Chapter 12 – Night Raid
The trebuchet on the ridge finally showed its teeth. Each throw slammed a stone into Hawk Keep's walls hard enough to shake the courtyard. Dust ran from the joints. Men raised shields over their heads and waited for the impact before lifting again. The defenders adjusted to the rhythm quickly: count the pull, brace when the arm dropped, duck when the stone struck, then reset and watch the sling.
A chunk of coping had already fallen from the east wall. If this continued for days, the wall would give. No one said it out loud. Everyone knew it.
Inside the hall, Lord Arion sat with his captains, Lysandra, Sir Malrec, Lady Nyra of Valeor, and Captain Wren. Aric stood near the door with two spearmen. The deserters brought over the ditch the night before waited at the table. They were separated, fed, then questioned one by one. The lead man, thin and burned at the cheek, answered most of Wren's questions cleanly.
"Name."
"Joram. Levy from Bell Fen."
"What's on the ridge besides the engine?"
"Pits for undermining," Joram said. "They've started two near the bank to hide the openings. And they've built a wheeled cradle to push ladders closer without men under them."
"Where will they try the cradle?" Arion asked.
"Between the willow cut and the dead elm. Ground's soft. Easier to push."
"Officers?" Sir Malrec asked.
"Mercenary core from the lowlands. One with a serpent pin, tall, left eye cloudy. He watches the river and your tower more than the camp. Says little. People move when he looks at them." Joram paused. "They also have a siege master from the coast. Black nails. Short temper. He curses after bad throws. He'll keep cursing until he hits what he wants."
"Supplies?" Lysandra said.
"Grain from the south. Timber from the river. Pitch from the marsh works. Your fire at the river yard cost them a day, not more."
Arion didn't waste the room's time. "Lysandra, you hold the wall between the willow cut and the dead elm. Pikes at six-step spacing. Hooks set. Oil only on my word."
She nodded.
Arion turned to Wren. "Can you break the engine?"
"Not while they're awake and watching," Wren said. "At night, yes. Burn the ropes, foul the sling, jam the arm. We'll need wind from the water and men who can crawl without being seen."
"I'll go," Aric said.
No one argued. Wren gave a quick nod to show he had heard.
"Then go when their torch lines thin," Arion said. "Leather, not mail. No crests. No talking once you cross the ditch."
They broke. The engineer set braces where the stone had bitten. Reeve and steward reviewed grain and flour. The ford tower oath teams rotated guards—Hawk men and Valeor men counted barges and checked rings together. Bakers made a second batch. The wall crews drilled the new rhythm until every man could do it with his eyes closed.
When the ridge torches dimmed after full dark, Wren took ten men out. Aric walked in the middle of the file. They wore leather and soot on their faces. Each carried a coil of tarred rope, a small oil pot with a rag for a lid, and a short knife. The last man had a crow's-foot of iron and a mallet wrapped in cloth.
They crossed the ditch on a plank and sank into the reeds. Wind blew from the river. It pushed smoke and breath away from the ridge. The siege crew walked their usual path: check pins, set wedges, carry poles, mutter about tired backs. The sling rose and fell, black on black.
Wren set the men by touch. Two to the counterweight ropes. Two to the sling tie. Two to the axle. One to the wheeled cradle under hides. The man with the crow's-foot crouched at a strut and waited.
"Now," Wren whispered.
Tar went onto rope fast. A rag kissed a spark and ran. Flame raced up the sling tie. A crewman turned with his torch, saw smoke where there had been none, and shouted. By then the crow's-foot had already caught the wrong place, and the counterweight dropped crooked. The arm jerked, slammed against the frame, and stuck with a hard groan. A pin snapped. A wedge shot out and hit a man in the thigh. He went down swearing. The half-burned sling twisted, then tore loose. The engine was no longer a weapon; it was a jammed lever.
Near the cradle, a second rag took fire. Only the tarred hides lit. The team pulled back before the flame could jump to dry brush. The hides burned through and the frame underneath sagged and failed.
Bolts hissed into the reeds. One clipped a man's shoulder. He broke the shaft against the ground and kept moving. Wren's file slid away on knees and elbows, then on feet. At the ditch, ropes fell from the inner bank. Hands grabbed. Men went over. The last three crossed with boots in the water because the board shifted. All of them made it.
Arion met them at the gate. "Speak."
"Arm jammed," Wren said. "Ropes burned. Sling torn. Cradle gone. They'll rebuild, but not tonight."
"Good," Arion said. "We use every day they lose."
They did. Repairs climbed the east curtain. Sand buckets were refreshed and doubled under the merlons. The ford tower oath settled into a routine. Men from both sides of the river oath shared lanterns and stories while they counted. The kitchen worked under guard. Every jug came in with a name and time on a strip of waxed parchment.
By the second morning, the Veylans had a new arm on its trestles with cross-bracing and a fresh sling. Their crews worked slower, checking every rope twice. The fifth throw landed true and took another bite from the parapet. The engineer had braces ready. Crews rotated. The rhythm held.
Two days after the raid, a second raven came from Lady Kareth of the White Ford. The note was short.
Longships now probe nightly. They sound docks and count chimneys. Hold the river; watch your coast. Oars on my word.
No one argued about the meaning. If raiders hit the coast while the ridge engine pounded the walls, Hawk Keep would be squeezed from both sides. Arion didn't wait for the "word."
"Wren, find me men who sleep better in boats than beds," he said. "Nyra, how fast can you spare oars?"
"Tonight," Lady Nyra said. "I'll break crews from the third barge flight. We'll settle the tallies later."
"Do it," Arion said. "Sir Malrec, warn the crown that coastal probes have started. If they can send galleys, fine. We won't wait."
That night, Aric joined Wren and Nyra on a silent patrol. Three small boats slid from the north gate into the river bend, oars wrapped in cloth. They hugged the reeds and turned into the canal that led toward the coast. The air changed halfway down. Salt and tar. Human sweat. Quiet voices ahead.
Wren held up two fingers. Two longships, low in the water, moved slowly across the canal mouth. No banners. Shields down. They bumped pilings softly to test the docks.
"Now," Wren breathed.
The Hawk boats surged. Grapples flashed and bit. No fires, no shouting. It was short, hard pressure at the oars and quick work with hooks and knives. The raiders snapped lines free and fled seaward. One boat limped after a cut to the steering oar. The second got away clean, but fast. The canal went still again.
"They were measuring," Nyra said.
"Not tonight," Aric said.
They towed back a snapped grapnel and a broken oar. It was enough proof for the hall. It also told the raiders there would be hands waiting if they tried the same path again.
On the ridge, the rebuilt arm kept throwing. The wall crews kept their count: lift, brace, breathe, lower. The engineer set fresh braces where the stone kissed the joints. No one cheered when a throw went short. No one panicked when one went long. The line held.
Near dusk, Lysandra saw reeds shift near the willow cut. She signaled once. Hooks were lifted. When a ladder lip touched stone, three hooks came down and tore it away before the second rung cleared the ditch. The ladder fell back into the reeds with a thud. The men below did not try again there.
Arion spent the afternoon with ledgers and a map. River toll exemptions and the ford tower oath were written in clean copies and sealed. Two Valeor stewards and a Hawk reeve signed off on grain and flour out of the barges already delivered; Sir Malrec's scribe copied the numbers for the crown. The royal engineer asked for oak pegs instead of nails where stone hairline cracks had begun—iron rings under shock; oak does not. Arion approved the list with a thumbprint and moved on.
After dark, the trebuchet tried two jars of burning pitch. The first burst and spread thick black liquid along the merlon; sand buckets killed it quickly. The second jar broke along the outer face of the wall and slid. The wind pushed smoke away from the line. The men stayed in the rhythm. The engine crews on the ridge tired. The throws shortened. Torches walked the line. The arm stopped for an hour, then tried again.
Around midnight, the ford tower sent a runner with a wet sleeve. "South beacon reports four fires in a line on the coast," he said between breaths. "They've lit the chain."
"Wake the south dock," Wren said.
"I'll take the first boat," Nyra said, already tying her cloak.
Sir Malrec lifted a brow. "Your oath is to the ford."
"My oath is to the river," she answered. "If the coast burns, your ford is a dry throat."
Arion didn't waste words. "Go."
The yard woke without shouting. Oars came off pegs. Lines were coiled. Men checked knots by touch. The boats slid under the tower and disappeared into the black.
On the wall, Lysandra kept eyes at the willow cut and dead elm. Hooks lay ready. Sand sat in barrels with lids off. Pikes leaned within reach. Men breathed through their noses to keep their mouths from drying.
Aric took the bow bench of the second boat and didn't make a sound. No one told him to stay. Wren didn't bother wasting breath on him.
They turned onto the spur canal where reeds grew thick. A heron lifted and moved away. The boats drifted in the shadow of the bank until the water brought them the sound they were listening for: the dull wooden knock of a hull testing a dock. Then the low scrape of a rudder on a piling. A whisper. A hissed curse.
Wren's hand came up. The first boat slid across the mouth of the canal. A longship's bow cut close enough to touch. The Hawk crew used hooks and wrists to drag the nose sideways; the raiders pulled back and swore again. The second longship chose speed and angled across. Aric hooked the rail and held while two men cut the steering oar half through in three short chops. The longship veered, kissed the other boat, and both backed water hard. No one sounded a horn—someone grabbed for one and got a bolt through the wrist for the trouble. The horn fell into the canal and filled.
"Enough," Wren said. They had made their point. The Hawk boats let go and slid back under the reeds. The longships retreated out to open water to count their luck and plan a different path on a different night.
They brought the broken oar and a bent grapnel back to the landing. Arion, Nyra, and Sir Malrec were there to meet them. No one clapped anyone on the back. The night didn't allow for it.
"The river belongs to us tonight," Arion said. "That was the goal."
Nyra touched the splintered oar. "They'll come back with more boats and better men."
"Then we'll be there with better knots," Wren said.
Sir Malrec nodded once. "I'll inform the crown that coastal probes have started and that you are already answering them. I'll also note you're acting without waiting for orders. They like results. They dislike independence. I'll phrase it so they enjoy the first and overlook the second."
Arion said nothing to that. He was already looking at the ridge. The engine threw one more stone that rang a merlon like a bell struck with a stick, then went still for the night.
At the willow cut, a rope lifted a ladder lip again. Three hooks tore it away. The ladder vanished into reeds. No one wasted oil. No one cheered.
By the time the midnight watch changed, the keep had done what it needed to do. The wall held. The ford moved grain. The coast was not empty and not friendly to raiders. Men slept in armor because no one trusted the quiet. Bakers set dough for dawn. Guards checked the landing rings by touch. The hawk banner hung slack; there was no wind.
The war had not changed shape. It had, for now, stopped getting worse on any one side. That was enough to buy another morning.