Corb and his retinue seemed to enjoy giving everyone time to settle into an uncomfortable silence. Then he strode forward, his chain clanking, and pitched something into the air with a casual underhand toss. There was a heavy clump as the thing, about the size of my fist, bounced and then rolled. It came to a halt at the foot of the dais where the high seat stood. It was a very small severed head. It had been a while since the head had been taken, the skin shrunken tight, patches here and there beginning to fall to decay. I recognized the features. It was Gwynn ap Nudd, King of the Tylwyth
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