“Stones on the ram!” he ordered. “All ye have!”
They rained down, crushing men beneath their weight, but the Sinclairs pushed forward relentlessly, stepping over their own fallen without remorse or pause.
New hands seized the ram. Blood slicked the ground. Still, it swung, again and again.
The gate buckled inward, one hinge screaming as it tore loose from the stone. Splinters burst outward, jagged and violent. A savage cheer rose from the Sinclair ranks.
“Nay,” Baird growled. “Nae yet!”
The ram struck once more, even harder than before, and the weakened timber gave way. The gate lurched inward, then split, with one half collapsing with a deafening crash, and the other hanging crooked and broken. Sinclair soldiers poured forward like an unstoppable tide, fighting through the smoke and debris.
“They’re through!” came the cry.
Baird drew his blade in one smooth motion.
“Fall back to the inner line!” he shouted, already moving. “Just as planned, dinnae break!”
The horns of the Sinclairs blared in exultation as their men surged into the breach. The air filled at once with the ring of steel on steel, the cries of the wounded and the sharp, brutal sounds of bodies colliding. Smoke clung low, stinging the eyes, turning friend and foe into blurred shapes of motion and threat.
Baird was among them before the chaos could take full hold. He moved with grim precision. His sword kept flashing as he cut down the first man who rushed him, then the second. A third came from his left. He turned, parried, drove his blade forward, feeling the impact jar through his arm. He did not pause to look back.
“Hold the line!” he shouted. “Dinnae let them scatter us!”
Kincaid men rallied around him, forming pockets of resistance amid the churn. Each step forward was paid for in blood. The courtyard, once a place of gathering and warmth, became a killing ground slick with mud and crimson.
Baird fought his way through it, pushing deeper. His eyes were searching even as his body answered threat after threat. Sinclair banners flickered through the smoke. He struck down another attacker, kicked a fallen shield aside, turned just in time to block a blade aimed for his ribs. The clang rang through his bones. He drove his shoulder forward, broke the man’s balance, and ended it without hesitation.
His gaze swept the courtyard again, but there were too many faces and too much movement. He saw captains shouting orders, and guards falling back toward the inner line as planned. He saw villagers retreating behind the doors Davina would have secured. But he did not seehim.
Laird Ewan Sinclair was nowhere to be found.
The realization sent a cold thread of dread through his fury. Sinclair would not risk himself at the gate. He would strike where it hurt most, where defenses thinned and where attention turned elsewhere.
He turned around just in time to see Kenny stumble, his footing lost on blood-slick stone. A Sinclair soldier bore down on him from behind. His blade was already being lifted for the killing blow.
Baird did not think.
He surged forward, with his shoulder slamming into the man with bone-jarring force. The Sinclair went down hard, having his breath knocked clean from his lungs. Baird’s sword followed without mercy.
He spun immediately, parrying another strike meant for Kenny’s exposed side. Baird forced the attacker back with a brutal series of blows, then ended it with a clean thrust.
Kenny sucked in a breath, wiping blood from his brow, his own or another’s, it was impossible to tell. “I had him,” he rasped.
Baird shot him a look. “Aye. And I had ye.”
Another enemy rushed them. Together this time, they moved as they always had, following their instinct. Kenny ducked low, Baird struck high. The man fell. They stood back to back for a heartbeat, breathing heavily.
“Ye all right?” Baird demanded.
Kenny nodded, and there was a grim smile flashing through the grime. “Still breathing. That makes it a good day.”
Baird clapped a hand briefly on his shoulder. “Stay that way, me friend.”
They pushed on again, carving space where they could, rallying men who had begun to falter. The Sinclairs pressed hard, but the inner line held, just as planned.
Still, Baird’s eyes never stopped searching. Through smoke and chaos, past fallen banners and clashing blades, he looked for one man above all others.
Sinclair had not shown himself yet. And that made Baird certain of one thing: the worst was yet to come.
