The carved symbols on the tower wall seemed to pulse in the dim, flickering light of their newly-stoked fire. Dai, his face ashen, traced one of the spiraling patterns with a trembling finger. "Old magic," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "The Old Ones of the woods. They mark their places. This tower… it was theirs, or it is now."
Owain and Griff huddled closer to the fire, their eyes wide and darting towards the shadowed corners of the tower's ground floor as if expecting figures to step forth from the very stone. Cadogan studied the carvings with a different kind of intensity. They were crude, yet possessed a raw, undeniable power. The recurring "watching eye" motif was particularly unsettling; it felt less like a decoration and more like a statement of ownership, a warning. Were these the marks of the "Green Men" Rhys had spoken of? Or the "men not like us" Dai had warned about?
"They are warnings, perhaps," Cadogan said, more to himself than the others. "Or boundary markers." His historian's mind sifted through knowledge of ancient cultures, tribal symbols, territorial displays. This was not the work of casual vandals; it was deliberate, imbued with meaning. And it meant they were intruding on claimed, and likely fiercely defended, territory.
The immediate task of fortifying their precarious shelter took on a new urgency. As the afternoon wore on and the light outside began to fade, every sound from the surrounding wilderness seemed amplified. The wind, whistling through the breaches in the tower's upper walls, carried imagined whispers. The silence between gusts was even worse, taut with anticipation for the return of Rhys and Madog.
Cadogan pushed himself and the remaining men – Owain, Griff, and Dai – relentlessly. They gathered more stones to further barricade the narrow entrance, searched the other dilapidated shacks for any scrap of salvageable timber or metal (finding little beyond rotted wood and broken pottery), and even attempted to clear some of the filth from the well, a disgusting and largely fruitless task. Dai, despite his cough, worked with a grim determination, perhaps spurred by his knowledge of Glyndŵr's perils. The youths, Owain and Griff, were clumsy and fearful, but Cadogan kept them busy, knowing idleness would only magnify their terror.
His own body was a symphony of aches, his earlier reserves of adrenaline now replaced by a bone-deep weariness. But the image of the carved eyes on the wall, the memory of the murdered man, and the unknown fate of his scouts drove him onward. He had to project strength, or at least unwavering resolve.
Dusk settled like a shroud over Glyndŵr. The forest ringing their pathetic clearing became a wall of impenetrable black. They retreated fully into the tower, the heavy log barricade now reinforced with a pile of rubble. The small fire in the center cast long, dancing shadows that turned familiar shapes into lurking monsters. Still, Rhys and Madog had not returned. "They're late," Owain said, his voice barely audible above the wind. "The light fails early in these woods," Cadogan replied, trying to keep his own unease from his voice. "They are experienced men. They will return." He hoped he sounded more convinced than he felt. He had sent them into an unknown wilderness on the trail of killers. The arrogance of that decision now weighed heavily on him.
Another hour crawled by. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire, Dai's rasping cough, and the ever-present wind. Griff was openly weeping now, quiet, hiccuping sobs he tried to stifle. Owain stared into the flames, his face a mask of fear. Cadogan was mentally reviewing contingency plans – if they didn't return, their effective fighting strength would be halved. Could three men and a boy, one of them old and sick, hold this ruin against whatever lurked outside? The thought was ludicrous.
Then, a sharp rapping at the barricaded entrance. Everyone froze. "Who goes there?" Cadogan called out, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of the rusty sword he'd claimed from the meager pile of weapons – a useless gesture, perhaps, but a gesture nonetheless. A low growl answered, unmistakably Rhys's voice. "Open this damned door, lordling, before something out here decides we look tastier than we smell."
Relief, so potent it was almost painful, washed through Cadogan. He, with Owain and Griff scrambling to help, began to shift the stones and the log. Rhys stumbled in first, covered in mud and scratches, his one good eye burning with a mixture of exhaustion and a new, unpleasant excitement. Madog followed, as silent and grim as ever, but even his stoic demeanor seemed strained. He carried a broken arrow, fletched with dark, unfamiliar feathers.
"Well?" Cadogan demanded, once the barricade was back in place. Rhys spat on the floor. "Tracks went east, right enough. Deep into the black-hearted woods. Whoever they are, they know these paths like their own mothers' teats." "Did you see them?" Cadogan pressed. Madog spoke, his voice a low rasp. "We saw their camp. Hidden. Small. Maybe ten, twelve of them." He held up the broken arrow. "They saw us too, at the last. This was their greeting as we left." Ten or twelve. Against his now six, one of whom was an old man, two were terrified boys, and he himself was barely able to stand for long periods. "What did they look like?" Cadogan asked, his mind racing. Rhys let out a harsh laugh. "Like nothing you've ever seen, lordling. Not men of Caer Maelog, that's for damn sure. Painted. Furs and bone. Moved like shadows. And armed with more than just broken spears." He tapped the arrow Madog held. "Good bows. And they know how to use them." He paused, then added, his voice dropping, "They were butchering a deer when we found their camp. The way they did it… it wasn't for food alone. There were… rituals. Markings. Like those on the tree, and now on these walls."
The "men not like us." The "Old Ones." They were real, they were close, and they were hostile. They had marked this tower, this valley, as their own. Cadogan looked at the faces of his men in the firelight. Fear was a living thing among them now, palpable and cold. Glyndŵr had bared its teeth. The hunt, it seemed, was truly on.