The fire in the center of the tower floor seemed to shrink, its light feeble against the oppressive weight of Rhys and Madog's report. For a long moment after Madog presented the broken, dark-fletched arrow, no one spoke. The only sounds were Dai's rasping breath and the incessant, mournful cry of the wind through the breaches above. Ten or twelve, painted, ritualistic, skilled with bows, and already aware of their presence.
Cadogan broke the silence, his voice quiet but carrying a new edge of command born of sheer necessity. "Madog, Rhys – more details. Their camp: how well guarded? Their alertness? The markings they used, were they identical to those on these walls?"
Rhys, for once, had lost his sneer. Exhaustion and a grim understanding had etched new lines around his one good eye. "Camp was… hidden well. Tucked into a fold in the hills, east, like I said. Hard to see. We stumbled on it more by Madog's nose than my eyes. They had sentries, but they were… lax. Or we were quiet." He glanced at Madog, a flicker of something that might have been grudging respect. "The markings… aye, similar. Same spirals, same jagged lines. Like this whole cursed valley is their midden-heap."
Madog added, his voice a low rumble, "They had a shaman, or one who looked it. Bones and feathers. Chanting. The deer… it was not a clean kill for meat alone." He touched the broken arrow. "Good wood, well-fletched. They are hunters. And warriors."
Cadogan processed this. Primitive, yes, but not disorganized. Ritualistic, which could imply a strong internal cohesion, a shared belief system that made them predictable in some ways, perhaps, but also fanatically dangerous. And they knew this land. "The rest of the night, we double the watch," Cadogan declared. "Rhys, you and Madog are too spent. Dai, you are not fit for more. Owain, Griff, you will take the first watch at the entrance. I will take the second, alone, at the breach above. Keep the fire low. No unnecessary noise."
The youths looked terrified at the prospect but nodded numbly. Fear, it seemed, was a potent enforcer of discipline. The remaining hours of darkness were an exercise in taut-nerved vigilance. From his unsteady vantage at a breach in the upper stonework, the wind assaulted Cadogan, each blast a sharp impact. The dense woods pressing in on the tower felt alive in the darkness, playing tricks on his hearing with faint, unreal noises and his sight with shifting, ill-defined forms. His eyes, burning from the effort of peering into the blackness, sought any tell-tale motion or the distant spark of an enemy's fire, but the landscape remained stubbornly inert. He hoped he sounded more convinced than he felt. He had sent them into an unknown wilderness on the trail of killers. The arrogance of that decision now weighed heavily on him.
Dawn, when it finally crept into the sky, was no relief, only a clearer illumination of their desperate plight. The men were hollow-eyed, their faces grey with fatigue and fear. Cadogan gathered them near the cold ashes of the fire. "They know we are here," he stated, leaving no room for false hope. "They outnumber us, likely two to one. They know this land; we do not. Fleeing now, with our limited supplies and the horse, through unfamiliar, hostile territory, while being hunted by men skilled with bows… that is a death sentence." He saw the despair settle deeper on their faces. Even Rhys looked grim. "Our first task is water," Cadogan continued, his voice firm. "That fouled well Owain found is our only immediate option within this palisade. We must try to clear it, to see if we can make its water potable. Without water, we last days, no more." He looked at Dai. "Old man, you spoke of your grandfather trying to claim this land. Did he build this tower? Or was it here before?" Dai coughed, then shook his head. "Before, Arglwydd. Always here, some say. Older than Maelog's line. The symbols… they were here then, too, though covered by plaster when your grandfather's men held it for a season." So the "others" had not necessarily carved the symbols recently; they might be ancient markers of a claim much older than his father's. This tower was not a refuge; it was a contested site.
"Owain, Griff," Cadogan ordered, "you will work on the well. Use the spade, use your hands. Clear the debris. We will try to boil whatever water you can draw. Dai, you will tend the packhorse and keep watch from the lower entrance with what keenness your eyes still possess. Rhys, Madog," he turned to the two scouts, "you are the most experienced. I need you to assess our immediate surroundings. Are there other, smaller water seeps closer than the well, perhaps missed yesterday? Are there any signs of an imminent attack? Stay within sight of the tower. Do not engage anyone. Report back within the hour."
The men dispersed, a reluctant, fear-driven energy about them. Cadogan himself climbed back to the upper breach, scanning the treeline, his mind a whirl of desperate calculations. Boiling water would purify it to some extent, but it required fuel, and their firewood was already low. The well might be too contaminated to salvage. The "others" could attack at any moment. His 21st-century knowledge felt both vast and useless. He knew principles of siege warfare, of sanitation, of resource management, but he lacked the tools, the manpower, the time to implement any of it effectively. All he had was a ruined tower, five demoralized men, and a group of hostile natives who wanted them dead or gone.
An hour later, Rhys and Madog returned. "Nothing stirring nearby, lordling," Rhys reported, though his tone lacked its usual mockery. "No fresh tracks close. But the forest… it feels wrong. Too quiet." Madog added, "The well is the only water source within these walls. The ground outside is dry, rocky. The stream is still our best hope for clean water, if we can reach it." Just then, Owain called up from below, his voice tinged with disgust and a faint note of hope. "Arglwydd! We've cleared much of the muck from the well. There's water beneath… but it's black as night and smells like a tanner's pit."
Cadogan descended. The youths had indeed worked hard, their faces and clothes smeared with filth. The water at the bottom of the well was as Owain described: a dark, oily liquid, its surface disturbed by bloated leaves and a shimmer that spoke of putrescence. "Boil it," Cadogan ordered, fighting back his own revulsion. "Boil it long and hard. It's all we have for now."
As Griff and Owain set about the difficult task of drawing the foul water and coaxing the fire back to life with their dwindling fuel, Cadogan stood at the tower entrance, looking out at the silent, watching forest of Glyndŵr. The "work" his father had assigned him was rapidly becoming a brutal lesson in the absolute fundamentals of survival. And the first lecture was on thirst.