Archer snapped awake and found himself in the crushing jaws of a monstrous thing. He forced his hand deeper into the thing’s mouth and called up a twin-sided spear. The creature was skewered and released Archer, sending him cartwheeling through the air. He landed in a broken jumble and, at first, didn’t think he’d ever be able to get up again. He was a bloody messy, wounds everywhere beneath his leather armor, and a blanket of eerie cold settled over him.
Dream, Archer!
He stoked his will, and he was whole again. Whole and ready to fight.
“You almost had me,” Archer seethed. He turned and faced the hound, still struggling with the spear that pinned its jaws open. Archer glared at it and willed his spear to become wrapped in huge chunks of C-4 plastic explosive. He turned and ran, willing the C-4 to detonate.
He ignored the horrible sound and the brief wave of superheated air, and strode on. In this ghastly graveyard, Archer could not see any of the other team members. He suspected they were all dealing with nightmares more personal to them . . . nightmares and the hounds.
“Come to me, Archer,” a voice hissed from the darkness.
The silhouette of a dark tower appeared high between the two moons. There, a presence loomed, and Archer raced toward it. The graves were everywhere and oddly shaped, and they seemed to lean toward the Dreamtreader as he ran. He’d taken a battering already when he finally realized that he needed more altitude. What he did next wasn’t flight, but it wasn’t running either. He willed himself to stride through the air, keeping low beneath the grasping trees but just above the tops of the gravestones.
The tower still seemed so far away, but Archer sped on. Mocking laughter surrounded him as he ran. More howls told him that he had not finished with the hounds yet either.
Suddenly, the grave nearest him exploded, vomiting a spray of gore and decay. Archer veered left to avoid the spray. The next grave vomited up its long-buried contents as well. He found himself in a desperate game of dodging and weaving, stopping and racing forward as the graves all began to erupt. The foul blasts of muck were not simply gobs of rot and filth. There were faces in the muddy water as well. Shrieking, haunted faces.
Archer stumbled, crashed into a tall gravestone, and launched into the broad side of large, ashen gray tomb. His vision fading, he slid down the stone wall and came to rest in several inches of putrid mud and water. As darkness took him, he heard the dull report of a distant bell tolling. It struck nine times before Archer knew no more.
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE TREES OF LIFE AND DEATH
“READY?” RIGBY YELLED FROM THE REAR OF THE THRONE room.
“Ready!” Kara yelled back as she hovered over the second throne.
“We’ve got the hounds at bay for now!” Coop bellowed. “Do that thing! Yeah boyeee!”
“Now!” Rigby commanded. Simultaneously, he and Kara used their collective dream might to power a pair of colossal stone-breaking hammers. The massive tool whirled and fell. The sound of the twin thrones shattering was five hundred cracks of thunder. On steroids.
Rue de la Mort was stunned by the sudden concussion. Even Shadowkeep fell silent. The destruction of the twin thrones was earth-shaking, a sound that could wake the dead.
A thunderous sound woke Archer with a start. He could scarcely blink away the disorientation fast enough. Someone was calling him. Shrieking to him. Begging him.
“We got the thrones, Archer!” the urgent male voice screamed. Some distant part of Archer recognized the voice. “We got the two thrones, but he caught . . . us! Get the trees . . . burn the trees!”
Rigby.
Archer blinked completely awake and found himself leaning up against a stone wall, surrounded by muck in the midst of a vast castle courtyard. The graves were gone, and a few hounds were pacing in the distance. But then Archer saw them. The Trees of Life and Death. They were separated by a hundred yards of cobbled stone, the wreckage of a throne, and a pair of the Nightmare Lord’s hounds.
This was the first time the Dreamtreader had been able to actually take in the size and form of the dreambeasts. They were huge, thick-bodied animals with broad paws, barrel chests, and thick, wild manes, like a lion’s but black. Most apparent, of course, were the raging red eyes, protruding muscular jaws, and livid yellow teeth.
“The trees, Archer!” Rigby screamed as if in great pain. “Please.”
That did it. The pain. The searing agony in Rigby’s voice, the urgency, it smacked Archer like a physical blow. He was up and running in an instant. He vaulted a hound, tossing a fistful of willed blades at the beast as he careened over its head and crash landed by the first tree. It was a tall oak or, at least, something like an oak in its form and height. But its leaves were tear-shaped and rather small.
The Tree of Life.
Archer pulled at the bounds of his imagination. This could not be a slow burn, a crackling bonfire, or an intense glowing smolder. This had to be an absolute inferno, something equivalent to a volcanic eruption or a solar flare. He eyed the tree, and great molten gobs of flame coalesced around his fists. He screamed and threw his hands up. The fire that leaped from within Archer both shocked him and knocked him backward off his feet.
From his back on the cobbled stone, Archer saw a blazing inferno rise up around the tree. It was a searing, flash-burning column like a tornado made from tongues of flame. But amidst the roar of the flame, there was also a great scream. It was sharp, agonized, tremulous . . . and brief.
The engulfed silhouette of the tree seemed to tremble. Then wither. Then crack. Pieces of raw timber flashed away into ash. Archer saw other shapes in the fire, shapes that did not belong. It was almost as if the tree had an inner skeleton, a rib cage and limbs, all completely blackened now.
A small piece of ash fell into Archer’s eye, stinging him back to the task. The Dreamtreader curled and rolled to his feet, off and running for the misshapen Tree of Death before he could stop to think about his actions. As he ran, he became aware of his own tiredness. Spending his mental energy had begun to drain on his system. To consume the second tree would spend even more. He didn’t know if he’d have enough left to fight the Nightmare Lord, much less prevail against him. But those thoughts were secondary. The tree had to burn.
The two hounds between the trees set against Archer, but their threat had diminished somewhat. They seemed smaller now, weaker. Maybe it was the destruction of the first tree. Archer didn’t know, but before the beasts could pounce, he attacked them both. The Dreamtreader willed forth a length of chain around each of their necks. The hounds yelped and snarled and fought to get free, but Archer held them fast, constricting the chains link by link. Archer strode past the struggling hounds and said, “These are your tokens of doom!” He didn’t look back, but he heard the fall of the beasts and the heavy clank of the chains as he leaped to the second tree. Before his feet again touched the stone, Archer unleashed streams of burning liquid from his fingertips, swallowing the trunk in front of him in a monsoon of fire.
The Tree of Death seemed swarmed by hornets of flame. Branches vanished, then limbs. The trunk split asunder and fell apart. The buring hunks twisted within the flames, and again, Archer saw those strange skeletal shapes before it all withered and was gone.
Archer had to duck his head and cover his ears at the raging howl that blasted out at that moment. Somewhere in the distance, the Nightmare Lord roared with such venom and agony that the entire keep shook, but Archer knew his job wasn’t finished. He forced himself to his feet and strode in the direction from which the sound had come.
It seemed like he ran for an eternity, but then the ground fell away and he was falling, crashing madly down steps of stone. He tumbled and banged his head, his elbows, his knees—again and again. Each time he healed his wounds immediately, but he couldn’t stop his momentum. He found himself sprawled midway down what looked like an old Roman theater: a bowl of stone with a central stage in the center, everything funneling down to that point in the middle
.
Archer blinked stupidly. The trees were gone, withered in flame. Tiny flakes of ash rained down from the sky even now. Tired and aching, he found a way to his feet. He stood and looked down onto the stage.
There was the Nightmare Lord. He wasn’t wearing his horned helm but rather a pale crown adorned with black gems. He did not look hobbled in the least. He stood like a massive statue of some mythological warrior or maybe a demon with those pale green eyes. But his face was not what Archer had expected. He was grim and fearsome but ruggedly . . . normal. A broad chin, proud cheekbones, ridged and angled brows set above the emptiness of his eyes—it was a startling contrast. Archer gaped down at his enemy and yelled, “I fear you no longer! You are mortal now!”
“No,” came his hornet-infested rasp. “Young fool.”
It was then that Archer realized the Nightmare Lord was not alone. There was a wide stone altar, and upon it, bound at the wrists, neck, and ankles, lay Rigby Thames. Standing at the side of the altar with a steel dagger was Kara Windchil.
The Nightmare Lord began to clap his hands in mock applause. He gazed up at Archer with those ghastly pale, greenish eyes. “Bezeal played his part well, did he not?” he said.
Archer went to speak but found his tongue knotted. He gazed at Rigby, already bruised and battered, blood leaking from a dozen wounds. But breathing. Breathing rapidly. And Kara, the look in her eyes was baffling. There was sadness, some kind of regret . . . and yet, also a steely determination that Archer couldn’t quite understand.
Finally regaining his voice, Archer cried out, “Kara, what are you doing? Put down the blade!”
Kara did not move. She seemed mute, almost entranced.
“Destroy the thrones, not once but twice,” the Nightmare Lord mocked. “But he who does will pay the price. Isn’t that what Bezeal told you? It was a splendid exercise, or should I say expenditure of your will. And the trees, Archer? The Tree of Life and the Tree of Death, that was quite a show of strength you put on, razing them to the ground. To think that you might have used such power . . . on me? A terrible shame. I wonder whose doom you sealed.”
But as Archer pondered the mysterious words of the Nightmare Lord, he studied his enemy standing over Kara and Rigby. And for a few moments, confusion overwhelmed his pain. Where were the other Lucid Walkers? They had seemed to be doing pretty well in the initial stages of the assault. What had become of them? And how had Rigby been captured? The guy was powerful in the Dream, resourceful and smart. He had the Lurker, his Uncle Scoville, watching his back. Why would the bonds on that altar even hold Rigby?
Then he knew. Fear. Archer could see it in Rigby’s eyes. It was the stricken look of a man who could no longer see a way out. It was the gaze of a man who had no hope.
TWENTY-NINE
TESTED LOYALTIES
ARCHER CLENCHED HIS FISTS. HE WAS TIRED. DEAD tired.
But not dead.
He strode slowly down the stone stairs. As he walked, he cursed the day he ever bargained with Bezeal. “So it was all a trick?” Archer asked. “All a ploy to get me into Shadowkeep?”
The Nightmare Lord laughed, a sound like heavy stone grinding. “Much more than a trick,” he said. “Or did you not notice the remains in the fire?”
Archer stopped walking and felt a chill.
“For so long you’ve wondered what became of Duncan and Mesmeera, your Dreamtreader friends. They were alive until just moments ago. They were imprisoned within the trees, the trees that you burned. You killed them, Archer. You killed Duncan and Mesmeera.”
“No,” he whispered. “No! But it was supposed to . . . you were supposed to die! It was supposed to be you!” He fell to his knees.
“No, Archer,” the Nightmare Lord rasped. “It was supposed to be the Dreamtreaders, all of you. The Tokens of Doom were yours. And now, your greatest nightmare has come true. You betrayed them. You killed them.”
Archer crumbled within himself, a thousand memories of Duncan and Mesmeera flashing through his mind. A tide of anguish and guilt threatened to drown him then. He saw, step by horrifying step, how he’d been played by the Nightmare Lord. He’d been a fool. Too inexperienced, just as Master Gabriel had warned.
Hopelessly, Archer looked up. The blade still held in Kara’s hand, wavering over Rigby. For a punishing moment, Archer wondered how Rigby Thames could have been made so fearful. What could have transformed this confident warrior into a motionless captive? What could have collapsed him to such fear that he could no longer create within the Dream to help himself?
That’s when the Lurker stepped out of the shadows and stood at the Nightmare Lord’s side.
“One can never have too many servants,” the Nightmare Lord said. “Scoville, you have done well. You have earned the right to speak if you will.”
The expression on Uncle Scoville’s face went from the slack, soulless glance of a zombie to something wrenched with anguish and sorry. “I . . . I’m sorry, Rigby,” he said. “After being trapped here, he offered me a goblet of wine. It was brewed from gort root. I didn’t know. But I am his now.” Scoville’s expression changed again; his eyes lost their focus and intensity. He went back to being broken and enslaved. Scoville was no more. There was only the Lurker.
“Now, my sweet Kara,” the Nightmare Lord said. “Shall we have one . . . last . . . dance?”
Archer stared. Kara had the dagger in her hand. She raised it over Rigby. Her arm swung upward. Rigby’s eyes were wide and riveted on to the tip of the blade.
“Kara, it is time,” the Nightmare Lord said. “You see, Archer, Kara drank my wine as well.”
“Rigby!” Archer yelled. “Look at the dagger. It’s not real! See that it is—not—real!”
Rigby’s head bobbed on the altar. He coughed, and blood trickled down his cheek. He still wasn’t thinking clearly enough.
“This is a dream, Rigby!” Archer bellowed. “It’s not real. Only a dream!”
The Nightmare Lord raised his arms high and shouted, “This is not a dream. It is a nightmare!”
“No, Kara!” Archer screamed. “Remember what I said! Remember? You would never do something like this. You are better than this!”
Her eyes were pleading and full of sorrow. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“I did not give you permission to speak!” the Nightmare Lord roared at her. “Kill him, now!”
In that moment, the ash falling like snow around them, Archer readied what was left of his creative will. He was ready to throw something at Kara, either to block the blade or knock her bodily off of the platform.
But Archer froze. There was something different in her eyes. The dagger seemed to tremble in her raised fist. What was that look? There was something more than sadness there. Archer blinked.
Wait! he thought desperately. The Nightmare Lord hadn’t given her permission to speak, and yet she had. That meant . . .
Archer’s heartbeat seemed to slow. He saw Kara swing the dagger down. He saw the terror in Rigby’s expression. He saw the ruthless gleam in the Nightmare Lord livid green eyes. He saw the ash falling . . . the dagger blade falling. Slowly. So slowly.
The ash.
Archer immediately knew. He saw the plan unfurl like a parchment map. There were the steps, a kind of diabolical recipe. All he had to do was follow. And it all began with Kara. He saw her ever-so-slight nod. Now!
Time sped back up. With a shriek of rage, Kara swung the dagger sharply down, but she halted the blade just above Rigby’s throat. In a whiplash instant, she changed the angle of the weapon and thrust it overhand into the Nightmare Lord’s left eye.
He roared in pain. At that moment, Rigby snapped awake, and the Lurker turned and disappeared into a tunnel. Archer was already moving. He dove into the air and ripped the silver crown off of the Nightmare Lord’s head.
“Catch me if you can!” Archer yelled. “You are lord of nothing!”
Archer raced away, bounding up onto a parapet. He glanced back once to make sure the Nightmar
e Lord was following. He wasn’t sure for a moment, but then he saw a team of black horses wreathed in crimson fire and pulling a black coach with a black rider.
Archer spared a glance to the altar and saw Kara releasing Rigby. “Come on!” Archer yelled. “Stand with me!”
The black coach wheeled in the sky and careened toward Archer.
Rigby and Kara stood on the table where Rigby had lain. They gazed at each other strangely and then back to Archer.
“What are you waiting for?” Archer cried out. “We can defeat him . . . together! Come on!”
There came the sound of laughter and hornets. Archer stared at the oncoming coach. He had little time left.
“Number 6, Rue de la Mort is ours now!” Rigby exulted. “We rule Shadowkeep now!”
Archer wanted to wake up. He wanted to wake up and never sleep again. This was impossible. This was beyond comprehension. This . . . was a nightmare.
“Kara, please!” Archer cried. “Come with me!”
“Stay with us, Archer!” Kara called. “We can rule together!”
Archer mouthed the word no. But there was no sound. No breath. No feeling. He wasn’t sure there would be ever again. He took one last look at Rigby and Kara and then turned to face the Nightmare Lord. Alone.
THIRTY
LURE
ARCHER LUNGED AWAY, BOUNDING FROM ONE WALL TO the next. Soon he was on the top of the gatehouse. With the Nightmare Lord’s dark horses right behind him, Archer leaped down to the rampart. Flying would be the fastest way, but Archer had too little mental energy left. He desperately needed to make it back to the anchor with some strength remaining.
He called up his longboard, let his Intrusion buffer lapse, and caught a raging wave south. Archer looked back. The Nightmare Lord was gaining.
“Go, Archer!” Razz shouted, appearing at his shoulder in a puff of purple mist. She raced back and buzzed in the face of the lead stallion. It shrieked and reared and, for a moment, knocked the team off course.