The descent from the ridge was slow and treacherous, each man picking his way carefully through loose scree and grasping thorn bushes. Cadogan, his legs aching, his breath short, focused on placing one foot in front of the other, acutely aware of the silence from his men. It was not the sullen silence of the road, but a new, more profound quiet, born of awe at the sheer desolation spread before them. Even Rhys kept his pronouncements to himself, his one good eye constantly scanning their surroundings.
As they neared the valley floor, the air grew heavier, carrying the scent of damp decay, stagnant water, and old woodsmoke. The ruined palisade loomed, a broken fence of rotting timbers, many leaning at precarious angles, others fallen entirely, leaving wide, unguarded gaps. There was no gate to speak of, just a wider breach where one might have once stood. "Madog, Owain, with me," Cadogan said, his voice low. "Rhys, Griff, Dai – cover our approach. Watch the tree line, and the tower."
He led the way through one of the gaps, stepping over a fallen log that crumbled under his boot. Inside, the "settlement" was even more wretched than it had appeared from above. The shacks were little more than hovels, their turf roofs caved in on most, daub-and-wattle walls pocked with holes. Weeds and thorny bushes grew rampant, reclaiming the small, muddy clearing. An almost palpable aura of despair hung over the place.
The thin wisp of smoke they'd seen from the ridge was a little stronger now, seeming to emanate from the largest, least dilapidated of the shacks, one pressed close against the base of the ruined stone tower. "The smoke," he murmured, gesturing. Madog nodded, his hand resting on the hilt of his knife, and began to move towards it with a woodsman's stealth, Owain following hesitantly, his eyes wide.
Cadogan turned his attention to the tower. It was perhaps thirty feet high, its stonework crude but solid in places, though a significant section of one wall had collapsed inwards, leaving a jagged wound. The original entrance was a dark, narrow archway, choked with rubble. If they could clear it, if the interior was even remotely defensible, it would be their only viable shelter against the elements and whatever else Glyndŵr harbored.
He was examining the base of the tower, noting how the encroaching forest offered cover right up to its western side, when Madog reappeared, materializing from the shadows near the smoking shack. "Lord Cadogan," Madog's voice was a low rumble, the most Cadogan had heard him speak at one time. "Come."
There was an urgency in his tone that brooked no delay. Cadogan, with Owain at his heels, followed Madog to the shack. The door, a mismatched collection of planks, hung crookedly. Inside, it was gloomy, the only light filtering through gaps in the walls and a smoke-hole in the sagging roof. A small, dying fire smoldered in a central hearth, the source of the smoke. The air was thick with its acrid bite and another, fouler stench.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Then he saw it. Sprawled on a pile of dirty straw in the far corner was a man. Or what was left of one. He was emaciated, his skin stretched like parchment over his bones, clad in rags even poorer than their own. His eyes were open, staring blankly at the decaying thatch above. A crude, rusty spearhead was buried deep in his chest. Flies buzzed lazily around the dark, crusted wound. This was not the reeve his father had spoken of; this man had been killed far more recently, perhaps only a day or two ago.
Owain gasped, stumbling back, his face a mask of horror. "Fresh," Madog stated unnecessarily, his gaze sweeping the dark corners of the hut. "No one else here. Tracks outside… shoddy leather boots, two, maybe three men. Gone east, into the deep woods."
So, there were other inhabitants, or at least recent visitors. And they were killers. The "fearful men" his father had mentioned? Or something else? This man, likely one of those fearful residents, had met a brutal end. Cadogan's mind raced. This changed things. They weren't just walking into a ruin; they were walking into an active killing ground. The wisp of smoke hadn't been a sign of timid life, but the dying breath of a murder scene. He turned and left the hut, the image of the dead man, the scent of blood and fear, clinging to him. Responding to Madog's call, Rhys, Griff, and Dai drew near, their approach wary. Keeping his voice level, Cadogan shared what Madog had seen: "A man in the hut, newly killed. Tracks of his killers head east. The tower is our only shelter. We secure its entrance without delay." A jolt went through the men; the stark threat seemed to override their weariness, sparking a grim urgency.
The rubble choking the tower's arched entrance was heavy, mostly fallen stone from the upper courses. It took the combined effort of all of them – even Cadogan, pushing himself to his absolute limit, his muscles screaming – to clear a narrow passage.
Inside, the tower was a hollow shell. The ground floor was circular, perhaps twenty feet across, littered with debris, bird droppings, and the nests of small animals. A crumbling stone staircase, dangerously narrow, spiraled up one wall towards what was left of the upper levels. The air was cold, damp, and smelled of centuries of neglect. But the stone walls, where they still stood, were thick. It was defensible. Barely.
As the last light of day failed, they had managed to clear the entrance enough to roll a heavy, half-rotted log across it as a makeshift barricade. They built a small, nervous fire in the center of the tower floor. The wind whistled through the breaches in the walls above, making the shadows writhe. They ate their meager rations in silence, each man lost in his own grim thoughts. The image of the murdered man in the hut, the desolation of this place, the feeling of being watched – it all pressed down on them.
"Watches again tonight," Cadogan said, breaking the silence. "Two at the entrance, one at the breach on the upper level, if it's accessible. We rotate every two hours." He looked at Rhys. "You and Madog take the entrance first. Owain, the breach. I'll relieve Owain with Griff. Dai, you rest by the fire with the horse tethered close." He was asserting command, trying to create a structure, a routine, in the face of this overwhelming chaos. He didn't know if it would be enough. He didn't even know if they would survive the night.
Glyndŵr was no longer just a name, a cursed land on a map. It was a cold, hard, terrifying reality. And its welcome was far from over.