Rhys's harsh whisper – "Fight or sneak?" – hung in the dead air, each option a swift road to oblivion. Cadogan's mind, despite the fog of exhaustion and the thumping terror in his chest, raced. Fight three skilled, armed hunters in their own terrain while burdened and weak? Madness. Sneak past a patrol that moved like shadows themselves? Equally fraught.
He looked at Madog. The scout's face was a granite mask, but his eyes were fixed on the patrol's line of movement, calculating. "Madog?" Cadogan breathed, keeping his voice a bare murmur. "Can we evade? Is there cover?" Madog gave the slightest of nods, his gaze flicking to a dense thicket of gorse and tangled, ancient thorn bushes a short distance to their right, slightly off the patrol's projected path. "There. If we move now. And pray to any gods that listen that the wind stays in our faces."
It was their only chance, however slim. "Move," Cadogan ordered, his voice barely audible. "No sound." The next minutes were an eternity of suppressed breaths and agonizingly slow movements. Madog led them, not towards the thicket directly, but in a shallow, cautious arc that aimed to put it between them and the "others." Every rustle of a leaf underfoot, every rasp of Cadogan's labored breathing, sounded like a betrayal. He focused on placing his feet exactly where Madog had stepped, on controlling the slosh of the waterskin, his muscles screaming from the strain of moving crouched and laden.
They reached the edge of the thorn thicket. It was a dense, almost impenetrable mass, but Madog found a narrow game trail, barely visible, leading into its thorny heart. He slipped inside, Cadogan and Rhys following, the thorns tearing at their cloaks and skin, the branches whipping at their faces. They pressed themselves deep into the scratchy embrace of the bushes, finding a small hollow where the growth was slightly less dense, offering a sliver of visibility back towards the area where they'd seen the patrol.
They waited, hearts hammering. Cadogan could smell the damp earth, the sharp scent of crushed thorns, and the fear-sweat of his own body. Minutes stretched. Then, they appeared. The three figures moved out of the trees on the far side of the small clearing they had just vacated. They were exactly as Rhys and Madog had described: cloaked in pieced-together hides and furs that made them blend almost perfectly with the dappled forest light. Each carried a longbow, arrows fletched with dark feathers clearly visible in their quivers. Their faces, glimpsed briefly, were indeed painted with stark, unsettling patterns. They moved with a silent, fluid grace, their heads constantly turning, scanning their surroundings. One of them paused, his head tilting, almost directly opposite their hiding place. Cadogan held his breath, convinced the man had seen them, heard them. The figure remained motionless for a long count, then, seemingly satisfied, moved on, disappearing with his companions back into the trees, continuing their wide, arcing patrol.
No one moved in the thicket for a long time after the "others" had vanished. Only when Madog finally let out a slow, almost imperceptible breath did Cadogan realize he'd been holding his own. "Close," Rhys muttered, his voice hoarse, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with a muddy hand. Even his usual bravado was gone, replaced by a stark awareness of their brush with death. "They did not see us," Madog stated, though his tone lacked absolute certainty. "But they are moving through this whole territory. Hunting. Patrolling."
"Let's get back," Cadogan said, his own voice shaky. "Before our luck runs out entirely." The rest of the journey to their valley was undertaken with even greater caution, if that were possible. Every shadow was an enemy, every sound a potential threat. Cadogan, though his body was screaming for rest, found a new reserve of adrenaline, fueled by the image of those silent, deadly hunters.
It was late afternoon, the sun already beginning its descent, casting long, ominous shadows across the desolate landscape of Glyndŵr, when they finally stumbled through the breach in their own palisade. Owain, Griff, and Dai were at the tower entrance, their faces etched with an almost unbearable anxiety. A cry of relief, quickly stifled, went up from Owain as he saw them. "Arglwydd! You're back!" "Water," Cadogan said, unburdening himself of the heavy skin and handing it to Griff. "Boil some immediately, but this is clean. Drink sparingly until we can get more." The sight of the full waterskins, the promise of untainted water, brought a flicker of desperate hope to the eyes of the three who had remained behind.
Once inside the tower, the barricade hastily re-secured, Cadogan sank onto the cold stone floor, every muscle trembling with exhaustion. Rhys and Madog did likewise, the three of them a picture of grime, fear, and utter depletion. Dai brought Cadogan a cup of the newly acquired stream water. It was cold, clear, and tasted of life itself. "You saw them again?" Dai asked, his voice low, looking from Cadogan to Rhys and Madog. Cadogan nodded grimly. "A patrol. Three of them. Armed with bows. We managed to evade them." He recounted what they had seen, his voice flat, tired. As he spoke, he watched the faces of Owain and Griff. The boys were listening with wide-eyed terror, the brief relief of the water party's return already overshadowed by this new, more immediate confirmation of the enemy's presence and skill. "They are not just random savages," Cadogan concluded. "They are organized. They know these woods. And they are actively patrolling. We are not just unwelcome here; we are being hunted."
The precious water, the small victory of their expedition, suddenly felt very insignificant against the vastness of their peril. The tower, their only sanctuary, felt more like a trap than ever before. Rhys, surprisingly, spoke up, his voice rough but without its usual sneer. "That old reeve your father mentioned, the one they slit the throat of… I'm starting to think he got off easy." It was a grim jest, but no one laughed. The only sound was the wind, whistling through the watching walls of Glyndŵr.