The darkness outside the tower swallowed Cadogan and Madog whole. One moment they were slipping past the reinforced log barricade, the next the dubious sanctuary of the ruin was behind them, and they were adrift in the vast, hostile wilderness of Glyndŵr. Rhys had merely grunted a "Don't get yourselves killed too quick, lordling," as they left. Owain and Griff had watched with wide, terrified eyes. There were no other farewells.
Madog moved like a phantom, a deeper shadow within the already profound blackness of the forest night. Cadogan, his own senses screaming with a mixture of fear and hyper-awareness, struggled to emulate him. Every twig underfoot seemed to snap with the report of a breaking bone, every rustle of his patched cloak a shout in the stillness. He focused on Madog's barely visible back, on placing his feet where the scout's had fallen, on controlling his ragged breathing. His body, still weak from illness and now gnawed by hunger, protested every step, but the cold fire of desperation burned away the pain.
The journey east, towards where Madog and Rhys had encountered the "others'" camp, was a masterclass in stealth and terror. Madog led them on a circuitous route, avoiding open ground, using the deepest cover of ancient oaks and dense thorn thickets. The moon was a veiled sliver, offering little light, for which Cadogan was both grateful and apprehensive. He stumbled more than once, his balance compromised by weakness, only Madog's preternaturally quick hand shooting out to steady him, to prevent a disastrous fall.
Hours passed in this agonizing, silent trek. Cadogan's initial fear began to dull into a state of heightened, almost painful alertness. He started to notice the subtle cues Madog responded to – the faint scent of pine smoke on the wind long before Cadogan himself could detect it, the almost inaudible snap of a distant branch that made the scout freeze and listen for long minutes.
It was Madog who signaled the halt, a low pressure on Cadogan's arm. They were on a slight rise, concealed within a dense growth of ferns and gnarled hawthorn. Below them, perhaps a hundred paces distant, nestled in a hollow sheltered by a rocky overhang and a thick stand of pines, was the camp of the "others." A single, well-banked fire glowed at its center, casting a dim, flickering light on several crude lean-tos and hide tents. Cadogan counted eight figures moving around the fire or resting nearby, their forms bulky in furs. If Madog's earlier estimate of ten to twelve was accurate, a few were either sleeping deeper within the shelters or were out on sentry duty. He could hear the low murmur of voices, a guttural, clicking language utterly alien to him. The air carried the scent of woodsmoke, roasting meat – a smell so tantalizing it made his stomach cramp violently – and something else, a musky, animal scent he couldn't quite place.
They watched for what felt like an eternity, though it was likely no more than an hour. Cadogan, his eyes straining in the gloom, absorbed every detail his 21st-century mind could process. The camp was small, functional, clearly temporary but well-sited for defense against the elements. The "others" moved with an easy, unhurried confidence within their own space. He saw their longbows leaning against shelters, quivers of arrows close at hand. They seemed to have dogs, lean, wolfish creatures that roamed the periphery of the firelight, occasionally letting out low growls. Sentries. Their social structure was harder to discern. One figure, taller than the others, adorned with what looked like antlers and more bones than the rest, seemed to command some deference, though there were no overt displays of rank. This was likely the shaman Madog had mentioned. Most importantly, Cadogan saw their food. Several haunches of deer meat, freshly butchered by the look of it, hung from a crude wooden rack near the fire. A small pile of what might be gathered roots or tubers lay beside a collection of woven baskets. It was a hoard of unimaginable wealth to his starving senses.
The temptation to do something rash, to try and snatch even a single piece of that meat, was a physical ache. But he knew it was madness. The dogs, the sentries, the sheer number of them – it would be suicide. This was an intelligence mission, nothing more. For now. He noted the way the sentries moved, the apparent gaps in their patrol patterns, the layout of the shelters in relation to the fire and the surrounding woods. He noted the location of the stream they had visited earlier – it was indeed not far from this camp, explaining the fresh tracks.
Suddenly, Madog tensed beside him, pressing him further down into the ferns. One of the wolf-dogs at the edge of the camp had lifted its head, its ears pricked, sniffing the air in their direction, a low growl rumbling in its chest. One of the "others" near the fire looked up, his hand going to his bow. Cadogan's heart leaped into his throat. Had they been scented? Had a shift in the wind betrayed them? The "other" scanned the darkness beyond the firelight, his gaze seeming to pass directly over their hiding place. Cadogan dared not breathe. The dog growled again, took a few tentative steps in their direction, then, apparently distracted by something else within the camp, turned away, its growl subsiding into a disgruntled snuffle. The warrior by the fire relaxed, turning back to his companions.
The moment passed. The threat, as sharp and cold as a blade against his throat, receded. Madog waited another long count, then touched Cadogan's arm. Time to go. They had seen enough. They had pushed their luck as far as it would stretch. Silently, painstakingly, they began their retreat, leaving the dangerous warmth and life of the enemy camp behind them, melting back into the cold, hungry darkness of Glyndŵr. They had information now, precious, terrifying information. But as they made their way back towards their own ruined tower, Cadogan knew the most difficult question remained: what, in all the gods' names, were they going to do with it?