Page 129 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

But even as he said it, a second wave was advancing. These carried ladders, at least a dozen of them, all heading for different sections of wall.

"Spearmen! Prepare yerselves!"

The first ladder hit the wall to David's left. He ran toward it, arriving just as the first enemy soldier's head appeared over the parapet. David's sword took him in the throat before the man could get his feet under him.

The body fell backward, taking two more men with it. The ladder wobbled but stayed upright.

"Push it back!" David grabbed one side, joined immediately by two clansmen. Together they shoved, sending the ladder toppling backward with three more men still clinging to it.

But there were so many ladders. Too many. David could see them all along the wall, his men fighting desperately to keep the enemy from gaining the battlements.

To his right, one of Langley's soldiers made it over the wall. He engaged with a MacDonald clansman, their swords clashing. David moved to help, but another ladder was going up directly in front of him.

He grabbed a spear from a fallen man, used it to shove the ladder away. More arrows whistled past his head. Langley's archers had found their range now, forcing defenders to keep their heads down.

"Me laird! Behind ye!"

David spun just in time to block a sword thrust from a soldier who'd made it onto the wall. The man was good—trained, disciplined, moving with the economy of an experienced fighter.

They traded blows, steel ringing against steel. The man pressed forward, trying to drive David back toward the parapet edge.

David let him think he was succeeding. Let him overcommit to a thrust.

Then David sidestepped, caught the man's wrist, and used his momentum to send him tumbling over the wall.

"The gate!" someone shouted. "They're at the gate again!"

David ran to where he could see below. A new group with a fresh battering ram was advancing, learning from the first group's mistake. They'd doused their ram in water, protecting it from the oil.

BOOM

The gate shuddered again. David could see the cracks widening.

"Tristan!" he called down. "Reinforce that gate! We cannae let them through!"

"Already on it!" Tristan's voice came from below, along with the sound of heavy beams being braced against the gate.

BOOM

A ladder went up to David's left. He grabbed the top, pushing with all his strength. But there was weight on it, men climbing fast. His arms burned with the effort.

Then someone was beside him—Malcolm, of all people, adding his strength to the push. Together they managed to topple the ladder.

"Ye should be inside," David panted. "This is nay place fer the steward."

"With respect, me laird, damn that." Malcolm grabbed another spear. "I can still fight."

BOOM

The gate was really starting to give now. David could see splinters flying with each impact.

"We need tae fall back tae secondary positions!" one of his captains called. "If that gate breaks⁠—"

"The gate holds!" David's voice cut across the chaos. "We hold this wall, we hold that gate, and we send these bastards back tae England in pieces! Understood?"

A ragged cheer went up from his men. But David could see the strain on their faces. The exhaustion setting in. They'd been fighting for—what? An hour? Maybe less? It felt like days.

Another ladder. Another desperate fight to keep the enemy off the walls. David's sword arm was getting heavy, each swing requiring conscious effort.