Dawn in Glyndŵr was a cold, unforgiving eye. It illuminated the squalor of their tower refuge, the bloodstains on the stone where the "other" had fallen, and the pale, haunted faces of Cadogan's men. The adrenaline of the night had ebbed, leaving behind a residue of aching exhaustion and a gnawing fear that was almost a physical presence.
Their first task was grim. Under Cadogan's direction, Rhys and Madog, their expressions hard, dragged the corpse of the painted warrior out of the tower. The man was surprisingly light, his wiry strength belying his slight build. They left him a short distance from the palisade, in the open, a stark offering to whatever scavengers or kin might find him. There was no ceremony, no words spoken. It was a disposal, nothing more. Cadogan watched, his stomach tight. He had seen death in his own time, in sterile archives and academic texts. This was different. This was raw, immediate, the air still thick with its metallic scent.
Back inside, Rhys's arm was inspected. The wound from the splintered log was shallow but ragged, already showing an angry redness around the edges. Morfudd's herbs, reapplied by Cadogan, were their only defense against the festering that could easily claim a life in this forsaken place. Owain, who had barely spoken since the previous night, sat huddled by the cold ashes of their dead fire, his gaze distant and unfocused. He had taken a life, however desperately, and the act had clearly scarred him deeper than any physical wound. Griff, though still fearful, seemed to have found a sliver of resilience, perhaps drawing strength from Owain's greater distress. Dai coughed weakly, his breathing shallow.
"The water," Cadogan said, his voice carefully level, breaking the oppressive silence. They had nearly three full skins from the stream. "We ration it strictly. Half a cup each this morning. The same at midday, and again at night, if it must last." The men nodded, their thirst evident. The clean water, though precious, was a finite resource, and the journey to replenish it was a flirtation with death.
"Food," Cadogan continued, gesturing to their pitifully small sack of supplies. "We have enough hard bread for perhaps one more meal each. After that…" He let the sentence hang. The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken anxieties. "The deer tracks Madog saw yesterday," Rhys said, his voice rough. "Near the stream. If we could take one down..." "Hunt?" Cadogan looked at him. "With a dozen of them out there, knowing these woods, likely watching that stream as well now?" "Better than starving in this rat-hole, lordling," Rhys retorted, though some of the old fire was missing from his tone. "A quick hunt, Madog and me. We're the best chance you've got." Madog, who had been examining the strange symbols on the tower wall with an unreadable expression, turned. "Deer will be wary now. And the 'others'… they hunt too. The forest is their larder, and their domain."
"Foraging?" Cadogan asked, looking at Dai, then Madog. "Are there any edible roots, berries, fungi in these woods that you know?" Dai shook his head. "This is Glyndŵr, Arglwydd. The earth is bitter. What little grows that doesn't have thorns is often poison, or so the tales say. Morfudd's learning was of healing herbs, not sustenance from this cursed soil." Madog offered a slight shrug. "Some roots, maybe. Deep. Hard to find. Not enough for six hungry men."
The walls of the tower seemed to press in. They had water for a few days, perhaps, if they were careful. Food for one more meager meal. No fuel to boil more of the poisonous well water, even if they dared drink it again. No fuel for warmth against the biting nights. "The symbols," Cadogan said, turning his attention to the carvings Dai had uncovered, needing to focus his mind on a problem, any problem, that wasn't their immediate, gnawing hunger. "Dai, you said this tower was ancient, a shrine perhaps. Who would have built such a thing here?" "Men before men, some say," Dai wheezed. "Or spirits of the earth. They were old when my grandfather's grandfather was a boy." He shivered. "And the watchers of this valley do not forget."
Cadogan looked at the "watching eye" motif, then at the breaches in their walls. An ancient, sacred site, defiled by his father's ambition, now his own precarious prison. His 21st-century logic warred with the creeping dread this place inspired. He needed facts, a plan, not folklore. But facts were as scarce as food. "Rhys, Madog," he said, a desperate idea forming. "The patrol we saw yesterday. They carried bows. And they were hunting a deer when you found their camp. They have meat. They have fire." Rhys's one good eye narrowed. "What are you suggesting, lordling? You want us to raid them? Ten or twelve of those painted devils? With what? Sticks and harsh language?" "No," Cadogan said slowly, the plan still unformed, reckless. "Not a raid. But if we could find their camp again… if we could observe them, learn their routines, their numbers more accurately, perhaps even find a weakness… or an opportunity to take something when they are careless..."
It was a fool's errand, sending his two most capable men back into the heart of danger on such a flimsy premise. But starvation was a certainty if they did nothing. Taking from the "others" was a gamble, but it was, at least, an action. "Too risky," Madog rumbled, his first direct contradiction of a proposed plan. "They know us now. They will be watching their back trail. Their camp will be better guarded." "Then what do you suggest, Madog?" Cadogan pressed, a new desperation sharpening his tone. "Do we sit here and wait for hunger to deliver us to them?"
Before Madog could answer, a faint sound reached them from outside – not the wind, not the rustle of unseen creatures, but something new. A thin, reedy piping, a simple, mournful melody played on what might have been a primitive flute. It seemed to come from the edge of the woods, then drift away, then return from a slightly different direction, like a will-o'-the-wisp leading them into the depths. The "others" were no longer just watching. They were testing, probing, perhaps trying to lure them out. The hunt, it seemed, was adapting.