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Updated: May 7, 2025
It was Tad who spoke to the old Cadwallader out in the moonlight. Llyn had answered Daurn's urgent message for peace, and a few miles north of Llangarth had met Tad.
Llyn had fought fair at least, even if he had struck hard, but the life of the Wolf had been as treacherous as it was bloody. And day by day and year by year, as Daurn's strength began to fail and brooding took the place of action, the bitterness of his hatred grew, and out of this at last the plan. It was simple. Daurn was old, dying, and weary of the strife.
Aye, they understood, but their breath came heavily and they glanced furtively each at the other, while the youngest, Rhys, shivered and drew closer to Tad. Daurn's burning eyes questioned them one by one, and one by one they bowed their heads but spake never a word. "Ye'll swear to it, lads," he whispered hoarsely, and drew a long dagger from beneath his pillow.
They came back heavily and laid their burdens gently by the fire logs and returned, then came again and went. Five times in all. And an awful fear was in Daurn's eyes as he glared at those still, muffled shapes lying close beside him in the firelight. Then Llyn spoke, slow and sorrowfully, as he stooped and one by one drew the face-cloths from the dead.
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