Finley stood at his shoulder, cloak snapped tight, eyes narrowed toward the east ridge where the mist was thinning.
“Scouts are back,” Finley said, voice low.
Maxwell did not look away from the men. “And?”
“Two groups,” Finley replied. “Main force in the trees, waiting for the horn. Another circling wide, trying for the south gate.”
Maxwell’s jaw tightened. “As expected.”
Finley exhaled once, short. “They are bold.”
“They are desperate,” Maxwell said. He lifted his voice without turning. “Torcall. Move the archers to the wall walk above the south gate. Now.”
Torcall, broad-shouldered and grim, snapped a nod and barked the order down the line. Men scattered with purpose. No panic. No shouting for the sake of shouting. Every man knew his place because Maxwell had made sure of it.
He turned at last, scanning the inner yard. Women carried buckets of water toward the wall. Boys ran messages with wide eyes and quick feet. A few older men stood ready with spare shafts and fletching, their hands steady despite the coming storm.
Maxwell caught sight of the kitchen door. It was shut. Good. He had posted guards there after the last visit. No loose ends. No weak points. Not today.
A horn sounded from the ridge.
The sound sank into the stone like a warning from the earth itself.
“Positions,” Maxwell said.
His men tightened their formation.
The sound of the first arrows came moments later, a faint hiss that grew into a furious rain. The McNeill archers answered at once, loosing from the walls with practiced speed, their arrows biting into the mist where shapes moved too confidently.
A shout rose beyond the gate.
“The south!”
Maxwell’s head snapped toward the south gate. He was already moving.
“Finley,” he said, voice hard. “With me.”
They ran along the inner wall walk, boots striking stone. The south gate was narrower, more defensible, but it was also the easiest place for a foolish man to try a quick breach.
Maxwell reached the parapet and looked down.
O’Douglas men surged from the trees in a dirty wave, shields raised, axes and swords glinting. They moved fast, driven by greed and the promise of breaking McNeill pride.
Maxwell felt nothing but cold clarity.
“Oil,” he barked.
The men above the gate tipped barrels, thick dark liquid pouring down, splashing against wood and armor. A moment later, a torch followed, and the air filled with screams and smoke and the awful sharp scent of burning wool.
O’Douglas men stumbled back, slapping at their armor, trying to pull comrades away from flame.
“They will push again,” Finley said, voice flat.
“They will,” Maxwell agreed.
Another horn sounded, this one closer, sharper.
From the main gate, the sound of steel began. A deep roar, not of fear, but of men meeting men.
