The stillness in the tower after Dai's last, shuddering breath was more profound than any silence they had yet endured in Glyndŵr. It was the silence of irrevocable loss, of a number reduced, of hope dwindling to a pinprick in an overwhelming darkness. Owain stared at the old man's slumped form, tears tracing clean paths through the grime on his cheeks. Griff had buried his face in his hands. Rhys, for once, looked utterly bleak, his one good eye fixed on Dai with an expression that might have been sorrow, or perhaps just a stark recognition of his own mortality. Madog closed the old man's unseeing eyes with a rare, gentle touch.
Cadogan felt a cold hollowness within him. Dai had been old, sick, perhaps doomed from the start, but he had been one of them, a link to Caer Maelog, a voice that remembered grandfathers and old tales. Now he was just…gone. Another victim claimed by this cursed barony. The weight of command, of responsibility for these lives, pressed down on Cadogan with crushing force.
There was no question of leaving Dai within the tower. As the first, weak light of their third dawn in Glyndŵr filtered through the breaches, they carried his frail body out. They chose a spot near the first grave, that of the murdered stranger. The digging, with only one rusty spade and their bare hands, was slow, exhausting work in the cold, unyielding soil. Their own hunger gnawed, a constant, dull ache that sapped their strength and shortened their tempers. When it was done, they stood for a moment by the two fresh mounds of earth. Two graves in two days. Glyndŵr was a fertile ground for death, if nothing else. "No words for this one either, lordling?" Rhys muttered, his voice rough with more than just the cold. Cadogan shook his head. What words were there? His Latin phrases felt like a mockery in the face of such raw, primitive finality. He was a stranger here, leading strangers to their deaths.
Back in the tower, the atmosphere was thick with despair. Five remained. The two scrawny rabbits from the previous night were a distant memory. Their waterskins were less than half full. "We have food for perhaps half a day, if we count the offal Madog saved," Cadogan stated, his voice carefully devoid of emotion as he addressed the remaining four. "After that, nothing. The stream is a day's round trip, and we know the 'others' watch it. Setting snares near the tower is no longer an option." He looked at each of them. Owain and Griff were shadows of their former selves, their youth no defense against the gnawing hunger and terror. Rhys was a coiled spring of frustration and barely suppressed anger. Madog was, as always, watchful, his endurance remarkable, but even he looked gaunt.
"So we starve, then?" Rhys said, his voice a low snarl. "Wait for those painted bastards to pick us off one by one when we're too weak to lift a hand?" "No," Cadogan said. "We don't wait." The decision, born of utter desperation, had solidified in his mind during the grim hours of the morning. "Madog, you said their camp was a day's march east, hidden. Ten or twelve of them." Madog nodded, his eyes questioning. "They have food," Cadogan continued. "They have fire. They have shelter that is not a ruin. They are warriors, hunters, yes. But they are also men. And men can be surprised. Men can be careless." "You want to raid their camp?" Rhys's one eye widened, a spark of wild, incredulous light within it. "With us? We're half-starved, barely armed. You saw those things. They move like smoke." "Not a raid, not a direct assault," Cadogan corrected, though the distinction felt thin even to him. "A reconnaissance in force. Two of us. Madog and myself."
A stunned silence. "You, Arglwydd?" Owain whispered, aghast. "But… you are still weak. And after last time…" "Madog knows the woods," Cadogan said, his gaze fixed on the scout. "And I need to see their camp for myself, understand their layout, their numbers, their routines. We cannot fight an enemy we do not comprehend. Staying here is a slow death. This… this is a chance, however slim." "A chance to get your throat slit alongside Madog's," Rhys bit out. "And leave us three here to feed the crows." "If Madog and I do not return by the dawn after next," Cadogan said, his voice hard, "then you three must try to make your way back to Caer Maelog. Tell my father what became of his 'Barony of Glyndŵr' and his son." He knew it was a death sentence for them too, but it was the only instruction he could give. "This is madness," Rhys said, shaking his head. "Utter madness." "Perhaps," Cadogan conceded. "But it is a madness born of necessity. Doing nothing is a greater madness still." He looked at Madog. "Can you find their camp again? Can you get us close, unseen?"
Madog was silent for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. Then, he gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. "Can find. Getting close… that depends on their sentries, and the spirits of this place." "Then we leave tonight," Cadogan said, a cold knot of fear and resolve tightening in his stomach. "As soon as full darkness falls. We travel light. Waterskins, knives, Madog's bow if he thinks it useful for more than show against their numbers. Rhys, you are in command here until our return, or until the appointed time." Rhys stared at him, a complex mixture of disbelief, scorn, and a strange, new flicker of something else – perhaps a grudging respect for the sheer audacity of the plan, or the certainty of its failure. "Don't expect us to light a welcoming fire for your ghosts, lordling," Rhys finally said.
Cadogan nodded. He expected nothing but the worst. This was not strategy; it was a final, desperate throw of the dice, played on a board where all the pieces were already aligned against them. But it was his throw to make. The alternative was to wait for the piper's mournful tune to herald their collective end.