Men moved at once. They raised their bows. Arrows slid into place with soft, deadly whispers. Below, cauldrons of oil were hauled into position, fires stoked beneath them until the air itself seemed to tremble.
“Hold,” Baird ordered. “Nae until I give the word.”
His hands were steady on the battlement stone, though a storm raged beneath his ribs. He could feel fear surging through him. He felt fear for what stood behind him, but at the same time, hefelt fury for what dared approach. He forced both down, forging them into something harder.
Control.
The Sinclairs advanced in disciplined ranks now, with their armor glinting dully through the thinning mist. They were too close and too confident. Baird scanned the lines, counting and measuring. He memorized their formation even as his mind flicked inward.
Hold fast, Davina.
Within the courtyard, she was already moving. He could not see her from there, but he knew that she would be calming frightened villagers, guiding the wounded to shelter and turning panic into purpose as she always did.
A horn blared again from the enemy line. Baird raised his hand. Every man on the wall went still.
“Remember, me men!” he shouted with all his might. “This is our home! Every stone, every soul within these walls, they dinnae take it today!”
The first clash came like a thunderclap. A shrill cry rose from the Sinclair lines, and the sky darkened as arrows arced upward, then fell in a deadly rain against stone and shield. Shafts clattered off the battlements, some shattering, others biting deep into wood and flesh.
“Shields!” Baird barked.
The men moved as one, practiced and fast. The wall held.
“Return fire!” he shouted.
Kincaid arrows answered in disciplined waves, feathers whispering as they flew. Below, the field erupted into chaos. The men were stumbling, the formations were breaking as the first ranks of Sinclairs fell. Cries of pain and fury tangled together, carried upward on the wind.
Baird leaned over the battlement, tracking movement through the confusion. He saw ladders brought forward, rams rolling toward the gate under covering fire.
“Left flank, now!” he ordered.
Archers shifted instantly, loosing into the men bearing ladders. Wood splintered. Bodies fell. A ladder struck the wall and slid back down, slick with blood.
“Boiling oil, hold,” Baird called. “Wait fer the gate.”
The ram slammed once. The sound shuddered through the stone beneath his boots. Then, again. The gate groaned but did not give.
“Now,” Baird said coldly.
The cauldrons tipped. Screams rose as oil poured down in gleaming sheets. The men were scattering too late, with their own armor turning against them. The ram faltered, then dropped as its bearers fell or fled.
Baird did not cheer. He did not look away.
“Stones!” he commanded.
Rocks thundered down from the walls, crushing the next wave before it could reach the gate. The Sinclairs pressed forward regardless, driven by numbers and fury, but every step toward the keep cost them dearly.
Still, the enemy did not retreat. They regrouped.
Baird saw it before the horns sounded again. He noticed the subtle tightening of their formation, the way fresh men surged forward while the wounded were dragged back or trampled underfoot. They had not come to test the walls now. They had come to break them.
“Gate crews, brace!” Baird roared.
The ram came again, heavier this time, its iron head swinging with brutal rhythm. It struck the gate once, twice, three times in rapid succession. The oak shuddered, and ancient timbers groaned in protest.
“Hold it!” someone shouted below.
Another blow followed. A crack split the air. Baird’s stomach clenched.
