Keepers of the Western Forest

by Chris Kennedy

  Chapter 21

   

  Everyone looked at Darin.

  “What I’ve been trying to tell you is the truth,” he said. “There really is an impostor out there, my exact double in every way. My friend Stella thinks it is all the work of an enchantress who wants to hurt my family. The worst thing is he’s kidnapped my mother. Don’t you see, I must ride after them, there’s no time to lose!”

  “Who is Stella?” asked Lachlyn.

  Darin hesitated. “She helped me once. She is of the faerie race and knows about these things.”

  The man with the scarred head snorted. “Faeries! Enchantresses!” He looked at Gwyllym. “He’s lying. As for your father, he’s mistaken.”

  This time, however, there was no response from his erstwhile supporters. They all looked enquiringly at Gwyllym and Lachlyn; the broad shoulders and heavily muscled arms of the one and the decisive, commanding voice of the other seemed to lend the pair some authority.

  “What do you think, Lachlyn?” asked Gwyllym. “I have never known my father be wrong before. I think I would sooner believe in enchantresses than believe he’s got it wrong this time.”

  Lachlyn looked into Darin’s eyes for a second. “Untie him.”

  Within seconds, Darin felt his bonds loosened. He stepped forward, shaking his arms to get the feeling back in them. Gwyllym, meanwhile, was running across the clearing. He came back leading Dart by the bridle and handed over Darin’s sword.

  Darin sheathed it and looked round the faces in the flickering torchlight. “Thank you for trusting me! When all this is over, I will make sure my father does all he can to make up for any harm this villain may have done to you or your property.”

  He led Dart back down the narrow track. Once on the path, Darin mounted and rode out of the forest, then took the way to the north. The moon was up now; although it had not yet cleared the trees, it made visibility considerably better. The smooth, trodden earth of the path ahead reflected enough of its diffused light to shine out against the dark ground and Dart galloped fearlessly on. As usual, he was completely attuned to his master’s mood.

  By the time the huge gibbous moon had emerged from the forest to sail the empty skies above them, they had covered quite some distance. On their right, the trees flashed by in the silver-blue light as they raced along the shining ribbon laid out before Dart’s drumming hooves. Gradually, the great orb in the night sky turned a golden yellow, its radiance became less intense; as daybreak approached, nothing was left but a bone-white ghost hanging over the western horizon.

  The sun was well up when Darin reined his horse to a stop. The path they had been following made an abrupt turn to the right into the pinewoods that had gradually replaced the oak forest; directly ahead was a steep mountainous slope. It seemed unlikely that two riders on one horse would have ventured up it, or through the tangled thorns and scrub to the left, so he guided Dart into the forest track and urged him forward again.

  Before too long they came to a pine that was taller than the rest, with more space around it. Something green was lying on the needles carpeting the ground beneath. Darin got down and went closer. It was a scarf—he recognized it as one his mother often wore.

  “Come on, Dart, we’re on the right track,” he whispered and swung himself back up into the saddle.

  The path had grown wider and was straight for the most part, with the result that Darin often had an unobstructed view for some distance in front of him, except when the bright sunlight dazzled his eyes. Since they were riding due east this happened quite frequently, but once the sun had climbed a little higher he had less trouble keeping a careful watch ahead as Dart galloped on.

  Just as a new stretch of path opened up before him, he caught a glimpse of something in the distance: the glint of sun on steel, a black horse. He pulled up abruptly and then let Dart go on at a gentle walk, keeping close in to the trees on his right hand side. Straining his eyes, Darin was better able to make out the figures ahead of him, just before they disappeared round a gentle bend in the track. An armed man on foot was leading a horse; that flash must have been the sun reflecting on the shield slung over his back. What looked like a green bundle of some sort lay across the saddle. With a shock, Darin realized what it was.

  He urged Dart forward and they raced down the path. As they came around the curve, he saw that the little group before him had come to a halt. No longer slung rudely over the horse’s back, his mother was now standing with her arms raised. Her hands were bound together and tied fast to the saddlebow.

  At the sound of Dart’s galloping hooves, the black horse threw back its head in alarm. Darin realized that, should it bolt, his mother would be in grave danger. He also realized that he could not swing his sword at the kidnapper, who was now attempting to scramble into his saddle, so long as she was standing so close beside him. He leapt down to the ground, shooing Dart off towards the trees, and ran the few remaining yards between him and the pair by the horse.

  “Mother,” he cried, “are you all right?”

  At the sound of his voice, the man at his mother’s side, who until now had had his back towards Darin, paused in his efforts to mount and turned to face him. Darin felt his skin creep: there again was his own face, leering at him triumphantly. His scalp prickled as he stared into blank eyes that were at once his own and another’s. He heard the hated, cracked voice he remembered from his bedchamber.

  “Ah, it’s only you, the dutiful son!”

  Darin’s feet seemed to take root in the ground; a rushing sound filled his head and he felt himself drawn headlong into the vortex of that compelling gaze. He became intensely aware of another soul with his own in some dark place. He was buffeted by waves of hatred emanating from it, but he could sense at the same time a deeper yearning, as of some lost being, helpless and ignorant, longing for release. All at once, he saw again the eyes of the young deer he had slain on the hillside. The light of absolution radiated from them and he realized suddenly the kinship of all living creatures. At that moment, he knew that he and this spirit in the darkness with him were far more deeply alike, as were all men, than any trick resemblance of face or form might make them seem.

  Etaine’s voice was crying out his name; he watched as his double drew his sword and reached out to pluck the mail coif from his head.

  “Well, sonny boy,” rasped the phantom, raising his sword. “This is it.”

  Darin heard his mother scream.