THE HOWLS THAT RANG OUT FROM SHADOWKEEP SHOOK the ground upon which Archer and his team now stood. Uncle Scoville walked back to the teens and said, “Are you prepared for this?”
Archer searched the team’s eyes. There was indecision there . . . hesitance. “Whatever you do,” he said, “do not show fear inside those gates. Wear a helmet, war paint, or turn your head into a block of iron. Do whatever you need to do to avoid showing fear. This is Sixtolls, the height of the Nightmare Lord’s power. He releases his hounds to frighten us because fear increases his strength.”
“Have you seen the hounds?” Kara asked.
“Yeah,” Rigby said, cutting Archer off. “From a distance. But Archer’s right. No fear.”
“Why aren’t the hounds coming out after us?” Bree asked.
“Because,” Uncle Scoville said, “he wants us inside his gates. He wants to finish us off on his own terms. But we won’t be letting him, will we?”
Everything changed inside Shadowkeep. It soon became apparent why the being who sat on its thrown was known as the Lord of Nightmares.
Archer and the others found themselves in a vast and ancient graveyard. Gnarled, misshapen trees rose up around them and lined their path. Two moons gazed out at them from the torn shreds of tattered cloud high above.
Feverish red eyes smoldered out of the gloom all around the team. They were slanted, burning with hate, much larger and much higher off the ground than they should have been.
“Remember,” Archer whispered. “No fear.”
A voice that did not belong to any of the team whispered back in a raspy, mocking tone, “Nooooo feeaaarrr!”
All at once, the hounds sprang. The moonlight and mist obscured their shape, their speed even more so, but what Archer saw made his heart leap into his throat. Something happened to his pulse that made him suddenly feel like he’d been thrust beneath the surface of some dark water. He gasped for breath even as the first hound was upon him.
There was a frantic tangle of tooth, claw, and mane. Archer felt rips and punctures, and the dizzying motion of being yanked back and forth. There was blood all around him and icy cold . . . and a strange, mournful cry, calling out that he should simply surrender, fall into a deep sleep, and let it be.
“Archer, fight!” a female voice commanded. Archer thought at first it was Razz, but it couldn’t have been. The voice was not outside, but within his mind.
It was the Windmaiden, saving him once more.
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.