier. He silently prayed he wouldn’t find himself trapped wherever he ended up.

  He needed to find Misty and get the hell away from here before they were both clubbed to death.