Chapter 15 – The Tide Turns
At dawn the ridge smoked with retreating wagons. Oxen hauled frames east, but enemy banners still flew and their drums kept time. They weren't gone—just angry.
"They're leaving wagons, not men," Wren said from the wall.
Arion's eyes were hard. "They'll strike once more before they flee. Break our wall, call it a victory, and run."
Lysandra scanned the mass below. "Their commander?"
Sir Malrec pointed to a ladder party forming near the willow cut. A tall man in black mail strode at its head, helm hooked to his belt, serpent-shaped pin bright on his cloak. "He'll come himself. The kind that needs a head to bring home."
The men on the wall tightened straps and said less. They had survived tunnels, towers, and fire. Now the enemy meant to end it in one push.
By mid-morning the drums thundered and the ground trembled with feet. Shield walls pressed together, ladders borne six at a time. Half-finished towers creaked forward, oxen dragging them across planks. Skirmishers peeled toward the river with jars of smoke and flame.
"Pikes forward!" Lysandra's voice cut clean. "Hooks set!"
Valeor men under Lady Nyra stood shoulder to shoulder with Hawks, blue sashes tied over smoke-dark armor. On this wall there was only one line.
The first ladders slammed. Mercenaries climbed fast with shields on their backs. Pikes punched them off the rungs. Hooks tore frames sideways. The nearest tower groaned closer, its wheels biting into planks.
"Fire!" Arion called.
Pitch-pots burst at the tower's base. Smoke boiled. Enemy crews threw wet hides and kept it moving. The tower hit the ditch and bogged. Oxen strained; the frame crawled.
Aric moved along the parapet, hatchet in hand, short sword low. He saw the serpent-pin commander climbing with his men, hooked blade flashing. The man tilted his scarred face up and met Aric's eyes; the look said he expected to stand here.
He came up hard. The hooked sword ripped a Hawk's shield down and the man with it. The wall bent around the sudden force.
Aric stepped into the gap.
Steel rang. The mercenary tried to trap Aric's wrist with the hook and drag him down; Aric twisted, checked it on his forearm, and hammered the hatchet into the man's helm. Iron dented. Blood ran.
The man grinned through it. They traded short, heavy blows—no flourish, no space. The hook swept low for Aric's knee, then high for his throat; Aric jammed it with the bracer, drove a knee into the man's chest, and smashed the hatchet again at his guard. The commander's strength was real; he gave ground an inch at a time.
A cut opened along Aric's shoulder. He didn't blink. He ripped the hook wide with his off hand, grabbed the gorget, and heaved. Mail scraped stone. With one clean motion he flung the man backward over the crenel.
The commander vanished into his own press. His banner dipped. For a heartbeat, even the drums seemed to miss a beat.
The wall found its breath and roared.
Hawks and Valeors surged. Hooks ripped more ladders free. Sand killed oil where it tried to cling. A tower at the ditch lurched as a wheel slipped; archers on the wall poured shafts into its slits until return fire died.
"Now—push them off!" Arion's voice carried end to end.
The ditch filled with wreckage and bodies. The serpent-pin emblem toppled into mud. Horns blared retreat. The front wavered first, then the rear. Men threw shields to run faster. Smoke thickened on the ridge as they fired their own wagons and dragged what they could east.
Hawks leaned on pikes, too tired to cheer twice, eyes bright anyway. The keep still stood.
"Hawk Keep holds," Arion said. The answer rolled down the wall rough but fierce.
Lady Nyra lowered a blooded spear. "Valeor stood with Delsar. Let every man carry that home."
"They will," Aric said. His arms were red with cuts and streaked black with smoke, but his voice was steady. He had thrown their champion where all could see. No one would forget.
Sir Malrec already had ink on his fingers, parchment on a knee. Reports for the crown; questions would follow the praise.
Night settled. Men slept against stone with shields for pillows. The ridge smoldered, drums quiet at last. Near midnight, scouts came back with soot in their lashes.
"They're not gone," one said. "Their camp burns, but their best men march slow and tight. They're forming at the ridge."
Arion didn't close his eyes. "Then at dawn we go out and finish it. Hawk and Valeor together."
Aric looked east. Leather creaked under his fists. Tomorrow there would be no wall between them and the enemy. Tomorrow, the war would end.