WHEN ARCHER AWOKE, HE WAS SHOCKED TO FIND THAT he was no longer in bed. He was at his mother’s well in the backyard.
The Nightmare Lord’s whip was still tangled around his waist, but it no longer burned. Archer turned round to find his pale-eyed tormentor just gaining his feet. He was moving slowly, stiffly. It’s working, Archer thought. He’s weakening.
“How does it feel?” Archer shouted. He held up the crown for the Nightmare Lord to see. “Say good-bye to your kingdom.” He tossed the crown down the well.
The Nightmare Lord gave a wrenching jerk to the whip, and Archer fell forward. Flat on his face.
“I am not finished with you,” the Nightmare Lord said, his voice low and menacing.
Archer rolled up and took hold of the whipcord. It already felt brittle. The Dreamtreader gave the hardest tug he could and yanked the Nightmare Lord forward. Archer ran ahead too, but he dove to the side and dragged his leg in front of the Nightmare Lord, sweeping the bigger foe’s legs.
The Nightmare Lord’s momentum threw him hard. The whipcord snapped between the two combatants. Archer ate some turf, but the Nightmare Lord slammed into the side of the well.
Archer spun back to his feet and saw the Nightmare Lord half collapsed over the edge of the well. Archer turned and raced toward him. He plowed into the enemy’s back, pressing him into the old stone.
The Nightmare Lord howled, but Archer wasn’t finished. The Dreamtreader wrapped his arms around the Nightmare Lord’s legs and lifted with everything he had. Archer lifted and pushed, and finally, the Nightmare Lord toppled over the side. He cried out, “Dreamtreader!” Then there was silence.
Archer exhaled and spat blood.
He looked over the side of the well to see only darkness. But then, like some kind of mutated spider, the Nightmare Lord appeared in the pale moon’s light. He had found a hold, maybe where the mortar was worn away, and was trying to climb back up.
“No!” Archer yelled. He looked around for some kind of weapon. He wasn’t in the Dream anymore, so he couldn’t just summon a sword or a grenade. There was nothing near. Just the well. He went back to the well, slamming into the loosened stone at the edge and looking down. The Nightmare Lord was ten feet away from the edge.
“No!” he yelled again. He saw those pale eyes leering up at him. But Archer grabbed the edges of the stone. He worked it with his arms, wobbling it free from the mortar. He took up the stone with both hands, held it high above his head, and then heaved it down at the Nightmare Lord.
Even as Archer fell away, he heard the sickening crunch as the thirty-pound stone slammed into the Nightmare Lord’s face. Archer collapsed in a dirty, sweaty bloody heap and allowed himself the slightest of smiles.
Suddenly, a howling wind roared across the field. It blasted through the trees and flattened the tall grass. Archer crawled a few feet away from the well, got to a knee, and then stood. Just as he turned toward the well, there came a haunting groan from its depths. The well spewed up a massive blast of water and ash. Just one large spout, and it was over.
It felt to Archer like he had been holding his breath for hours and could finally exhale. He wiped the blood and sweat out of his eyes and started walking toward his house. When he saw his family again, he would hug them with all his might. But not until morning.
With whatever hours of darkness were left, Archer resolved to sleep . . . and not to Dreamtread. In fact, he was going to take a huge break from Dreamtreading . . . well, if it was okay with Master Gabriel, that is.
He wandered up the hill in his backyard and wondered at the brightness of the moon. It was a beautiful night. He glanced up at the stars. He looked at the moon’s reflection in a window on the back of the house.
He stopped walking. There were two moons in the reflection.
“Watch out, Archer!” It was the Windmaiden.
Archer stood very still. “No,” he whispered.
With a last bit of mental strength, Archer called up a UV light, something he should not have been able to do in the waking world. Already knowing what he’d find, Archer shone the UV light up one of his legs and down the other, and then onto his midsection. And there it was:
A tendril.
It hung loosely from his gut where it had apparently latched on as Archer had raced recklessly through the trees.
“I’m still in the Dream,” Archer muttered, feeling the strength drain out of him, his will breaking, and fear seizing him. He blinked, and the world turned upside down.
Archer was there again, in the Drimmrwood clearing once more. He was wrapped bodily in the Nightmare Lord’s burning whip. The fire licked at his vest and the duster. The pressure and the heat made Archer gasp.
“It was kind of you to lead me to your anchor,” the Nightmare Lord hissed, “. . . to all of your anchors!”
With his bare hand, Archer ripped the tendril free and tossed it away. He still had the crown in his other hand. There wasn’t much point to it, not now. After all, he’d treated the Nightmare Lord to a sneak preview of his plan. Archer had no mental energy, no physical strength. All he wanted to do was sleep. He closed his eyes and fell toward the well.