The War for the Waking World (12 page)

G
LASS
H
OUSE
M
OUNTAIN

N
ICK
B
USHMAN
STEPPED ONTO HIS PORCH OVERLOOKING
the Glass House Mountains and the surrounding Queensland landscape. He sipped a tall, frosty glass of iced tea and sighed. He couldn't remember a better day in his life. From the moment he awoke to the playful yips of the distant coyotes, everything just felt right.

Some sixty miles north of Brisbane, the Glass House Mountain Township offered Nick a sprawling view of the verdant, almost entirely flat coastal plain.
Almost
because eleven mountains rose up abruptly from the otherwise level vista. The highest, the two peaks called Mount Beerwah, wore a hula hoop of mist, but otherwise there wasn't a cloud to be seen. Just cobalt blue as far as the eye could see.

Nick noticed a little trail of dust kicked up to the east. “Ah, there he is,” he muttered. Then, he raised his voice a bit more and called, “Oliver! Lunch in an hour!”

“Thanks, heaps!” Nick's mercurial little brother yelled back. He kicked the brakes on his bike and stirred up a fresh whorl of dirt.

“Don't be late, ya little ankle biter!” Nick hollered.

A hand rose in the midst of the dust cloud and gave a mighty thumbs up.

Nick laughed. “Best day ever,” he muttered, turning from the view and heading inside. The telly was on Nick's favorite news station. He paused to turn up the volume so he could hear the headlines while he worked in the kitchen.

Oliver liked roast beef piled high with Muenster cheese and extra
tomato, so Nick went to work, slicing a bright red heirloom tomato that was bigger than his fist. “Ahh!” he said, breathing in through his nose. “Nothing better than fresh, sliced tomato, fair Dinkum. And these little beauties are the best I've seen.”

“At just .02 percent, unemployment is at its lowest in Australia's history,” the anchor on the television reported from the other room. “Prime Minister Davids claims it's the renewed spirit of the Australian people—”

“Bonzer!” Nick exclaimed. He loved listening to the news shows these days. There was nothing but good news. The economy was thriving. The weather was dandy. Murder and violent crime were nearly unheard of anymore. Nick was grinning as he cut a few more slices of tomato and tossed them on his sandwich. Life was good.

“G'day,” came a voice from behind. “I hope you have enough for three.”

Knife in his right hand and reaching for one of his boomerangs with his left, Nick spun around. He dropped them and stared.

There was a very tall, older gentleman in his kitchen. Nick wasn't used to looking up to make eye contact, but he did for this strange fellow. The man wore a bizarre combination of outback clothing (bush hat, oilskin vest, and cargo shorts) and some sort of medieval reenactment costumery (boots laced to the calf, a sturdy leather sheath, and a very realistic looking broadsword).

And sunglasses. Dark sunglasses with black frames. With his mane of gray hair and a gray beard both full and long, he looked like a wizard who moonlighted as a park ranger.

Feeling no menace from the stranger, Nick chuckled and said, “You lost, mate?”

“No,” the stranger replied. “But you are. Fearfully and hopelessly lost in a fairyland that really is far too good to be true.”

“Well, color me gobsmacked,” Nick said. “You delivered those
lines, fair Dinkum. You an actor? C'mon, who put you up to this? Was it Charlie Grubbs? Bet it was.”

The front screen door banged open and closed. Nick's brother, Oliver, whipped into the kitchen, skidded to an abrupt stop, and asked, “Um . . . why is Merlin in our kitchen?”

“He was just leaving,” Nick said, trying to take the stranger's arm.

The man shrugged loose. His dark eyes smoldered. “Unhand me, Nick Bushman,” he demanded. “I am no derelict, nor am I some peddler selling buttons at the door. As you should know, I am Master Gabriel, Chief Dreamtreader and your commanding officer.”

“Whoa!” Oliver gasped out.

Nick blinked. “I don't know how you know my name, but I think this has gone far enough.”

“Unfortunately,” Master Gabriel replied, “not nearly far enough.”

“C'mon, mate, just leave. You're scarin' me kid brother.”

“Oliver is not afraid,” Master Gabriel quipped. “He has the uncommonly good sense to think I am cool. But you, on the other hand, are the one battling fear. Now, gird yourself, and prepare for the news I bear you.”

“
Gird myself
?” Nick echoed quizzically. “What does that even mean?”

Master Gabriel opened his mouth, shut it, and frowned. “I do not know the correct expression for your generation—wait, yes, something I heard Archer say once. It means
man up
so you can endure the news I bring.”

Nick turned his chin up. “All right. Spit it out and go.”

Master Gabriel adjusted his sunglasses and replied, “Good and bad. Which will you take first?”

Nick swallowed. “Bad news first, I guess.”

“Very well,” Master Gabriel said. “The bad news is that this—” he lifted both arms and made a sweeping gesture, “—is a fantasy. It may look, smell, and feel real, but it is an illusion.”

“What's the good news?” Oliver asked.

“Yeah, let's get this over with,” Nick muttered, rolling his eyes.

“It is clear to me that you do not take this seriously,” Master Gabriel replied. “Given the circumstances, I suppose you must be forgiven for that. The good news, then, is that I have come to open your eyes, to show you the world as it actually is. Nick, I am most heartily sorry for what I am about to do.”

SEVENTEEN

T
HE
C
ASE
A
GAINST

A
RCHER GLANCED UP AT
C
HIEF
J
USTICE
M
ICHAEL THE
Archelion and smiled nervously. Then, he glared at Razz. “Wh—what are you doing here?”

Razz frowned. “I already explained,” she said. “The Waking World is hanging in the balance, so Master Gabriel sent me to help. Sorry I'm late.”

“We are all well aware of humanity's plight, Dream creature,” the judge said, a bemused tone in his voice. “But I am curious as to why you believe you are late to an event that you've not been invited to join.”

Somehow, Archer knew that beneath the fur Razz's cheeks were reddening like mad. Seemingly undaunted, Razz gave a little bow and said, “Actually, your high justice-ness, I am Archer's co-counsel. Or co-defender, if you prefer. Co-protector? No? Co-keep-Archer-out-of-jail-ish, uh, person . . .”

The judge's stern glare closed Razz's mouth, and he turned to Archer. “Dreamtreader Keaton, do you wish Miss Moonsonnet to assist your defense?”

“He knows my name,” Razz whispered under her breath. “I'm a rock star.”

Oh, brother,
Archer thought. And though he thought it was likely a mistake, Archer was so happy not to be in this magnificent courtroom alone that he said, “Yes, your honor, um . . . Razz will help represent me.”

Sinusy snickers came from across the aisle. Archer glared at Bezeal, who seemed to think Razz's assistance was quite amusing.

“And, Bezeal,” the judge barked, causing the merchant's Cheshire grin to disappear, “it has been some time since we've seen your hooded countenance in this court, though there has been no shortage of your associate prosecutors. This case must be of particular interest for you to come yourself.”

If Bezeal had looked uncomfortable before, Archer thought he looked positively beside himself now. He squirmed in his seat, and his glowing eyes shrank to pinpricks. “Your honor,” he squawked, “the Dream was my world, my livelihood, and my home. Until the Dreamtreaders came there to search, meddle, and roam. I came to seek justice beneath this court's dome.”

The judge tented his fingers, and his armor flashed brilliant light. “You may have a case,” he said, “but let's get one thing straight, Bezeal. No rhymes.”

“But—”

“Enough!” the chief justice thundered. “You will not make a mockery of my court with your inane singsong banter. Have I made myself clear?”

Bezeal's eyes flashed. “All too clear,” he said, “and I fear—”

“Bezeal,” the judge warned, “one more rhyme from you, and I'll hold you in contempt of court!”

Bezeal blinked. “But . . . sir—”

Chief Justice Michael leaned forward. “How do ten days cleaning Gloriana Stables sound to you? I understand the unicorns have been particularly well fed of late.”

Archer suppressed the laughter he felt bubbling up inside and silently enjoyed watching Bezeal squirm.

“That will not be necessary, your honor,” Bezeal muttered.

“Good,” the judge said. “Now, do you as prosecutor have an opening statement?”

Bezeal slid off of the chair and waddled out into the open well of the court, a span that stretched between the two galleries. “Yes,” Bezeal said, “if it pleases the court, your honor, the prosecution will speak.”

“Much better,” the judge said. “Go on.”

Bezeal strolled along the rail that enclosed the right side gallery. “A perfect balance,” he said to the soldiers seated there. “The Dream and the Waking World coexisted in a peaceful balance for many ages, until now. I intend to prove that a Dreamtreader, one sworn to protect that balance, did in fact cause its destruction; that this Dreamtreader, Archer Keaton, through his action and inaction did cause the Rift. I will show the court Archer's willful disobedience for the commands of his superiors. I will show Archer's careless use of excessive power, a traitorous act that led to the deaths of Dreamtreaders Duncan and Mesmeera.”

The galleries erupted in gasps and hurried comments.

“Objection!” Razz shouted, spinning in the air above Archer's head and slapping her two tails together.

“It is an opening statement,” hissed Bezeal. “You cannot object.”

“It is unusual,” the judge corrected, “but legal. To what do you object, Ms. Moonsonnet?”

Razz gave a half bow. “I object because Bezeal called Archer a traitor. That's totally not true.”

Archer reached up and yanked Razz's tail. “C'mere!” he said. “That's not helping.”

“Ms. Moonsonnet,” the judge said, “the prosecution has a right to state the nature of the crime he intends to prove. Your objection is overruled.”

“Fiddlesticks,” Razz mumbled. Archer quickly covered her mouth with his hand.

“I repeat,” Bezeal went on, “that Archer Keaton misused his Dreamtreader powers, betraying the other Dreamtreaders to their deaths. Without the considerable experience of Dreamtreaders Duncan and Mesmeera, the Rift became all but inevitable. Finally, I will prove
that Archer, in the face of the Rift, took out his anger by plotting to murder a defenseless human being.”

Razz squirmed free. “Objection!” she shouted. The judge turned her way. “Archer didn't kill that old Doc Scoville!”

“Objection overruled,” the judge replied curtly. “The prosecutor asserts only that Archer plotted to murder.”

“Your honor,” Bezeal said, “may I continue?”

“Go on.”

“Esteemed court, I will prove that Archer Keaton, a once promising Dreamtreading talent, has been derelict in his duties. From his earliest conflicts with the Nightmare Lord to his mishandling of the Shadow Key even to his most recent negligence leading to the Rift, Archer Keaton has failed . . . failed us all. He is guilty of all these charges. And I will show why he should be removed from Dreamtreading permanently and locked away for good.”

EIGHTEEN

B
EHIND THE
H
ARLEQUIN
V
EIL

R
IGBY BECAME PAINFULLY AWARE OF A THROBBING IN HIS
head. He couldn't see, he couldn't hear, and he couldn't feel anything in his arms and legs, but oh could he feel the pounding in his mind. It was, in fact, the first thing he became conscious of after a sea of darkness had taken him away. The pulsing, the pressurized strokes of pain, were excruciating, but they were there. And feeling something,
anything
seemed like a good thing to Rigby.
Thump, thump, thump
—the beat went on.

Slowly, he noticed a sensation of cold, a crawling chill suggesting that he did indeed have more than just a head and a skull. There actually was a body attached, and the chill prickled and spread until Rigby felt uncomfortable and began to tremble violently.

A ringing pierced the silence and grew to such an explosive shrill it dwarfed even the headache's crushing agony. He felt something else now too: burning vapors in his throat, and he was suddenly aware that he was screaming. Then, all at once, he was awake, and all his memories were restored.

Rigby found himself on his knees. He'd wrapped his arms around a prong of stone and listened to his own breathing for a few seconds. The Scath had done it, he realized. They had managed to pull off their part of the plan. They'd put him into an unconscious state, dropping his vitals so low that he had appeared to be quite dead. Rigby
shivered at the memory. The Scath had triggered the death-like trance by breathing upon him, and it was quite possibly the most terrifying experience he'd ever endured.

Wispy vapors had emerged from their gaping, open-wound-like mouths. Thin, sinewy strands of gray, the vapors had snaked through the air and into Rigby's breath. He had fought every bodily urge to deny them, but drew them into his mouth, throat, and lungs, sucking deeply at the contaminated air. It had felt like inhaling spiderwebs. Just before everything went dark, Rigby had seen things. Blood, darkness, eyes, rot, teeth, claws—a concentrated mix of all the nightmares Rigby had ever had—and he shook the memory away.