‘Of course, where Ironhand passed over. Every Loda child knows where it is.’
‘When the arrows are loosed, and blood is upon the ground, you must take the Cloak Wearer there. You understand?’
‘Understand? No, I understand nothing. Firstly I have no intention of loosing a shaft at anyone or anything, and secondly, who is the Cloak Wearer?’
‘Have a little patience, Fell. And if you do not loose a shaft a loved one of yours will die. Take me at my word, boy. And remember the pool. That is vital!’
The old man vanished. The fire died instantly.
Fell sent a whispered curse after the man. Yet even as he spoke he drew the bowstring from his pouch and strung the bow.
The first light of pre-dawn was heralded by bird-song and Fell swung his quiver over his shoulder and walked to the top of the hill overlooking Citadel town.
There was nothing to see, save the grey walls and the rising stone of the Keep beyond the town’s rooftops. Gradually the sky lightened and he saw a tiny figure emerge from the north gate and begin to run towards the hills. Fell squinted, but could not – at first – identify the runner.
Then, with a shock, he saw the dawn light glint on her silver hair. She was some three hundred yards on to open ground when the three horsemen rode from the town. The lead rider was a soldier in helm and breastplate, as was the third. But it was the second man, riding a grey stallion, who caught Fell’s attention. He was brandishing a sword, and he wore a red cloak! His excitement soared.
Sigarni was running hard, but the horsemen were closing. Why do they have their swords drawn? thought Fell. And then it came to him in a sickening realization. They are chasing her. They mean to kill her!
The lead horseman was a mere fifty yards behind her when Fell drew a shaft and notched it to the bowstring. It was not an easy shot – a fast-moving horseman, downhill from him, and with the light still poor.
The enormity of what he was about to do filled Fell’s mind, yet there was no hesitation. Smoothly he drew back the string until it nestled against his chin, then he took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Between breaths and utterly motionless, he sighted carefully and loosed the shaft. The arrow sang through the air. For a fraction of a heartbeat Fell thought he had missed, but the shaft slammed home in the lead rider’s left eye, catapulting him from the saddle. Running forward, Fell notched a second arrow to the siring; but he shot too swiftly, and the shaft flew past the red-cloaked officer and skimmed across the flank of the third man’s horse. The beast reared, sending the soldier tumbling over its haunches in an ungainly somersault.
The red-cloaked officer was almost upon the fleeing woman. Fell saw her glance back once, then turn and leap at the grey horse, waving her arms and shouting loudly. The grey swerved to avoid her, pitching its rider to the left. Sigarni leapt at the man, a silver blade glinting in her right fist. Her left hand caught hold of his cloak, dragging him from the saddle. The knife rose and fell. Blood gouted from a wound in the man’s neck and again and again the knife flashed.
Sigarni rose with the dead man’s cloak in her hand. Fell watched as she gazed back at the Citadel town. Scores of people were lining the parapets now. Sigarni swirled the crimson cloak around her shoulders, relying the snapped neck cord. Then she raised the dead man’s sword and pointed it at the spectators.
The sun finally rose and Sigarni was bathed in its golden light, the iron sword shining like a torch of silver to match her hair. For Fell it was as if time ceased to have meaning, and he knew that this scene would shine for ever in his memory. The cloak wearer was Sigarni. She was the legend. Fell let out a long, slow breath.
Sigarni plunged the sword into the ground, then turned and slowly mounted the grey stallion. The third soldier was sitting on the ground nearby. Sigarni ignored him and urged the horse on towards the trees and the waiting Fell.