Since the day, not so long ago, when Dob—his friend, his mentor—had been taken from him, Conn had managed to stave off the memory of the accident. It had come at the cost of his ability to sleep at night, but he felt it a fair trade. But now, seeing Dob’s empty chair, the memory of his friend so strong, he couldn’t help but remember.
It rarely—almost never—snowed atop the cloudbank. Something to do with falling precipitation not reaching far enough down into the atmosphere to actually freeze. And the world-encircling cloudbank was the reason why. In all his seventeen years, Conn had never seen or experienced snow. But judging by Dob’s forecast, this very day that strange climate anomaly would indeed take place.
The old professor’s excitement was contagious. Conn rose early in order to help Dob lug the heavy test equipment in his Chrysler building lab down to the cloudbank. First thing, Dob set up both the aneroid barometer and the mercury barometer. Large, clumsily heavy, and very old, each was made of brass, with intricate internal workings. The devices were similar to clocks in appearance, with their circular bezels, large dials, and a crystal that was actually made of precision-blown glass. Depending upon the atmospheric pressure, calibrated to the elevation of the cloudbank, a singular clock-like hand would point toward STORMY, RAIN, CHANGE, FAIR, or VERY DRY. Each barometer, weighing approximately ninety pounds, sat upon a custom-built tripod; its long legs were fitted with dinner-plate-sized pads that would lie flat upon the cloudbank, instead of piercing through it like the tip of a rackstaff did. There were various other items, including three different thermometers—each one the length and width of Conn’s arm—along with wind speed detectors, and directional equipment. As Conn got everything set up, Dob was preoccupied, making entries into a large, leather-bound book. Every so often, he would peer into the sky, then mumble something unintelligible.
“Why do you need two kinds of barometers? Don’t they do the same thing?” Conn asked, tapping his fingernail on the one closest to him.
“Don’t be tapping on that! It’s very sensitive!” Dob thought a moment, then said, “There is an important difference . . . an aneroid barometer measures the atmospheric pressure using the expansion of metal, whereas a mercury barometer measures the atmospheric pressure by adjusting the height of liquid mercury held within a small tube. I enter both readings in my book, then calculate the variance in the measurements between the two later on.”
The cold today was more extreme then Conn was used to; he had foregone his kilt for a pair of long pants he’d nicked from Michael’s wardrobe, and was glad for the extra warmth even if the constricting fabric around his legs felt odd. He tried to keep busy by moving around. Every so often, he blew his warm breath into his cupped hands to keep his fingers from going numb.
“Doesn’t seem like much is happening, Professor. Maybe your forecast is a little off.”
Professor Dob glanced up from his book, a deep crevice between his eyes. “Patience, my boy, the snow is coming.” A smile suddenly formed within the curls of his messy white beard. Raising-up his nose, he breathed-in deeply. “You can smell it!”
Conn too breathed in the frigid air and, much to his surprise, did smell something different.
Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!
Conn glanced up to the heavens, then to the professor. “We have to get out of the weather. The warning bells . . . a rampage is coming.”
“Well, of course it’s a rampage! That’s exactly what we’re waiting for, young man. You think snow falls from sunny blue skies? You think a once-in-a-century climatic extravaganza comes forth with no risk attached?” The professor tossed his book onto the cloudbank, then spread his robed arms out wide. Staring up into the now-darkening heavens, he shouted, “Wackatacamocha!!” He laughed and yelled, “Wackatacamocha,” four times, as he faced North, then East, then South, then West.
Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!
Conn felt it too. Pure exhilaration. Aye, from Dob’s melodramatic exaltations, but also from the now-charged atmosphere, as tiny white flurries began to fall and swirl around them.
“It’s snowing, Conn! Isn’t this magnificent? Have you ever seen anything this beautiful?”
Flurries quickly turned into snowflakes, big and fluffy, that drifted down, settling upon their heads and shoulders and all the equipment.
Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!
The buildings all around them were fleeced in white. Conn had never witnessed anything so magical. Laughing now, he looked at his mentor and yelled, “It’s a Skylander wonderland, Professor! Like nothing I’ve ever seen!”
Dob, still staring up toward the heavens, held his rackstaff higher into the air.
The first lighting bolt took out the aneroid barometer, a fantastic explosion of fire and sparks. The next lightning bolt rose up from the cloudbank, mere feet away. Great consecutive flashes of light branched out in every direction. Crack! Crack! Crack! The thunderclaps were now so loud that windows of the nearby Chrysler Building began to burst. More and more lighting bolts erupted—a continuous, self-feeding, electrical frenzy. When the other barometer blew apart, mere feet away, Conn dove onto the cloudbank, covering up his head with both arms. Terrified, Conn stole a glance toward where he’d last seen the professor. Surely, he too dove low, making himself less of a target. But instead, Dob still stood there, his rackstaff held high up, almost defiantly, into the air.
He yelled, “Get down!”
Conn saw an immeasurably bright lightening bolt strike; an ear-shattering thunderclap immediately followed. One moment the professor was there—the next moment gone. Vaporized in a millisecond.
“Conn?”
Pulled back to the present moment, Conn turned to see Misty standing beside him. There was concern in her eyes.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” she asked. “Are you crying?”
Chapter 53
Misty inwardly chided herself. Why did I embarrass him like that? I can see something is going on, something I know nothing about.
“This dreadful haze,” she said, swiping at the air. “I had no idea so many Skylanders liked to smoke.”
Conn blinked away the tears, banishing whatever sorrowful thoughts he had, and gave her a lopsided smile. More than anything else, he looked relieved to see her.
“You look . . . ecstatic,” Conn said, as Maggie approached them through the crowd. “I heard you had quite a day, Misty.”
Maggie joined them, holding out a whiskey glass in each hand. Handing one to Misty, she said, “Sorry, Conn, didnae ken you were here. But here, you can have mine.”
“Nah.” Conn held up his now-empty glass. “I’m good.”
Misty and Maggie looked at each other. “You tell him yet?” Maggie asked, a smile tugging at her mouth.
Misty shook her head, “Not yet.” She pursed her lips, not knowing where to start. “First of all, I think I have it.”
“Have it?” Conn repeated.
Misty glanced over at Maggie questioningly, trying to remember what it was called.
“She means the Sight,” Maggie said.
Misty watched Conn’s reaction. She’d been more than a little apprehensive about telling him. Would it be an insult? This know-nothing Grounder girl, claiming she too possessed this amazing ability, one all the nobles up here flaunted and took as such a source of pride.
But Maggie vigorously shook her head before Conn could respond. “Who cares about that!? Conn,” she said, lowering her voice. “The girl’s a conjurer!”
Misty shook her head. “I don’t know anything about that . . .”
But Maggie continued, “I was there. I saw it. She used her rackstaff to propel that bow bag Bryant ten feet away. Into a quickfall patch!”
Conn looked both confused and intrigued at the same time.
Before he could offer them a response, young Brig burst through the crowd. Huffing and puffing, out of breath, he said, “You have to hide!”
“Hold on, boy!” Conn said. “Why don’t you take a deep breath first, then tell
us exactly what’s happening?”
The boy was beyond rattled. His hair was damp with perspiration, as he struggled to catch his breath.
“The Dorcha Poileas! A gang of them, maybe six or seven, including Peirce. They’re coming now.”
“What do they want?” Misty asked.
“Not what, but who!” Brig stared up at Maggie, then Misty. “They’re coming for the two of you. They’re coming to take you both to lockup!”
“It’s because of today,” Maggie said. “What Misty did to Peirce.”
“Well, he deserved it!” Misty exclaimed.
Conn glanced in the direction of the entrance. “I ken Peirce as well as anyone alive. He isn’t right in the head. And one thing I’m totally sure of, getting revenge is one of his favorite pastimes.”
Maggie said, “I didnae do anything wrong. I was just a bystander.”
“Oh well, thanks a lot!” Misty barked back.
“I didnae mean it like that.”
“You both were together at the time. That’s the problem,” Conn said.
Maggie raised her palms. “Hold on. We should find out what the charges are. Might be nothing.”
Brig said, “No, you should hide. I heard them talking. I heard Peirce say something about a Fall From Grace. He was like a crazy person. Ranting!”
“That’s ridiculous!” Conn said. “An execution? For doing what?”
“Okay, okay, Brig’s right. We’ll hide,” Maggie said. “Then see what this is all about. Maybe let things settle down first. We can hide in my building, or maybe with the Drummonds. Adaira will take us in, I’m sure of it.”
“No,” Misty said. “We can’t involve anyone else.”
“Then what?” Conn asked, exasperated.
“We’ll go below, beneath the cloudbank. I know where we can hide down there,” Misty said.
“So, we’ll be like, what, Grounders?” Maggie said unenthusiastically.
“Misty’s right,” Conn said. “That’s the best idea for now. You should go. And hurry.”
Misty looked up into his eyes. She didn’t want to leave her new life here. She didn’t want to leave Conn.
Conn placed a hand on her cheek. “I’ll find out what’s going on. Then I’ll find you, I promise.” He looked at Brig. “Go with them, but only as far as the street level, then come back. You hear me?”
“Aye! I hear you.”
Together, Brig, Maggie, and Misty hurried toward the exit.
Chapter 54
They all knew the long and treacherous journey south to Manhattan was almost over. Oliver’s bites were indeed severe enough to require stitches—sixty-five of them, to be exact. Hobbling along, needing his staff for support, he’d slowed their progress. The beast, which everyone now called a Smite, had survived its injuries, as well. Stabbed twice by Oliver’s rackstaff, it nearly bled out on the cloudbank. Danu had insisted, to unanimous discord, that the animal, too, would be properly sutured and bandaged, at least to the best of her ability. She’d made a connection with the creature that she couldn’t explain to the others traveling with her . . . nor to herself. What she did know, though, was that the fate of the strange, alien-looking creature was, somehow, bound with her own. For the same reason, she insisted the Smite be dragged along behind them on a makeshift sled. Its jaws were partially muzzled, allowing it to pant yet still take water and hopefully not bite. Hansen took it upon himself to do most of the pulling, although Jeremy did offer to take a turn every once in a while.
Danu was exhausted. They all were, after trudging hundreds of miles. One exception seemed to be Julie, who talked nonstop.
Compulsive, Danu thought. She gave the girl a quick glance as they walked side-by-side together at the head of the contingent.
“Where will we live, High Priestess? It’s not like we can, um, just show up and say, “Hey, here we are everybody. We’re hungry and tired, oh and where are our accommodations?”
“Please, dinnae worry, Julie. I have made arrangements. They may not be ideal, but they are tolerable. Even for you.”
“How? How did you make these arrangements?” Julie asked.
Danu blew a tired breath out through her puffed cheeks. “Dear God, girl, you are exhausting.”
“Just tell me, and I’ll shut up.”
Danu didn’t believe that was even possible. “Pigeons. They use pigeons to communicate here.”
Julie slowed, then stopped. She stared at Danu, standing in the near-total darkness, and asked, “Here? You said here?”
“That’s right, Julie. Here. We have arrived.” Danu raised the point of her rackstaff and leveled it toward the distant horizon.
Julie gazed forward, her facial expression both serious and contemplative. “Oh my! I see it! I see lights! I see the city!” she shouted, spinning around. “Everybody! I see Manhattan!”
Cheers from the others erupted loudly. Hoots and hollers, as fists punched the air high overhead. “We did it!” Jeremy screamed.
Oliver was last to join the long row of onlookers. Like the others, he too was smiling, wearing a big toothy grin. He placed a hand upon Danu’s back. “I never doubted that you would get us here.”
Danu closed her eyes, simply allowing herself to enjoy this singular moment of triumph. But when she opened them again, her sense of victory slipped away like it had been dropped through quickfall. Her heart began to beat in her chest as she took in the scene in front of her.
“Something is wrong,” she said.
Chapter 55
Two thousand well-trained Skylander warriors, twenty-two companies in all, moved with both speed and stealth across the cloudbank, where the Hudson River separated the two estranged great cities. Now, a mile out, they were poised, ready for the night’s invasion upon Manhattan. First came the archers, their bows already unslung from their shoulders. Behind them, long spear combatants fell into battle formation. Interspersed throughout the forces—leading their respective companies—were the surefooted Cloudwalkers. Young sept flag bearers held their flagstaffs up high. Unseen in the night’s darkness were each flag’s colorful clan coat of arms, now flapping wildly in the driving winds. The Jersey City army awaited the command to attack.
*
The late night was frigidly cold. His labored breath billowed eerily out from his gaping, open mouth in rhythmic puffs of white mist. CloudKing Gordon Folais tried keeping up with his twin sons, stride for stride, but soon recognized the futility in attempting to do so. Nearly half their size in height, he was well aware that they, more likely than not, were not the spawn of his own seed. He thought of his wife Margaret, and of the years of sporadic, at best, couplings they’d shared. He was a busy man, with great responsibilities. He also far preferred the warm beds and firm young bodies of any number of sept concubines, looking to better their own meager stead in life. He had little doubt that his wife, too, had found pleasure bedding with another man over the years, though the subject had never come up between them.
“Dearth.. Garret, hold up!”
Doing as ordered, both sons came to an abrupt halt upon the cloudbank and turned around in unison, peering down at their father with the same perplexed expression. As if only then did they recall his actual presence, several paces behind them.
“Stay close,” Gordon said, catching his breath. “Dinnae go wandering off.”
Neither of the ginger-haired boys bothered to respond back. Gordon honestly wondered if there were enough functioning brain cells between them for even one person, let alone two. But he still preferred them to be nearby this night. What they lacked in intelligence was made up for by raw, physical fortitude. Could they fully protect him from the new arrivals from North Carolina? He feared not. His sense of dread had only increased, seeing what magic these robed priests and priestesses were capable of. He knew there’d been a good reason to exile the lot of them those two decades past. But what else could he do now? This endangered, faltering city would not have endured without intervention.
Gordon watched them now, toiling away in joint enterprise. Most often working in groups of either twos or threes, they sometimes surrounded one of the tall Jersey City towers then worked outward from there. Their long staffs—held parallel to the cloudbank—looked like ancient, long-barreled rifles as they summoned the magical forces held deep within the cloudbank. Gordon had learned their names, even got to know them, to some degree: High Priest Finlay Bigham was a bald-headed man with a scarlet birthmark atop his hairless pate; High Priestess Freya Gemmill, the youngest of them all, had a tongue so vile Gordon found her frightening; High Priest Aaron Leckie, squat and droopy-eyed, was the least formidable of them all; High Priest Ethan Malles and High Priestess Zara MacTaggart were a handsome married couple that never strayed far from one another. Finally, there was High Priest Dwaine Kincaid, their leader. So dark a soul, even Gordon himself had been careful not to turn a blind eye, or his back, to that particular high priest.
Within the span of four days, their combined conjuring forces had indeed pushed and prodded much of the quickfall areas away from the city. But at what price? Gordon was well aware a reckoning would be forthcoming soon—a payment extracted for their services rendered. Beyond any doubt, they would be seeking changes in the power structure. Here first, then later across the river into Manhattan. Fortunately, he knew exactly where the Sùilean Uamhasach—the terrible eye—was hidden deep underground, an infallible safeguard which could once again, when the time was right, incapacitate this dangerous lot of priests and priestesses. Twice Kincaid had asked about the object’s whereabouts. Gordon had been adamant in telling him he knew not—only that the thing had been stolen.
Gordon heard slow, crunching footfalls approaching in the darkness behind him. Not those of his third son, Spinter Row, or the footsteps of his light-footed daughter, Lili. Ah, he knew the owner of those steps.
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