The grey light of dawn did little to dispel the oppressive atmosphere of the night. Cadogan had remained alert for the rest of his watch, every nerve thrumming, but the forest had offered no further clues, only its usual unsettling symphony of wind and unseen movements. He was bone-weary, the penetrating cold having settled deep into Cadogan's already aching joints. His brief, shallow sleep after being relieved by Rhys and Madog had been plagued by disjointed images: the swaying corpse, the glint in his father's eye, and shadowy figures flitting through an endless, lightless forest.
Breaking camp was a grim, silent affair. The men's faces were drawn, their eyes darting nervously towards the surrounding trees. Even Rhys's usual belligerence was muted, replaced by a sullen watchfulness. The unease from the night, whether from Cadogan's own tense demeanor or some shared intuition, had infected them all.
"We need to find fresh water soon," Cadogan announced as they prepared to set off, his voice still raspy. The waterskin Morfudd had given them was nearly empty. "And keep a sharper lookout than yesterday." Rhys merely grunted, checking the edge of his axe.
The land grew progressively more savage as they marched. The tangled woods gave way to boggy heathland interspersed with dense thickets of gorse and thorn that tore at their clothes and skin. The faint game trails they had been following dwindled, forcing them to pick their way through the hostile vegetation. They saw no signs of cultivation, no distant smudge of hearth smoke, only abandoned, crumbling stone crofts, their turf roofs long collapsed, staring like empty eye sockets from the desolate landscape. These were the remnants of the "many gone" Morfudd had spoken of.
Twice, Madog, whose silent scouting at the fringes of their group was becoming a notable asset, found crude snares, recently set, not for animals Cadogan recognized as typical game, but for something larger, or perhaps for unwary travelers. Later, Owain pointed to a series of strange markings carved into the trunk of a withered oak – spirals and jagged lines that resembled no script Cadogan knew, ancient or modern. "Green Men signs," Rhys muttered, spitting. "Or worse." Dai crossed himself, his cough more pronounced.
By midday, their waterskin was undeniably empty. The sun, a weak disc in the overcast sky, offered little warmth but enough to parch their throats. The terrain was rising now, a series of bleak, windswept hills covered in coarse grass and heather. "We need water," Griff stated, his voice thin with anxiety, licking his dry lips. "No water here, boy," Rhys said dismissively, gesturing at the barren slopes. "We press on. Maybe find a stream in the next valley, if there is a next valley in this gods-forsaken land."
Cadogan scanned the landscape. His 21st-century mind, though lacking a geologist's specific training, knew that water often collected in hollows, or that certain types of lusher vegetation, even in arid-seeming areas, could indicate moisture deeper down. He saw a narrow cleft between two of the smaller hills to their left, a place where the grass seemed a shade greener, a few stunted, hardy-looking alders clinging to its sides. Alders often favored damp ground. "That way," he said, pointing. "There might be a spring, or at least a seep."
Rhys scoffed. "And what if it's a dry hole, lordling? Or an ambush point? Wasting time." "We're wasting more time dying of thirst," Cadogan retorted, his patience fraying. He was tired of Rhys's automatic negativity. "Madog, scout ahead into that cleft. Owain, Griff, with me. Rhys, Dai, stay with the horse, but keep alert."
The order, clear and decisive, surprised them. Rhys opened his mouth as if to argue, then seemed to think better of it, perhaps seeing the glint in Cadogan's eye that was less "Cadogan bach" and more something else. Madog, with a barely perceptible nod, melted away towards the cleft. The descent into the narrow ravine was steep and treacherous, loose scree shifting underfoot. Cadogan, despite his resolve, found his legs trembling with the effort. The two youths, though equally tired, were more agile. After a few tense minutes, Madog reappeared from around a bend. He gestured. "Dŵr," he said, a single, welcome word. Water.
It wasn't a gushing spring, but a slow, muddy trickle seeping from beneath a jumble of rocks, collecting in a shallow, moss-lined basin. The water was silty, tasting of earth and iron, but it was wet. They drank carefully, then refilled the waterskin, Cadogan making a mental note of the urgent need for a more reliable filtering method than just letting the silt settle. Basic charcoal filtering… if they could ever find the resources and security to implement it.
As they climbed back out of the ravine, Rhys and Dai watched their approach. There was no praise, but Rhys's usual sneer was absent. A small victory, perhaps, but Cadogan knew it was temporary. He had been lucky. Next time, his guess might be wrong.
They pressed on, the land becoming ever more broken and inhospitable. The hills grew steeper, their flanks scarred by ancient rockfalls. The wind was a constant, buffeting presence. It was late afternoon when Madog, scouting ahead from the crest of a high, barren ridge, signaled them to halt, then beckoned them forward. With a final, lung-bursting effort, Cadogan and the others joined him.
Below them, nestled in a bowl-shaped valley choked with dark, impenetrable forest and tangled thorn, lay what could only be the heart of Glyndŵr. There was no welcoming light, no sign of ordered fields. Instead, at the valley's center, half-hidden by the encroaching wilderness, stood the skeletal remains of a small, crudely built stone tower, its walls breached in several places. A few dilapidated timber structures, more like shacks than houses, clustered haphazardly around its base, enclosed by a decaying, V-shaped timber palisade that looked as if it would fall over in a strong wind. A thin, almost invisible wisp of smoke curled from one of the shacks, the only sign of life.
This was it. The Barony of Glyndŵr. His domain. His "poisoned chalice." It looked less like a holding of Caer Maelog and more like a festering wound on the face of the land. "Gods preserve us," Owain whispered, his voice filled with awe and terror. Rhys spat again, this time a longer, more considered stream. "Welcome home, lordling."
Cadogan said nothing, his gaze sweeping over the desolate scene. The historian in him saw decay, collapse, the brutal aftermath of conflict and neglect. The strategist saw a defensive nightmare, a logistical black hole. But the mind that had "drawn a line," the will that had surged in that filthy sickroom, saw something else too: a challenge so immense, so utterly hopeless, that failure was almost a certainty. And therefore, any small success would be a victory snatched from the jaws of oblivion itself. He took a deep breath of the cold, thin air. "We make for the tower," he said. "Carefully."