The dark silhouette in the upper breach – a man, lean and agile – dropped silently onto the crumbling stone floor of the tower's second level. Griff, who had been closest, let out a choked scream, scrambling backwards and dropping his pitiful handful of stones. Owain, frozen for a heartbeat, shrieked and hurled a rock wildly. It missed by a wide margin, thudding harmlessly against the far wall.
"Upstairs!" Cadogan yelled, his voice hoarse with adrenaline, already moving towards the treacherous spiral stairs. His rusty sword felt slick in his sweaty palm. "Rhys, Madog, hold the entrance!" He could hear Rhys cursing below, the thudding against their log barricade intensifying. They were being hit on two fronts.
He scrambled up the narrow, crumbling steps, his weak legs protesting, his heart hammering. As his head cleared the level of the upper floor, he saw the attacker – painted face a demonic mask in the gloom, a short, heavy-bladed knife in his hand – lunging towards the paralyzed Griff. Owain was cowering against the wall. There was no time for thought, no time for strategy. Only a primal surge. Cadogan yelled Griff's name, and for a vital instant, the painted man's head turned towards the sound. He threw himself into the attack, a clumsy, forceful rush, aiming the pitted blade more with hope than accuracy at his target. With a disdainful shift of weight, the 'other' avoided the telegraphed blow, letting Cadogan's momentum carry the useless sword into empty air.
Cadogan, overbalanced, stumbled. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that he was about to die. This was it. The end of a short, brutal second life. But as the attacker stepped in for the kill, Owain, galvanized by Cadogan's intervention or sheer terror, let out a high-pitched yell and swung the heaviest stone he held with all his might. It caught the painted man squarely on the side of the head with a sickening crunch. The attacker grunted, a look of stunned surprise on his face, and staggered. His knife clattered to the stone floor. He took a step, then another, then pitched forward, landing heavily, and lay still.
Silence, save for their ragged breathing and the continued sounds of assault from below. Cadogan stared at the fallen man, then at Owain, who was trembling like a leaf, the bloodied rock falling from his nerveless fingers. The boy had just saved his life. Saved Griff's life. "The barricade!" Rhys roared from downstairs. "They're trying to pry it loose!"
Snapping back to the immediate threat, Cadogan grabbed Owain's arm. "Watch this one!" he yelled, pointing at the downed attacker. "Griff, more stones! Be ready!" He half-slid, half-fell back down the stairs. The main entrance was under serious assault. Through gaps in the log barricade, he could see at least two more painted figures heaving, their movements strong and coordinated. Rhys was a wild man, his one eye blazing, thrusting a spear through any opening he could find, roaring curses. Madog, ever silent, used a length of broken timber like a battering ram, trying to counter their efforts. Dai huddled by the wall, coughing and praying aloud in a terrified litany.
Suddenly, a section of the log splintered under a concerted heave, a gap appearing wide enough for a man to squeeze through. A painted arm, then a shoulder, began to force its way in. Rhys bellowed and lunged with his spear, but the angle was awkward. Cadogan, seeing the immediate danger, acted on pure instinct. He grabbed one of the sharpened stakes Madog had prepared earlier – a crude, fire-hardened point – and with a desperate cry, plunged it with all his meager strength into the exposed arm and shoulder forcing its way through the gap.
There was a piercing shriek of pain from outside, and the arm recoiled violently. "More stones!" Cadogan yelled at Rhys. "Wedge it! Now!" Together, they frantically shoved rocks and debris into the new breach, Rhys swearing, Cadogan panting, his own arm throbbing from the impact.
For a moment, there was a lull. The assault on the barricade ceased. The only sounds were their own harsh breathing and the distant, mocking cry of the wind. "Did… did we get them?" Griff called down shakily from above. "Stay alert!" Cadogan gasped back. "Owain, check that man! Make sure he's truly down!"
A few tense seconds passed. Then Owain's voice, tight with nausea: "He's… he's dead, Arglwydd. Stone broke his skull." One dead. At least one wounded outside. The silence stretched. Cadogan listened, every nerve screaming. Were they regrouping? Or had this small, brutal repulse been enough to deter them for now? He looked at his men in the near-darkness. Rhys was leaning against the barricade, chest heaving, his one eye gleaming with a savage light. Madog was already scanning the gaps, listening. Dai had stopped praying and was staring at Cadogan with a strange expression.
They had survived. For now. At a cost he couldn't yet fathom. His own hands were shaking uncontrollably. He had thrust a stake into another human being. The reality of it, the visceral memory of the tearing flesh, the shriek of pain, hit him with the force of a physical blow. This wasn't history. This wasn't strategy on a map. This was blood, and fear, and the desperate, ugly business of staying alive. The welcome to Glyndŵr, it seemed, was complete.