THE HOWLS GREW LOUDER. THE HOUNDS WERE CLOSER, closing in.
“They’ve got my scent!” Archer Keaton growled as he raced down the moonlit mountain path into a misty dell full of black pines. “Gotta throw them off.” But how? Then he knew.
Archer launched himself skyward. He let his feet brush the treetops a moment, and then purposefully let himself crash down through the crisscrossing pine branches.
Creak. “Ouch.” Crunch. “Oof!” Crack! “Oww!”
The fourteen-year-old yelped with each bounce, smack, and breaking branch. He tumbled to the ground in a sticky heap. When he stood up and tried to brush the pine needles from his coat, vest, and pants, the sap kept most of them glued tight. “Good,” Archer whispered. “The more sap, the better. Now, gotta go!”
He broke out from beneath the pines and sprinted across the uneven ground. The howls were still there. Deep, throaty, mournful howls. And they were still getting closer.
“No way!” Archer grumbled, searching for any near place to get cover . . . shelter.
Crack!
Something was behind him. In the pines. Something big enough to snap a tree trunk as if it were a twig. Archer knew there were only a few creatures in the area large enough and heavy enough to do that kind of damage, but which beast was it? He had a suspicion but hoped he was wrong. That creature hunted in packs.
Archer spotted the ruins of an old castle, just a half-collapsed keep and a leaning tower, in the crook of a patch of broadleaf trees and more pines. He drove his legs like pistons and dove into the trees. The teenager’s sudden arrival startled some blackbirds from their roosts among the branches. They cawed, croaked, and cried their harshly voiced displeasure, but Archer paid them little mind. He careened around the trunks, stumbled to a knee, but drove on.
“Breathe, Keaton,” he commanded himself. Archer ducked under an archway in the old ruin and flattened his back to the stone wall inside. “Just breathe.”
“What’s the matter with you?” a high, nasal voice asked.
Archer jumped. Heart thrumming, he looked down and found his hands no longer empty. He’d summoned a pair of hand grenades.
“Ohhhhhh,” the voice said, right next to Archer’s ear. “You’re a Dreamtreader, aren’t you?”
Archer spun left and right but saw nothing. “Where are you?” he gasped.
“Right here.”
Archer craned his neck around. The voice really was close. It sounded a little like Razz. No, it was a little huskier and had an odd warble to it. Besides, Razz wanted nothing to do with Archer’s mission on this night.
“I still can’t see you,” he said.
“Of course you can’t,” the voice said. “I’m stuck here inside your coat!”
Archer willed the grenades to vanish and groped inside his long leather duster. There was nothing there—wait. He felt something prickly, and his left hand came back with a sticky pinecone.
“See, here I am,” the voice said, and Archer felt a faint vibration in his palm.
“You’re a pinecone?” he asked.
“No, you doofus,” the voice said. “I’m a pine coon. There’s a big difference!”
Just then, four little clawed feet popped out. A fluffy, black-and-gray tail uncurled as well. And, as Archer stared, he discovered two brown eyes glistening and blinking from a dark mask of fuzz at the cone’s point.
“A pine coon?” Archer echoed. Then he shrugged. Why not? Anything was possible here.
The little creature’s dark nose twitched. It flicked its head side to side and squeaked, “Uh-oh!” Instantly, its eyes, nose, limbs, and tail disappeared into its pinecone torso.
“What?” Archer blurted. “What’s wrong?”
The howl that came next was so loud that Archer felt the sound as much as he heard it.
“Chuck me into a tree!” the pine coon whispered urgently.
There were noises outside the ruin. First, a violent snuffling; then, the scrape of claw on stone; and finally, a very low growl.
“Please! Chuck me, chuck me, chuck me!”
“Just one second,” Archer whispered back. “Where can I go?”
“High place,” the pine coon said. “Tower?”
Archer had to cross the open courtyard to get to its stairwell, but the creature was right: the tower was the only real shelter.
Another howl. Archer leaped away from the wall and bounded across the stone-strewn courtyard. Just before the Dreamtreader ducked into the stairwell, he tossed the pine coon over the wall and into the waiting branches of a tree bushy with needles.
Up the curling stairs he went. After a long climb, Archer found himself in the highest chamber of the turret. He knelt by the window and dared a look out into the night.
The trees surrounding the ruins were swaying, but there was no wind. Archer saw something dark moving among them. It was a ridge of black fur . . . the spiky spine of a creature, and it was at least twelve feet off the ground. Here and there, the moonlight caught a glisten of red or yellow eyes.
Hounds.
Archer had heard the hounds many times. He’d seen their silhouettes from a distance. But he’d never seen one up close. That’s because I’ve never been stupid enough to get this close to Shadowkeep, he thought. Until now.
Archer sensed something. He dropped down beneath the windowsill and held his breath. A growl rumbled just outside. Archer cringed. At the same time, he summoned up every bit of will and concentration he could muster. He wasn’t certain what he would do, what he would summon to defend himself, but he had to be ready.
The growl trailed off, and the snuffling began again. The turret chamber grew darker. Archer sank down even lower. When he looked up at the window, a leathery black snout hovered there. It twitched and throbbed as it sniffed, filling the air with humidity and a musky scent.
A sword? Archer thought. Stab it right in the nose. Maybe a stick of dynamite? No, two sticks . . . one for each nostril. Or maybe a chain saw?
The snout rose high and angled at the window. There was a sharp sniff followed by an angry snarl. Then, the hound’s snout withdrew. A howl rose in the distance, while an answering howl echoed just outside the window. With a growling bark and the snap of limbs, the creature thundered away from the tower.
Archer sprang up just in time to watch a dark mass disappear into the trees and mist. The hounds had other business to attend to.
“Thank God,” Archer whispered.
But a deep, sonorous chime drowned out his words.
“Old Jack,” the Dreamtreader hissed. Archer ran to the other side of the chamber and stepped out on its small balcony. There in the distance, hovering like a phantom, stood the ancient clock tower known as Old Jack.
The strokes of hours rang out, one after the other, and Archer looked to the great clock’s massive black hands.
“Eleven?” Archer muttered. “No, no, no. Not enough time.”
The Dreamtreader felt the certainty like a cold hunk of lead in the pit of his stomach. He’d taken too long repairing breaches. One hour would never be enough time to break into Shadowkeep and do what he had come to do. Still, he’d already come this far. He’d taken terrible risks. He meant to see it through.
Archer leaped down from the balcony and dashed to the hills in the east. As he ran, he wondered about the rumors he’d heard from kingdoms near his last breach repair. An uprising, they’d said. Hundreds of villagers from Warhaven and Tirbury were gathering weapons and preparing an assault on Shadowkeep. If it were true, it might provide the distraction Archer needed. But it would be costly. The villagers, as brave and resourceful as they were, could not possibly overcome what they were up against. They would fail . . . as they always did. That was precisely why Archer had to succeed.
And yet, time stood as another lethal enemy. Old Jack now showed quarter past the hour—forty-five short minutes before Archer’s Personal Midnight—and he still had serious ground to cover. He blazed through the outer borders of Tirbury, cutting across moonlit farms and shadowy yards. Then, into Warhaven he went, leaping over the foxholes and barbed-wire fences that crisscrossed the landscape. Finally, the Dreamtreader passed under the sprawling canopy and twisted boughs of the Drimmrwood. Leaping thick roots, ducking low branches, and bouncing from trunk to trunk, Archer felt a bit like a pinball. But somehow he managed to avoid knocking himself senseless.
When Archer emerged from the trees at last, his eyes were drawn to the two moons: Shiver and Sliver. The face of the larger moon seemed anguished, frozen forever in a soundless scream. Gouged with craters and dead seas, it and the second moon—a razor-sharp sickle on this night—bled eerie silver beams upon a steep, slithering road.
Rue de la Mort. The Street of Death. Or, as Archer called it, Zombie Avenue.
“This might be a mistake,” Archer muttered, sprinting away from the protection of the Drimmrwood. He dashed up the hill and skidded to a stop at the very bottom of the infamous street. Someone was coming—many someones.
Villagers armed with crude weapons and torches strode by him and marched up the road like a scene from Frankenstein. Here, at least, the villagers had just cause. The monsters on this street were evil. Especially he who sat on the throne of Number 6, Rue de la Mort, the Shadowkeep. That legendary fortress was a house of horrors, a castle mansion from which the Nightmare Lord himself ruled with a jagged iron fist.
And a flaming whip.
Archer winced at the thought. Nothing frightened him more than Vorcaust, Tongue of Fire.
Screams and shouts pulled Archer’s attention back to the villagers. So, the rumors had been true after all. They were again attempting a revolt. Archer shook his head. Those unfortunate, desperate souls would never even get to the Nightmare Lord. Shadowkeep’s pale, blank-eyed guards—with their bone-breaking hammers and razor-sharp scythes—would sweep the villagers off both sides of the road, down into the yawning deeps below.
It had already begun. He heard their screams. He saw the fight. But where they fell, Archer would not. He had taken a vow. He had a job to do, and he would not, could not fail.
“Razz!” Archer whispered urgently. His Dreamtreading companion still would not appear nor answer. Impulsive as ever. Figures. Always ducking the tough things.
The tiny hairs on Archer’s neck stood up suddenly. An invisible tingling pulse struck him in the lower back. He stumbled forward a step and grumbled. “Sloppy. I let that one sneak through.”
It had been an Intrusion, a wave of dream matter, and a strong one too. Archer knew how powerful and destructive Intrusions could be if they were not kept at bay by his will. The experience reminded Archer of the most important of the Dreamtreaders’ Nine Laws: Anchor first; anchor deep.
Trying not to watch as villagers fell by the dozen, Archer reached over his shoulder and retrieved an anchor from his backpack. Moonlight glistened down the entire shaft, from the flat striking plate to the sharp stake at the end. The Dreamtreader yanked the rendering mallet from his belt and began to hammer the anchor into the ground. The burnt topsoil didn’t provide much support, though. Archer slammed the mallet down harder and harder until the air rang with the sound. Finally, the anchor bit into the char, the bone-hard stone about a foot beneath the soil. The anchor now steady, Archer holstered his mallet and bowed his head to the striking plate.
In order for the anchor to function, it had to be personalized . . . marked with a symbol of significance to its Dreamtreader. Archer closed his eyes and thought of the well in his backyard at home. It was an old artesian spring that had apparently been on the Keatons’ property over a hundred years before it became Keaton property. No one knew who drilled it or built the cobblestone turret that capped it now, but it still had a special importance to the family.
Archer’s mother, in particular, had been fascinated by it. She’d called it a wishing well, and Archer believed her. She’d drawn and painted pictures of it. She’d photographed it. She’d drunk out of it every day. It had been Archer’s special chore, when he was little, to run down the hill in the backyard to “fetch the water” for his mom to use in her famous summer limeade. She’d always made Archer feel so helpful, so brave for simply filling a pail of water and carrying it up the hill and into the kitchen. He’d felt heroic.
But I couldn’t save her, could I? Archer thought, pressing his forehead painfully into the striking plate. The cancer had taken his mother when he was seven, but right to the end she’d sworn that the well water had given her the two extra years of life that had so astounded the doctors. And since she’d believed it, Archer had also.
Now, that old well became his anchor. The Dreamtreader had anchored as close to Shadowkeep as he dared. But with time running short, Archer would need it close. It was his lifeline, his only way home. Even if all the Nightmare Lord’s hounds were on his tail, it would only take Archer one touch upon the well to go home.
Archer opened his eyes and stood up straight. The well was there now among the trees: smooth stone, ancient hardened wood, wrought iron, rope, and pail. This was his anchor, and it went very deep.
The Dreamtreader turned back to Rue de la Mort and stared up at the crooked fortress high on the mount. There was red light in its upper windows, and the moons lit every angle of its crooked rooftops in eerie yellow. This was the stronghold of the one who caused all the misery.
Archer knew what he wanted. No machine gun or high explosive that might draw out too much of his remaining Dreamtreader energy. No, Archer would use his favorite. He reached once more over his shoulder, and released a little of his will to create something out of pure Dream. This time, his hand came back with a sword: a sleek and silver-gray blade with a ribbed grip and a cross guard that stretched protectively from the haft like eagle’s wings to cover the knuckles of Archer’s right hand.
Archer held the blade aloft as if in defiance of the moons, in defiance of Shadowkeep and the dark tyrant who sat on its throne. A spark kindled upon the cross guard. Bluish-white flames whirled up the blade. He was ready.
Archer let out a growl that sounded more suited to a werewolf than a teenager. He ran up Rue de la Mort, tapping into a speed that Olympic athletes only dreamed about. He weaved in and out of the sea of villagers. Their forms flashed by in a blur, as did Shadowkeep’s shambling guards who nearly fell over themselves trying to catch up to the speedy intruder. It was no use. They could no more catch Archer than a sloth could leap up and grab a soaring hawk.
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.