Chapter 38
Baird stood at the battlements, dawn had only just begun to pale the sky. Mist clung to the low ground, curling like smoke, but through it he could see dark lines advancing with grim purpose. Sinclair banners broke through the haze, crimson snapping in the morning wind.
“Archers!” Baird called, his voice carrying clean and sharp along the wall. “To yer marks.”
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, he felt 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.
“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 see him.
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.