Chapter 2
Darin woke early. He had slept well, despite everything; the previous day’s exercise in the forest, followed by a good supper, had seen to that. When he went out, he found a horse tethered to the tree by the garden gate. Next to it, on the ground, lay a splendid leather saddle and a tunic of closely woven chain-mail, which he knew was called a hauberk. On top of the hauberk rested a helmet with a visor; a sword and lance leaned against the garden fence.
Over breakfast, his mother explained: Brogan had long been prepared for the day Darin would go to Camelot. On seeing the signal—Etaine’s green scarf tied to the gatepost—he had brought everything over just after sunrise.
Later that morning, she showed Darin how to saddle up, how to put his foot in the stirrup and mount. Riding came easily to him and he spent the day guiding his horse—Dart, as he had decided to call him—round and round the cottage, then along beside the castle walls and finally down the path into his beloved forest. He spent the evening with his mother.
The next morning, however, it was time for them to say goodbye. Darin, wearing his mail hauberk, fastened the sword belt round his waist, settled the lance into its special holster behind the saddle and climbed onto Dart’s back. Slung over his shoulder he wore an old shield he had found in the castle years before. It was round, more like the kind of buckler carried by ordinary fighting men than the emblazoned, triangular shield carried by knights, but Darin thought it completed his kit perfectly. His mother handed him a satchel with provisions: vegetable pasties, rabbit pie and a flask of her own damson wine. After securing it to his saddlebow, he took the helmet she held up to him and placed it on his head with the visor open.
“Just keep riding eastwards,” she told him. “Keep the mountains always on your right, and within two days you should come out of the forest. You will see the walls of Camelot easily enough.”
They gazed at each other one last time. Darin could see the tears in his mother’s eyes; he fought to keep back his own. After all, he was doing this for her.
“Goodbye, mother. I will not fail.”
He set Dart into a gentle walk towards the trees. At the bend in the forest path, he paused to look back for a moment at his mother, holding her head high and waving farewell. His adventure had begun.
He rode, sometimes at an easy pace, sometimes, when the path was broad and straight, breaking into a canter. Every so often, he would draw out his new sword, admiring the shining blade and intricately engraved hilt. He brandished it a few times to get the feel of the weight and balance, slashing first to his right side, then leaning over and sweeping it across Dart’s neck and down to his left. This made the horse nervous at first, but he soon grew used to it; Darin talked to him softly, saying what a fine team they were!
They made good progress until well into the afternoon. The forest was growing unfamiliar, as Darin had only ever once before ventured this far. When the trees started thinning out a little to reveal a steep mountainside sweeping down on his right, however, he remembered that this was almost the end of the first part of the great forest. The last time he had been here, he had gone no further than the edge of the trees. From there, a grassy bank sloped down to a stream; on the other side, open hillside climbed to more forest. He promised himself and Dart a drink and a rest as soon as they arrived.
Suddenly, the brightness of day showed ahead; the path before him was broad and straight. He tugged his sword from its scabbard and urged his steed to a wild gallop, slashing at the tops of the thorn bushes on either side of the track and whooping with excitement.
As horse and rider burst out of the forest onto the open hillside, a group of deer drinking at the stream below scattered in panic and ran for the shelter of the trees. In the confusion, two of them ran straight across Darin’s path; without thinking, he aimed a blow with his sword at the neck of the one nearest him. He did not really expect to hit his target, but he was already growing accustomed to the sword in his hand. He felt the shock as the blade hit home. The deer fell behind as Dart thundered on; Darin’s heart fluttered wildly, almost choking him. Reining in his horse, he turned and looked back, in time to see the stricken creature give its last gasp.
A terrible feeling of shame, guilt and remorse fell on him. In the past, he had shot and killed rabbits, but that had been to feed his mother and himself and to show Brogan that he could provide. This, however, had been a wanton slaying. Because of his foolish, headstrong excitement, a beautiful young animal lay dead on the hillside.
Darin dismounted. He tucked his helmet under his arm and led Dart down to the stream. His heart was hammering and the blood pulsing in his brain seemed to cast a darkness over the world. Only the centre of his vision remained bright and unnaturally clear. The moss on a nearby rock, the sparkles of light in the stream as it raced over the pebbles, these things were etched with a distinctness he had never before experienced. There was not a creature in sight; everything was still. Only the incessant chatter of the stream was loud and close, as though inside his head.
The sun was warm, but he was shivering. He stooped to dip his helmet into the brook and drink; Dart was already drinking at his side. The cold mountain water steadied him, so he stood up straight and placed the helmet on a rock where it would dry in the sun.
A few yards down the hill, a pool had formed between the rocks; Darin could see a patch of sky and some tall reeds mirrored in it. A rush of curiosity about his own face, which he had not seen since his mother smashed her looking glass so many years ago, made him walk over to the pool. Let’s take a look at the face of a killer, he thought grimly.
Kneeling, he placed his hands on the rocks and leaned over. Something was staring back up at him. O horror! A face more hideous than anything he could ever have imagined, reflected with absolute clarity in the crystal waters! Dark, irregularly shaped blotches stood out against the otherwise livid complexion; the eyes were a startling red, the twisted lips and tongue as black as the basalt slab over his grandfather’s tomb.
He fell back from the pool with a cry of despair and sat trembling, head in hands. His mother’s dear face was so fair—how could it be that he was such a monster? He thought of the big old book he had rescued from the castle. All manner of beasts and flowers illuminated the pages, but also creatures with terrifying faces, which, his mother explained, were fallen angels and evil demons. He too must be a thing of evil, to resemble them so closely!
How could she have born it, seeing him like this every day? It made no sense. Only one thing was certain: no one must ever see him again! Just as his mother had done, he must make a solemn vow.
He stood up and raised his eyes to heaven. “By all the spirits of this place, I swear never to reveal my face to any living soul!” he cried.
Then he remembered that his mother, when she swore her oath, had made it a condition that no one could see her before her husband returned. He seized his helmet, put it on and slammed the visor shut.
“Until I return to this place, having won great honour for myself, no man will know my name, and this is the only face the world shall see!”
He led Dart across the stream and climbed onto his back. Slowly, they rode up the grassy bank towards the forest on the other side.
Keepers of the Western Forest Page 2