The War for the Waking World

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  “This is for the best,” Master Gabriel said, raising the sword high.

  “Go!” Nick commanded, and to his relief he heard Oliver pound across the den floor and crash through the screen door. But the maniac wasn’t going for a thrust after all. He’d expertly maneuvered the blade vertically and held it now like a major league slugger.

  Nick instantly changed tactics. He’d bull-rush, duck under the chopping stroke, and take the bloke down to the kitchen floor. From there he’d give the bitzer a bit of knuckle to chew on.

  But Gabriel moved the sword faster than Nick thought possible. With strength and fury, the intruder carved a wicked gash across . . . the cabinets.

  Nick dodged, and he banged into the pantry. A bag of flour fell off a shelf, hit the floor hard, sending up a white cloud at Nick’s feet.

  “Dooley!” Nick cried out. “What’re ya doing?”

  Master Gabriel paid Nick no mind but thrust the sword into a walnut-colored cabinet, plunging the blade in almost to the hilt. He jagged to the left, carving a carpenter-straight line across the rest of the cabinet and then through the metal of the stove’s overhead microwave oven.

  Nick stood up straight and stared. “How crazy are ya?”

  Master Gabriel sheathed his sword. Turning to the furrow he’d just carved, he took hold of an edge and began to pull it away from the wall. But it wasn’t the actual cabinetry pulling away from the kitchen wall.

  “That’s not possible,” Nick said, gasping for words. “This isn’t real.”

  “Quite the contrary,” Master Gabriel said, continuing to peel away. “What you will see behind this facade is reality. See for yourself.”

  With a great, wrenching pull, Master Gabriel yanked the cabinets, the counter, the microwave, and the stove—at least, a two-dimensional print of them—and tore them down to the kitchen floor.

  Behind it was quite a different sight. The cabinets were still there, but only a blackened skeleton of them. The wall behind them had been partially ripped out, exposing the studs and in some spots allowing the outside to be seen.

  Nick gawked, his mind registering the scene and wrestling with its meaning. He stared through the jagged porthole and saw Queensland. While it was broad daylight in the kitchen, the view through the destruction showed night. There were fires, patches of angry flame that didn’t belong in his beloved countryside, and there was something else, something wrong on the distant Glass House Mountains.

  Nick craned his neck to view the vista from multiple angles. He counted. “Blast it,” he muttered. “There have always been eleven. Now, there are just eight. How do three mountains just disappear?”

  Master Gabriel sighed. “Do you understand now?” he asked. “Do you remember?”

  “Remember?” Nick scoffed. “Only thing I remember is that there used to be eleven mountains. That’s what I . . . I . . . I’m a Dreamtreader, aren’t I?”

  Master Gabriel unloaded a large sigh of relief. “Thank the Almighty,” he whispered. “I was afraid we’d lost you. Yes, Nick Bushman, you are a Dreamtreader.”

  “And Archer . . . Archer Keaton, he woke me up the first time, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But we failed,” Nick said, closing his eyes. “That’s what all this is. We failed, the Rift finally happened, and the world’s gone spewing mad.”

  “You had a great deal of help. You had powerful enemies who wanted the Rift to happen.”

  Nick muttered, “Kara.”

  “And others,” Master Gabriel confirmed. “Archer suspects you have Kara to thank for this lovely fantasy you’ve been living in.”

  “Kara?” Nick barked. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Spewing mad, she is.”

  “By the way,” Master Gabriel said, “were you really going to eat that?” He gestured.

  Nick looked and found the stove was now misshapen, dented, and corroded with some crust that looked like battery acid. And then he saw the roast beef sandwich he had just made for himself. In the peeled skin of fantasy, the sandwich still looked delicious: medium-lean roast beef, Muenster cheese slices not melted but drooping deliciously, crisp lettuce still wet from washing, and those ripe heirloom tomatoes—mouthwatering in total.

  But when Nick took a step forward and looked past the failing fantasy to the reality, he retched and nearly lost the contents of his stomach.

  “Dooley! What . . . is that?”

  With a nostril-flaring sneer, Master Gabriel said, “Filet of rat, I believe.”

  “All right, then,” Nick said, steadying himself. “I’m officially gobsmacked. Remind me to thank Kara for this little bit of madness. So how do we fix this, Master Gabriel? How do we end the Rift and turn the world back?”

  Master Gabriel did not answer.

  “We can fix this, can’t we?”

  “The Rift might be repaired,” Master Gabriel said slowly. “How that might be accomplished will be your task. But the Waking World, as you knew it, may never be the same again.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Nick said. “No better time to start than now, I guess. Where’s Archer?”

  Master Gabriel paused once more. “I have more bad news, actually . . .”

  TWENTY-TWO

  PROSECUTION

  AFTER BEZEAL’S DEVASTATING ACCUSATIONS, ARCHER STOOD. He had to make a good impression here. He left the defense table and strode to the witness box. Razz stared at him and shifted uneasily, still perched upon the rail.

  “Dreamtreader Keaton.” Chief Justice Michael the Archelion’s expression was an odd combination of curiosity and indignation. “May I ask, what . . . are . . . you . . . doing?”

  Archer blinked and found that most everyone in the courtroom was staring at him. “Um, I’m approaching the witness,” Archer said. “I have questions. I think it’s called cross-examination, right? Or—”

  “I suppose it would be natural to make such an assumption,” the judge said, “but this court doesn’t work that way. The prosecution has the opportunity to present its full case. Only then may the defense respond.”

  If Archer had been back in school talking to a teacher about procedures or some such thing, he might have considered making some kind of polite counterargument. But in the presence of Chief Justice Michael, Archer had seen already this judge was not someone to be trifled with.

  “I’m sorry,” Archer said quietly, hurrying to take his seat. “I misunderstood.”

  “Thank you, your honor,” Bezeal said. Archer felt like he could hear the sneer in his opponent’s words. The beady-eyed merchant spun on his heel to face the gallery once more. “This is but one case of direct disobedience. There was also the time when Archer, with unmitigated gall, attempted single combat with the Nightmare Lord himself.”

  The cylinder screen came to life once more, showing the rampart leading up to No. 6 Rue de La Morte, the Nightmare Lord’s fortress home. And there was Archer somersaulting high over the mounted enemy. Archer’s fiery blue sword flashed as he hewed one of the horns from the Nightmare Lord’s fearsome helm.

  “And then,” Bezeal continued, “there was the time Archer refused to take care of the Lucid Walkers, the trespassers to the Dream—even though Archer knew their presence in the Dream caused damage to the fabric. How many times did the Walkers go in and out? That, I cannot say, but this Dreamtreader’s failure to secure the Dream’s borders clearly led to the Rift.”

  When Bezeal finished, he had his Cheshire grin cranked up to eleven. He sidled over to the witness stand once more, turned to Razz, and with an arrogant wave of his three-fingered green hand, said, “Witness, you are dismissed.”

  Razz crossed her arms and disappeared in a puff of purple smoke and blue sparks. She reappeared next to Archer and whispered heatedly, “I’ll dismiss you, ya little hooded nitwit.”

  “Shush, Razz,” Archer warned. “Not now.”

  “And so we see, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Bezeal addressed the court, “Archer, in direct defiance of his comman
ding officer, none other than Master Gabriel, the Chief Dreamtreader himself, did travel into Archaia. Against all better judgment, Archer did enter the lair of the Lurker, and he did procure the ancient relic. He placed his own personal ambitions above the expressed command of his superior. This is insubordination in its purest form, repeated often since!”

  Bezeal gave the court a long, contemplative pause. Archer felt it: the weight of his own poor choices condemning him. Bezeal was right, in essence, and Archer knew it.

  “For my next witness,” Bezeal said, his tone morphing in an instant from triumphant to grim, “I would like to call two former Dreamtreaders. But, alas, I cannot because they are dead.”

  The jurors murmured and shifted in their seats. Archer knew what was coming next.

  Bezeal waltzed slowly around the courtroom. “Three Dreamtreaders,” he said, “always three, and they are intended to work in concert not against each other. When Archer Keaton was inducted into the Dreamtreader fold, he joined two veteran Dreamtreaders, the seasoned and well-respected Duncan and Mesmeera. This, you’ll note, was during the same time period in which Archer directly disobeyed Master Gabriel. Those events led to this little scene . . .”

  Bezeal gestured to the cylindrical screen. The lights dimmed once more. A vast cobblestoned courtyard appeared. On the far side of it, two trees towered, each one occupying its own significant place as if it were an object of great worship. In the foreground, a gigantic hound lay writhing, and Archer dropped to the ground just on the other side.

  “Oh, I can’t watch!” Razz squeaked, and then vanished.

  Archer didn’t want to watch either, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Somehow it felt right to see what he had done; it was the very least he could endure for his wrongs.

  The on-screen Archer stood before the first of the two trees, this one similar to a great oak. Fire crackled in Archer’s hands. It seemed to be surging and pulsing . . . growing. The fireballs glowed with increasing ferocity, became great molten globs around Archer’s wrists and hands. Suddenly, Archer screamed and threw up his arms. There was a fearsome red-orange flash. The on-screen Archer was thrown violently backward even as a wall of fire shot forward and engulfed the tree.

  In the courtroom, Archer braced himself for what he knew would come next:

  The screams.

  The agonizing shrieks filled the courtroom. Archer shut his eyes while they endured. He knew all too well the scene that transpired. He’d defeated two more of the colossal hounds, and then torched the second tree in like manner as he had the first. When Archer opened his eyes, the screen went blank. The lights came up.

  Bezeal said, “The screams you heard came from Duncan and Mesmeera, Archer’s partners. They were imprisoned within the two trees, yet Archer killed them anyway. He burned Duncan and Mesmeera alive.”

  The resulting uproar in the courtroom required four gavel strikes from Chief Justice Michael. When an uncomfortable silence ensued, Bezeal spoke up once more. “The loss of Duncan and Mesmeera is indeed disturbing,” he said, “and while Archer may try and persuade you that he acted in ignorance, I contend there is no excuse for this sort of gross negligence. None of this would have happened if Archer had simply done as Master Gabriel commanded.”

  Bezeal again paused, and the horrible truth took its toll on Archer. He was grieved to the point of trembling.

  But Bezeal was not finished. “Archer Keaton is guilty of these charges,” he said. “Of that, there can be no doubt. But there is more. And this, perhaps, is the most deplorable of all. A Dreamtreader is sworn to protect the people of the Waking World. He is never to use his powers to harm a human being, especially not one who could not possibly defend himself.”

  Bezeal gestured. The room darkened. The screen came alive. There was the medical suite in Rigby’s basement. And there was old Doc Scoville looking frail, sickly, and unconscious. He was hooked up to dozens of machines. The lights in the room blinked, and then Archer was there. He approached Rigby’s uncle and seemed to stare.

  Back in the courtroom, Archer remembered the scene all too vividly. He didn’t need Bezeal to narrate, but Bezeal did.

  “What you see here,” he said, “is Archer after he had broken into Rigby Thames’s home, and, against Rigby’s expressed wishes, entered this basement laboratory. Why is Archer there you might ask? Why is he doing this?” Bezeal hesitated, leaving the question to hang for several moments, while he strolled to and fro in front of the jury box.

  Then, his eyes f lashing, he cried out: “Revenge! Revenge was on Archer’s mind. You see, Rigby Thames had threatened Archer’s little sister. Archer decided he had to take matters into his own hands. Here, watch! Watch as Archer’s hand goes perilously close to that thick black cord—the very cord that supplies the power to keep Doc Scoville alive. He planned to pull that cord, to use attempted murder as a threat against Rigby.”

  Archer watched the on-screen Archer reach for the cord, hesitate, and then reach more. The lights in the lab blinked again, and suddenly Doc Scoville was very much awake and standing beside Archer.

  Bezeal gestured. The screen went blank. “Fortunately, Doctor Scoville awakened from his catatonic state,” he said. “Just in time to

  save his own life. Archer Keaton did not succeed in his murderous plot, but a murderous plot it was. This was premeditated and in complete opposition to the Dreamtreaders’ sacred Creeds.

  “Archer Keaton’s actions and thoughts reveal him to be inexperienced, defiant, deceitful, and dangerous . . . for these and many other reasons, you must convict Archer Keaton. The prosecution rests its case.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  SEEING DOUBLE

  RIGBY HAD NEVER SEEN SCOVILLE MANOR LOOKING SO beautiful. “It’s January,” he muttered. “And the spring flowers are already up.” But that wasn’t all.

  The hedges were trimmed. There was a metric ton of new, dark mulch in all the flower beds and around the trees. The stonework on the mansion’s facade and turrets looked to have been recently power-washed. The windows were all sparkly clean—even the half-wagon-wheel windows projecting from the slanting roof way up high.

  “Fat chance anyone would wash those in real life,” Rigby muttered. Still, he had to marvel at the magnificence of it all. Somehow, Kara Windchil had not only figured out how to make the Harlequin Veil work, but she’d perfected it. Now, the big question was: how did she do it?

  The Victorian mansion that had been Rigby’s home for so many years seemed so foreign in its pristine condition he was nearly tempted to ring the doorbell. He didn’t. But as he entered his home, he did so very quietly. There was no telling what he might find. Three steps into the foyer, Rigby heard voices coming from the kitchen. Familiar voices.

  “. . . must insist.” The first voice sounded like Uncle Scoville. “The devil’s in the details, my boy.”

  “I don’t understand,” came a reply. “We’ve never been enemies. Why would you do this?”

  Rigby squinted. The second voice had an English accent. “No,” Rigby whispered. “It can’t be.”

  “Consider it an experiment,” Doc Scoville said. “And as you well know, one must repeat an experiment again and again to make certain the results are reliable.”

  “No,” the other voice protested, growing higher and frantic. “Please, please don’t!”

  Then Rigby heard a gunshot.

  In retrospect, Rigby thought himself rather daft for running toward the sound of the gunshot, but that’s what he did. He found Doc Scoville sitting at the kitchen table with an iced tea in one hand and a rather formidable looking pistol in the other. There was someone slumped over in the chair across from his uncle.

  “Uncle Scovy!” Rigby exclaimed. “You . . . you’ve shot someone!” If his uncle were surprised to see Rigby or even surprised to be caught in the act, he showed no sign of it. He simply replied, “Yes, but it’s all for science.”

  Rigby blinked, trying to wrap his brain around what he’d just experienced. If
this were the Harlequin Veil, how had such a tragic thing occurred? “What ’ave you done? Who ’ave you killed?”

  Doc Scoville looked back as if a third arm had grown right out of the middle of Rigby’s forehead. “Well,” he said, “I’ve shot you . . . that’s who.”

  Rigby stared at the body, took in the physical characteristics. Indeed, it was him: a perfect copy. “That is me!”

  “Told you,” Doc Scoville replied rather casually. “And I’m rather afraid I’ll have to shoot you as well as . . . uh . . . the other you. Unless, of course, you can show you’re not a drone.”

  Rigby stared at the gun in his uncle’s hand. “A what?”

  “A drone,” he said. “Well, that’s what he is.” He gestured to the dead Rigby. Then, he pointed the gun back at the living Rigby.

  “I am most certainly not a drone, Uncle,” Rigby said, at last piecing things together. “I am not a manifestation of the Veil. That is what you’re talking about, aren’t you? The ’arlequin Veil?”

  “Ah, good,” Doc Scoville said, putting down the gun. “So you got free from that Kara girl at last, did you?”

  Before Rigby could answer, the dead Rigby sat up.

  Rigby backpedaled and slammed into the pantry door. “What?” he blurted. “’e’s still alive?” He stared at the fake Rigby who, only a moment before, had lain dead from a gunshot wound.

  “What?” the fake Rigby said, mockingly. “Of course, I’m alive. Don’t know what your problem is, mate—aye, you look a wee bit familiar.”

  The real Rigby glowered. “A wee bit,” he repeated drolly. “Quite.”

  Doc Scoville cackled hysterically. “Oh, isn’t this a hoot?” He slapped the table with his free hand. And then he nonchalantly lifted the pistol and shot the fake Rigby again.

  The fake Rigby fell over, but this time, the real Rigby noted, there was no blood. No visible wound. The fake Rigby just slumped over. “Wait a second,” Rigby said, “do you mean to tell me . . .”

  “That’s right, lad,” Doc Scoville said. “Don’t react; don’t feel. Think.”