Chapter 13 – The Ladder Falls
The ridge stayed quiet for half a day after the raid on the trebuchet. No one trusted it. When the drums started at nightfall, every man on the wall knew what it meant.
The Veylans were coming with ladders.
Torches moved in two lines down the ridge, fire bobbing on poles. Behind them, mercenaries carried heavy ladders, helmets blackened, faces wrapped. The beat was steady—enough noise to drown fear and keep feet moving.
On the wall, shields locked and hooks waited. Barrels of sand and water stood open. Aric walked the line from tower to tower, checking gaps. He wore a plain steel cap, leather jerkin, sword at his hip, hatchet at his belt. His strength felt like a second pulse—longer breath, faster hands, more weight in every move—but he kept his voice and face calm.
Lysandra's orders cut through the noise. "Pikes forward. Six steps between! Hooks ready on the third rank. Eyes on me."
Valeor men under Lady Nyra took a section just past the dead elm. Their river-blue surcoats stood out, but they moved in Hawk rhythm. No one cared about colors when ladders were coming.
The first wave hit hard. Ladders slammed, hooks scraped, and men rushed up with shields on their backs. Arrows from the towers dropped some on the rungs. The rest reached the coping fast.
"Push!" Lysandra shouted.
Pikes drove down. The first few mercenaries were stabbed clean off the ladders and fell into the ditch. Hooks bit and ripped two ladders sideways, dumping men in a tangle.
A helmet crested in front of Aric. He stepped in and struck with the hatchet—one short chop that split metal and ended the climb. Another man came up. Aric grabbed the ladder side rail with both hands and heaved. To those watching, it looked impossible; the whole frame tilted and slid, throwing men into the bodies below.
"By the Hawk—did you—" a soldier started.
"Push," Aric snapped, and the man shut his mouth and drove his pike like his life depended on it.
The fight ran hot and close. Ladders kept coming. Every time one touched stone, the enemy tried to force a foothold at the crenels. The defenders stabbed and shoved, ripped hooks, and used the shield boss or the pommel when weapons snagged.
Then the second wave rolled forward with flames.
Mercenaries pressed pitch-wrapped bundles to the rungs before raising the frames. Fire climbed up the ladders and licked the stone edge. Heat hit the faces on the wall; smoke crawled under helms. Men coughed and shifted.
"Hold!" Lysandra's voice was raw. "Sand—now!"
Sand hissed down and killed some of the fire, but not all. Flaming ladders didn't burn the wall, but they burned hands, forced men off the crenels, and made space for a foothold. If the line broke at three spots at once, the enemy would be over.
Aric didn't wait for a second order. He grabbed a soaked cloak from a water barrel, wrapped it around his forearms, stepped to the worst of it, and seized the burning ladder. Heat punched through even the wet cloth. He set his feet and yanked. The ladder wrenched sideways; he shoved, and it fell back into the ditch still aflame, taking two men with it.
He didn't stop. He pulled another half-burning beam free and heaved it down like a spear. It smashed into a knot of mercenaries, scattering them and spreading their own fire. Torches touched pitch, and the flame they'd brought turned on them.
"Drive them!" Aric called.
The defenders surged. Pikes stabbed down. Hooks tore more ladders away before the fifth man could climb. Valeor crossbows worked clean and fast, picking helms that tried to pop up behind shields. The fire that had threatened the line was now chewing the enemy's staging.
The Veylans tried one more push. The drums stuttered. Orders were shouted and lost in smoke. Then the ladders started to pull back, hands shaking on the rails. Men dropped where they stood and let the frames go.
The ditch below the wall was a tangle of broken wood and bodies gone black with soot. The ridge torches retreated, one by one.
The wall held.
Men sagged against merlons, coughing, hands shaking from strain. No one cheered long. Everyone listened for the next sound and heard nothing but the wind.
Aric unwound the wet cloak from his arms. Skin showed red and raw where heat had gotten through. A healer pressed a salve into his palms without asking questions and moved on to the next man.
In the yard below, the spent were replaced, water hauled, and a fresh line formed. The night stayed quiet.
—
In the hall, soot still on their faces, the commanders met.
"We held," Arion said, standing at the long table. "They lost more than we did. But this was a test. They'll look for another way."
Sir Malrec didn't argue. "If the wall won't give from the top, they'll try from underneath. Undermining. Tunnels, braced with wood. Fire the braces, and a section drops."
Arion nodded. "Then we dig first. Counter-mines. Engineers with water ready. I want listeners on the quiet side of the ridge tonight."
Lady Nyra stepped forward. Her surcoat was scorched, hair loose from the fight. "My men held beside yours," she said. "Valeor won't pull back. Let it be clear—Valeor stands with Delsar until this siege ends."
The hall stirred. That was more than help. It was a public tie.
Arion didn't hesitate. "Then it's clear. We write it and we live it. Valeor and Delsar fight as one."
Nyra met Aric's eyes. He met hers. She hadn't loaned men; she'd chosen a side. Men who'd bled together on the wall understood what that meant.
Sir Malrec watched, unreadable. The crown would like the success and dislike the independence. He said nothing.
—
Aric left the hall late. His arms throbbed, but the pain sat under something else—calm weight, the sense that each day put more iron in him. He'd used that strength openly tonight and the men had seen it. Not bragging. Not boasting. Just there, when it counted.
He slept in his gear. He woke before dawn to the sound of boots on stone and low voices.
Scouts from the ridge stood in the yard, mud on their knees.
"They're digging," one said. "Piles of earth hidden behind screens. Short shifts, like they're trying to listen as much as dig."
Arion gathered them all again. Engineers marked the map with bits of charcoal. Wren chose listeners and set them in pairs with bowls of water to read the tremble on the surface. Lysandra assigned reliefs to the quiet stretches of wall where footsteps rang too true.
The next fight wouldn't be on the parapet or at the river. It would be under their feet. And if the enemy tried to burn the ground out from under Hawk stone, then House Delsar would meet them in the dark and take their fire away