The heavy log barricade thudded back into place behind Cadogan, Rhys, and Madog, the sound echoing unnervingly in the morning stillness of Glyndŵr. Owain's pale face, visible for a moment through a gap, was a mask of fear before he and Griff began piling more rubble against the makeshift door. Dai merely offered a grim nod from his post. Three left inside, three venturing out into the hunting ground.
The air outside the immediate ruin of the tower settlement felt colder, the silence of the surrounding forest more profound, more watchful. Cadogan, though every instinct screamed at him to stay within even their flimsy defenses, knew this was a gamble they had to take. Thirst would kill them as surely as any painted warrior. Madog took the lead without a word, his movements economical and surprisingly swift despite the rough terrain. He carried their only serviceable bow, a few precious arrows tucked into his belt. Rhys, axe in hand, fell in behind him, his one good eye constantly scanning, a low growl rumbling in his chest. Bringing up the rear, Cadogan gripped the rusty sword; its weight was a burden to his weakened arms. He forced his exhausted limbs to match the others' pace.
As they advanced toward the stream, Cadogan's unease grew. He eyed every dark shape among the trees with suspicion and interpreted each gust of wind as a sign of someone following. Cadogan fought against a rising tide of exhaustion; his legs grew heavy, and at times, the forest around him seemed to waver and lose focus. Madog's progress was marked by abrupt halts, his hand movements slight but clear. Once, he indicated fresh spoor – deer, bold enough to approach the stream. Later, he stopped again, utterly still, his head angled as if deciphering secrets in the wind. Cadogan, straining his own senses, perceived only the rush of air and the frantic beat of his pulse. Madog eventually continued, his silence unbroken.
It was close to midday, by Cadogan's estimation, when Madog finally stopped at the edge of a steep, bracken-choked slope. He pointed downwards. Through a screen of skeletal trees, Cadogan saw it: a thin ribbon of silver, water glinting as it threaded its way over dark stones at the bottom of a narrow ravine. The stream. Relief, sharp and immediate, almost buckled his knees. "Stay here," Madog murmured to Rhys. "Watch our backs." To Cadogan, he said, "Come. Be quick. This place feels… wrong."
The descent into the ravine was a slippery, treacherous scramble. The stream itself was perhaps five feet across, the water running clear and cold over a bed of smooth pebbles. It looked blessedly, impossibly clean. Cadogan knelt, cupping his hands, and drank deeply. The water was icy, pure, a shock to his system after the foulness of the well. It was the best thing he had ever tasted. Madog drank too, his eyes never still, constantly scanning the lip of the ravine above.
They worked quickly, filling the three waterskins they had brought. The gurgle of the water entering the skins was a loud, vulnerable sound in the stillness. Cadogan, despite his thirst, found himself constantly looking up, expecting to see painted faces peering down at them. As Madog stoppered the last skin, he suddenly stiffened, his gaze fixed on a patch of damp earth near the water's edge. Cadogan followed his look. There, pressed clearly into the mud, was a single, fresh footprint. It was unshod, broad, the toes splayed. And beside it, almost invisible unless one knew what to look for, was a tiny, deliberate arrangement of three dark feathers and a smooth white pebble – another of those unsettling, symbolic markers.
"They use this stream," Madog stated, his voice flat. "Recently." The "others." Their water source was also the enemy's. "Let's go," Cadogan said, his own relief evaporating, replaced by a renewed urgency. "Now."
The climb back up the ravine, laden with the heavy waterskins, was even more arduous. Rhys met them at the top, his expression tense. "Anything?" "They drink here too," Madog said, showing him the feathers. Rhys swore. "Then they know we might come here. We're walking into their larder."
The path back to the tower felt deeply unsafe. Every shadow played tricks on his eyes; the wind itself seemed to carry hints of pursuit. Carrying the full waterskin taxed Cadogan heavily. His already low reserves of strength dwindled, his legs ached, and his vision sometimes swam. He stumbled twice, saved only by Rhys's surprisingly quick, rough grip on his arm. The one-eyed man said nothing, but there was a new intensity to his vigilance, a shared understanding of their peril.
They were still some distance from their valley, perhaps an hour's hard march, when Madog, in the lead, dropped to a crouch, his hand shooting up in a silent command to halt. Cadogan and Rhys froze, sinking low. Madog pointed through the trees, towards a slight rise to their left. Cadogan strained his eyes. At first, he saw nothing but the dense foliage. Then, a flicker of movement. A figure, cloaked in what looked like pieced-together animal hides, carrying a longbow, moved with fluid grace between the trees, then another, and a third. They were too far to make out details, but their silhouettes were lean, predatory. They were not moving towards the stream, nor towards the tower, but seemed to be patrolling, or perhaps hunting, in a wide arc that would eventually cross their own path if they continued.
The "others." They hadn't been waiting at the stream, but they were active, close. Rhys looked at Cadogan, his one eye narrowed. "Now what, lordling?" he whispered, his voice harsh. "Fight our way through? Or try to sneak past their patrol like field mice?" Both options seemed like an invitation to swift, brutal death.