They moved closer to the men. There was something about the bowman that tugged at Ruathain’s memory. But his eyesight was not what it was and in the gathering dusk he could not yet make out the man’s face.
When they were within fifteen paces the bowmen notched an arrow to the string. Ruathain recognized him. He was the young man from the Pannone fishing village. The one who would not accept that the feud had ended.
Instantly he drew his sword. The young man took aim. One of his comrades moved too close to him as he loosed his shaft, seeming to nudge him. The arrow flashed past Ruathain’s head. Ruathain kicked his pony into a run, and threw himself from the saddle. The young assassin was notching a second arrow as Ruathain loomed over him. The young man looked up – and in a moment of sheer terror saw Ruathain’s sword just before it smashed through his skull. Ruathain whirled, but the other three men had run away into the woods.
He gazed down at the dead youth. ‘You idiot!’ he stormed, kicking the body. ‘What a waste of life.’
He turned – and his blood froze.
Tae was lying on the ground, just beyond the standing ponies. Ruathain ran to her and dropped to her side. Her face was very still. She could have been sleeping – save for the black-shafted arrow jutting from her chest. There was very little blood. With trembling hand Ruathain touched her throat, praying for a pulse. There was nothing.
He lifted her to a sitting position, cradling her head and talking to her, his mind reeling with the awesome knowledge that she was dead. This bright, loving young woman had had her life stolen by a vengeful man who did not even know her.
It was worse than any nightmare Ruathain had ever experienced. He closed his eyes and stroked her hair, and several times felt for the pulse he knew would not be beating.
Then he let out a terrible cry of anguish that echoed through the woods.
The sun fell.
As Conn came in sight of the fortress outlined in moonlight against the darkening sky, he saw a lone rider far below. She was wearing a hooded cloak, but the hood had fallen back, revealing long black and silver hair. Conn heeled the pony into a run and called out to her. At first she did not hear him, then she swung in the saddle and hauled on the reins.
He rode up alongside her. ‘Vorna. I thought it was you. What brings you to Old Oaks?’
‘Your father is in danger,’ Vorna said. She told him of the vision and they rode together towards the hilltop town.
‘You think Ruathain is the old bear, and that this . . . Fisher Laird will send men to kill him?’
‘That is how I interpret the vision.’ As they came closer to the town he realized she had not smiled, or said anything of warmth to him. Perhaps it was just that she was tired after a long and gruelling ride.
‘And is this how visions always come?’ he asked her. ‘In dream symbols? Wolves, bears, doves?’
‘Not always. Sometimes I will see a scene most clearly, Connavar.’ Her dark eyes met his for a fraction of a second, and he felt cold inside. She knew.
‘It will not happen again, Vorna,’ he said softly, feeling the shame.
‘Your life is yours to lead, Connavar. It is not for me to judge you.’
‘And yet you do judge me.’
She sighed. ‘Yes, I do. Your wife is a fine woman, and deserves better from her man. At this moment she is probably waiting for . . .’ Vorna fell silent, then pulled on the reins. Her pony came to a halt.
Conn stared at the witch, for it seemed her shoulders had sagged and she was swaying in the saddle. Steering his pony in close he reached out to her. ‘No!’ she said, suddenly. ‘Don’t touch me, Conn! Oh no!’
‘What is it?’
She looked at him then, and in her eyes was a depth of sorrow that filled him with fear. ‘I did not . . . fully . . . interpret the vision.’ Vorna dismounted and almost staggered as she moved to the roadside and sat down. Conn jumped from the saddle and ran to her, grabbing her arm.