Dreamtreaders

  One of the vacant-eyed guards swung a curved blade at Archer but missed wildly, hacking into another Shadowkeep soldier instead. Archer wrenched his fiery sword around and took out both guards at the knees. The Dreamtreader dove, rolled under another warrior’s sweeping stroke, and vaulted to plant both feet hard into the chest of a guard charging from the side of the bridge. The force of impact sent the guard staggering backward. With a moaning yelp, the thing toppled over the edge of the road.

  Back on his feet, Archer pulled away from the scuffling guards and charged on. His legs churned but never missed a step. Only a great clang caused Archer to pull up short. He half-skidded, half-stumbled to a stop. The forty-foot iron gate guarding Shadowkeep’s yawning mouth began to rise. In the hooded blackness of the opening, fierce eyes shone forth like lanterns.

  There came from that dark gate an echoing blast of horse speech. Not some tame neigh or whinny, but rather a fierce and angry scream. A massive black steed with flashing red eyes emerged. Its rider was clothed in night and shadow as if shreds of darkness could be woven together into a garment or hammered into plate armor. Cruel spikes and other wicked shapes jutted out from the metal and even pierced the rings of chain mail beneath.

  It was a fierce appearance, even more because of his eyes. The Nightmare Lord’s eyes were empty pockets of sickly, whitish-green fire, bubbling like cauldrons of rage within his ram’s-horned helm. If indeed eyes are the mirror of the soul, then this warlord possessed a soul like a tomb full of things dead and rotting.

  “Gabriel sending boys now, is he?” The Nightmare Lord’s voice was raspy, full of thickened syllables, and mingling somehow with the buzzing of frenzied hornets or carrion-mad flies. “The Dreamtreaders must be desperate indeed.”

  Archer took an involuntary step backward, shook his head, and chastised himself for even a moment’s cowardice. In the face of a rabid dog, you could not show fear. In the presence of the Nightmare Lord, fear—any fear at all—was a death sentence. One slip, one tiny gesture of dread revealed to him, would be the beginning of a cruel end. The Nightmare Lord would seize that thread and pull, unraveling a man into nothingness . . . or something far worse.

  “I do not fear you!” Archer cried out. He’d practiced these words over and over again prior to this night. His voice rang like church bells, full of hope and promising centuries of faith and resolve.

  At Archer’s resounding declaration, the Shadowkeep guards caught up to Archer at last, coming to an awkward halt several yards behind him. But the dark rider showed no change. There he sat, unmoving, a black puncture in the fabric of dream. But then, his massive shoulders shifted. The spikes on his elbow and along his forearm glimmered. From an unseen loop or sheath, he drew out a long weapon: Scorghuul.

  The axe was a dreadful, dangerous thing, vast and curved, wickedly sharp and shaped like the fang of a venomous snake. It looked immense and heavy, with a curved handle meant for two hands, yet the dark figure held the weapon in a single fist.

  “I do not fear you!” Archer cried out again. This time, his voice failed him, and his words fell like shards of glass. The Dreamtreader looked at his sword and tried to will the fire to burn more fiercely . . . brighter. But now it was barely a lick of blue flame.

  Archer swallowed deeply, turned toward his enemy, and charged.

  The rotting eyes of the Nightmare Lord flashed. His movement was swift and sudden. He swept Scorghuul aloft and pointed it at Archer. His dark steed responded, charging. The thick muscle of the creature’s flanks sent the beast and its rider thundering across the drawbridge and down the mountain path. The horse shrieked. Its hoofbeats thundered. The blade loomed.

  Archer’s own speed almost got away from him. He stumbled, righted himself at the last second, and leaped. But to call it a simple leap was far short of the feat Archer performed. His deed was something just a bit below actual flight. He rose fourteen feet into the air, somersaulted over the Nightmare Lord, and cranked his sword around for the dark king’s head.

  The blade flared up with white fire once more, but the dark rider lifted his weapon in defense. The collision was that of shadow and light, darkness and hope ablaze. Archer’s sword glanced off the crown of the axe. He’d intended to take the Nightmare Lord’s head . . . and failed. He had, however, done something that would be remembered in Dreamtreader legends for years to come.

  The ram’s horn Archer had carved from the Nightmare Lord’s helm clattered to the road. Never in all the timeless moments that passed in the realm of Dream had anyone had the audacity and skill to inflict damage upon him who rules the nightmare realm.

  Archer finished his acrobatics with a sturdy landing and turned back to face his foe. The Nightmare Lord pulled hard on the reins. The tyrant’s mount came to a scraping, gravel-blasting halt. The violence of the steed’s turn seemed impossible, as if the creature had reversed, inside out, and now came marching back toward Archer. The Nightmare Lord slowed his mount. The incline became deathly quiet. Indeed, only the hollow clatter of the horse’s massive hooves rang upon the stone.

  The beast came to a stop just a dozen paces from Archer and snorted. When it raised and shook its head, the chain links of its harness jangled dully. Archer shuddered and then cringed inwardly.

  He knew his mistake. Worse still, he knew the Nightmare Lord had seen it.

  Instantly, the meager flame upon Archer’s sword vanished altogether.

  Archer tried to will it to rekindle, but it was no use. This close to Shadowkeep and in the presence of its master, Archer could not produce even a lick of fire. What’s more, the grip of the blade grew painfully cold. He could feel the numbing chill spread from his fingers, down his wrist, and all the way to his elbow. He could barely hold on to the sword.

  A bit of motion caught Archer’s eye. He looked up as the Nightmare Lord holstered his fearful axe.

  What is he doing? Archer wondered. “You won’t have me!” he cried out.

  That’s when Old Jack began to toll. The strokes came, and Archer knew. It was twelve, the Stroke of Reckoning, his Personal Midnight.

  My anchor, he thought desperately. I have to get back to my anchor! But between him and his anchor stood the Nightmare Lord and more than a hundred Shadowkeep guards.

  “Your time has run out!” the Nightmare Lord declared, the hornet-buzzing sound louder and more agitated than before.

  Archer swallowed and made a show of slashing his sword. “So has yours!” he yelled. “I won’t miss this time!” He made as if to charge but found his legs would not obey. He felt rooted to the road.

  The Nightmare Lord leaned forward in his saddle and began to laugh. It was an eerie sound, mirthless and harder than flint. It struck Archer like a physical blow. The Dreamtreader staggered back but kept his eyes trained on his foe. Something was happening to the Nightmare Lord. Archer shook his head and rubbed his eyes, but couldn’t change what he was seeing.

  “No,” Archer whispered, but he knew his hope was in vain. Vorcaust.

  The flaming whip flickered out like the lick of a dragon’s tongue. The Nightmare Lord cracked it in the air, and thunder crashed in the roiling clouds. The tyrant began to whirl the lash around his head, then his body. The outline of the dark warrior upon his steed seemed to tremble. And yet the movement had purpose. Things began to rise up out from the ribbons of hungry fire and gloom that danced around the Nightmare King. Forms and shapes emerged: shadows of ravens, spiders, and serpents; gnarled, grasping trees and skeletal hands.

  Archer could barely force himself to watch as the enemy’s storm of horrors continued to grow. Shapes emerged and foundered. There were faces too. Scowling, snarling, vacant-eyed faces.

  With sudden shouts of rage, a band of the villagers raced past the guards and dared to lift their pitchforks and crude blades before the Nightmare Lord’s pale eyes. Wreathed in red flame, black smoke, and a myriad of misty horrors, the Nightmare Lord scarcely looked down at his subjects. Vorcaust flickered out, and a man went down, writhing
in a nest of serpents. The whip cracked again. Another villager screamed, suddenly enveloped in a giant shadow shaped like raven’s wings. The other villagers turned to flee. The Nightmare Lord spurred his stallion, and Scorghuul came free. The dark blade swept a downward arc, leaving the villagers maimed in its wake.

  Archer couldn’t help himself. He turned and ran. He paid no heed to the fact that he was running toward the Shadowkeep, but churned his legs faster and faster. Hoofbeats thundered behind him, gaining. Archer heard the Nightmare Lord’s laughter, stumbled, and fell. He tasted blood in his mouth, tried to get up, but failed.

  The last thing passing through Archer’s muddled and failing mind was a young woman’s voice: “I warned you not to attempt this yet,” she whispered. “He is above your kind.”

  “Why?” Archer demanded. “How do you know this? And . . . who are you anyway?”

  The Nightmare Lord’s black mount shrieked. There was thin, cruel laughter. He was close. Very close.

  “There is no time,” the maiden’s voice replied. “I can deliver you to your anchor. Do you wish this?”

  Archer swallowed, tasted blood, and whispered, “Yes.”

  He blinked, or rather, the world around him blinked. There was a final lash of fire streaking out at him, a flash, and then . . . Archer was kneeling by the well. His anchor. His way home. Archer thrust his hand to its stone and gasped.

  TWO

  THE DERECHO

  FIRE. BLOOD. PALE EYES.

  Archer Keaton gasped awake, his top sheet and blankets tangling around him as if they were living things, serpents bent on strangling the life out of him while he slept. Everything was drenched in sweat, especially near his back. And it stung. Archer half-reached over his shoulder, probing for the source of pain. A new line of fire streaked up his back, making him flinch. What in the world?

  He squirmed a bit on the edge of the bed and shrugged his shoulders slowly. A lash of flame sliced through his thoughts. He shook the image away, but the memory seemed nearer than ever before.

  “Hold it!” Archer blurted out. He snatched up at his windowsill and came back with the compact UV light he always kept close to his bed. His breath held captive, his heartbeat seeming to pause, he flicked on the light. Legs clear, he thought. Torso, arms too. He slid out of bed to stand before the mirror. A few more sweeps of the UV light . . . and Archer exhaled.

  “No tendrils,” he whispered, switching off the power. “Not still in the Dream.” He exhaled a long, relieved breath and flopped back into bed. Dreamtreading was full of dangers, but tendrils were among the worst. Leech-like parasites, about six inches long, but invisible to the naked eye, tendrils infected their hosts with a kind of psychological toxin. Not only did this mental poison hinder the Dreamtreader’s ability to wake up, but it hit the imagination and senses, making it nearly impossible to tell dream from reality.

  A siren wailed somewhere, maybe just a few streets away from Archer’s home. He shuddered involuntarily. As Archer would put it, sirens weirded him out. It wasn’t just the sound—unsettling, shrill, and mournful—but more the potential behind the sound. The potential for tragedy.

  Archer shivered again, and again felt the sting on his back. “I really need to see what that is,” he whispered. But just then, the wind kicked up. Not some little breeze to stir the wind chimes—this was a fist of buffeting, hammering air. It struck the side of Archer’s house causing the shutters and siding to rattle like a machine gun. And it kept coming.

  A derecho.

  Archer had never heard the term before science class the day before. Dr. Pallazzo had described the rare atmospheric condition: a line of powerful thunderstorms stretching hundreds of miles up and down the East Coast, the derecho was fueled by a volatile sudden mass of cold air surging down from Canada and sweeping into a cauldron of hot, moist air.

  This violent collision often caused thunderstorms and sometimes spawned tornados, but there were exceptional occasions when these conditions would unleash a derecho. Dr. Pallazzo had said that all the weather models pointed to the likelihood that a derecho would form, probably deep into the night.

  Archer glanced at the red digital display of his bedside clock. Three in the morning. The wind continued to howl. “Man, Dr. P was right,” Archer muttered. He listened to the pounding wind. “I hope—”

  Flash. Bang!

  The thunderclap slammed before the lightning flash faded.

  “Snot buckets!” Archer exclaimed, blinking and trying to catch his breath. As if I need anything else to accelerate my heartbeat.

  The lightning had pierced his curtains and lit the room in ghostly white, leaving a visual phantom of pale eyes.

  Those eyes. The memories returned. Defeat. The Nightmare Lord’s laughter.

  The storm roared outside, gathering strength. Hard rain pelted his bedroom window. Lightning flashes and thunder blasts competed against each other, trying to give Archer a heart attack. He closed his eyes and silently prayed for safety, for him and his family.

  An odd musical trill floated across his room.

  “What—is—that?” Archer wondered aloud as the tune carried on. It sounded vaguely familiar. Annoying, but familiar.

  Wait, he thought. Is that . . . is that the Bob the Builder theme song? Oh, no. Not again.

  Archer sat up, sending a strip of searing pain blazing up his back. He groaned. The image flickered into his mind again: Vorcaust, the flaming whip. But he wasn’t still in the dream. “Why do I still feel it?” Archer whispered. He arched his back and rolled his shoulders.

  The music tinkled again. Archer spotted his cell phone on the charger atop his desk. His back still smarting, he managed to pad across the room and snatch up the phone.

  “Dang it, Kaylie,” he mumbled. He knew good and well what had happened. His little sister had changed his ring tone again. And again, she’d changed it to the most annoying ring tone imaginable. Sure, he’d tried to lock her out of the phone. But when it came to technology, he was no match for Kaylie. Few people were.

  At just seven, Kaylie had tested off the charts in every school subject. She’d skipped three grades and had to get county-sponsored private tutoring because the regular Gifted and Talented curriculum wasn’t challenging enough. Kaylie wasn’t just smart. She was scary. She sent other prodigies running home to their mamas.

  And no matter what Archer did to protect his computer, iPod, game systems, and phone, Kaylie always managed to hack in. It was never malicious, but it was almost always an eleven on the Pesty Scale.

  Another clap of thunder made Archer jump. He shook his head, exhaled, and looked down at the messages: two, both from his best friend, Kara Windchil. Archer again noted the time. Way late for texting, he thought. But that didn’t stop him from checking the messages anyway.

  Scary storm. Save me.

  This wind is crazy. Jk about the save me part. Lol.

  Archer snorted a laugh. He detached the phone from the charger and ambled back to bed. Kara had been his best friend ever since they were in day care together before starting kindergarten. They’d climbed trees together. They’d caught fireflies and built snowmen. They’d fetched crates full of little milk cartons together in elementary school and done morning announcements on camera in middle school.

  Now, many years later, they went to the same high school and shared numerous classes. Kara was a little different in high school, more worried about being cute and popular. But, in the neighborhood, she was always the same old friendly Kara.

  The middle-of-the-night text was unexpected though.

  Archer texted back:

  Storms still spook you, Kara? What are we, still in kindergarten?

  Always the funny guy, right? Except not funny. My house is shaking.

  Archer laughed, but it was painful laughter. My back, again, he thought, still at a loss for an explanation that made any sense.

  He texted:

  Storm shouldn’t last too much longer. Dr. P said derechos move fast.
br />   A few seconds pause and Kara texted:

  Hope so. Creeping me out.

  Archer sent back:

  Everything else okay?

  “Dude, what are you doin’ on your phone?” came a voice from the doorway.

  Archer’s eyes bounced up. “Buster, get back in bed.”

  “Why?” Buster asked, cocking his head sideways. “This storm is righteous.”

  Archer shook his head. “Righteous? I don’t get it,” he said. “Our family has lived in Maryland for all of your life. In fact, we Keatons have been in Maryland, well . . . ever since our ancestors came over on the boat. And you talk like you’re a surfer raised on the breakers in California.” Buster ignored him.

  “Look, Brosef, if I can’t bang on my games this late, you can’t be messin’ around on your phone.”

  Brosef? Archer rolled his eyes. But it wasn’t a put-on or an imitation. It was just the way Buster spoke. And, in spite of the dominant red-hair, fair-skin Keaton genes, ten-year-old Buster had somehow managed to get blond hair and the ability to tan like a beach bum.

  The trilling text message music sounded again.

  “Dude, tell me that is not the Barney theme,” Buster said.

  “Kaylie did it,” Archer muttered. “She—” A sudden flash. Sharp, crackling thunder followed.

  “Cool,” Buster said.

  Yeah, thought Archer. Way cool. “Okay, little bro,” he said. “Back to your room.”

  “Better not let Dad catch you with your cell,” Buster warned.

  “It’s no big deal,” Archer explained. “Someone just texted me, that’s all.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Who?” Buster asked again.

  “None of your business.”

  “I’ll tell.”

  Archer glowered at his little brother. “It’s just Kara,” he muttered.