The fire below the north wall still screamed.
Germanian and Britannian voices, both, blurred together in the blaze. Fire-laced arrows hissed in, bit into the logs, and were beaten out by shaking hands and buckets.
William's arms felt hollow. His throat was raw from shouting. Beside him, Hobb leaned his weight into the parapet, but his eyes were sharp as broken glass.
The main drums still pounded from the north.
Doom... doom... doom...
Then another rhythm cut in from the west.
Faster. Rolling. Off-beat.
Hobb's head tilted. "Hear that, boy?"
William forced himself to listen past the roar at the front.
North: deep infantry drum, shield wall grinding.
West: hooves. A lot of hooves. A whole flank's worth of weight rolling over soft earth.
A runner burst up the ladder, half-falling onto the wall-walk. "Lord William! West wall—cavalry's broken off—sweeping round the fields!"
Of course they were.
William's stomach went cold. Felix wasn't stupid; he was doing exactly what William would've done.
He turned to Hobb. "Can you hold here?"
Hobb snorted. "Can I hold three thousand? No. Can I make it cost them their grandchildren? Aye."
He straightened with a grimace and raised his voice. "Listen up, you lot! You're married to this wall now. You don't leave it till you're dead or I tell you, and I don't like funerals."
William lifted his own voice. "Professionals—step out!"
Mail and leather creaked. A dozen proper soldiers separated from the smear of farmers and hunters—scarred faces, calm eyes. Counting Hobb, he had twelve trained men left on the north.
"We leave ten with Hobb," William said. "You're his spine. You keep the line rotating, you keep the Fire off the wood, and if they force that ditch you fall back in order and turn the alleys into a butcher's lane. No glorious last stands on the wall unless there's no ground left behind you. Understood?"
A broad-shouldered man with a broken nose and a veteran's stare thumped a fist to his chest. "Sergeant Godfrey Hale, my lord. We'll see the old crow doesn't get himself killed too cheap."
Hobb growled, "Mind your tongue, Hale," but there was no heat in it.
William pointed. "Two with me. I need steel on the west."
A tall man with a salt-flecked beard and a long sword stepped out. "Sergeant Osric Bale, sir. I've no love for cavalry. I'll stand with you."
A younger man followed, mail cleaner but eyes tired. "Corporal Edwin Marsh. Someone's got to drag folk back behind a shield when they forget how not to die."
"Done," William said. "Hale, you and Hobb have the north. If I break the west, shout at me when we meet again. If I don't—"
"You'll break it," Hale said, like it was a plain weather fact.
Hobb cuffed William's arm. "Stop standing here talking about it and go, lad. Before that flank decides our granary looks pretty."
William nodded once.
"Thirty to the west with me!" he yelled down the line. "If you can still run and hold a bow or spear, move!"
Boots pounded. He counted without thinking as people converged on the ladders.
"Seventeen... twenty-three... twenty-eight... thirty-two—"
He jabbed a finger at the last two. "You back on the line. Hobb needs you more than I do."
They hesitated, then peeled off, faces tight.
William snatched a fresh quiver from a stack, slung it, grabbed a sound yew longbow from the rack.
Hobb eyed the bow. "Sure you remember which end bites, lordling?"
William nocked an arrow in one smooth motion, checked the spine by feel. "Father didn't drag me through the preserves so I could point the wrong end at dinner."
"Good." Hobb's mouth twitched. "Don't get trampled. I've a wager with Hale on you seeing twenty."
"You're both mad," William said. "Try not to die while I'm gone."
"No promises," Hobb replied. "But I'll make it inconvenient."
Down the ladder. Through the square.
Ashford was a knot of smoke and fear. Wounded on planks and doors. The chapel's little bell silent, the priest's hands gray with ash as he marked foreheads. Buckets passed from well to wall. Someone sobbed against a post; someone else clapped their shoulder and kept moving.
William ran through it all, Osric and Marsh at his shoulders, thirty villagers on his heels.
"West wall with me!" he shouted. "Archers and spears both! If you're coming, keep up—if you can't, clear the path!"
They cut around a cart piled with broken furniture and almost ran into a knight in half-armour, helm under his arm.
"Lord William," the man said, catching himself. Sir Alaric Wynne. "I heard—if the west is threatened, I'll—"
"You'll hold the south and the square," William cut in, still moving. "If that gate goes, the rest of this is for nothing."
Alaric frowned. "My lord, it is only proper that a knight—"
"It is proper that someone with sense is at the gate," William snapped. "The colonel's thinking of retreat. You keep him honest. Spears behind the doors, no opening for panic. If we send wounded, you don't send them back."
Alaric hesitated, then dipped his head. "Very good, my lord. I'll see it done."
He peeled away toward the south.
William didn't watch him go.
He hit the west ladder two steps at a time and hauled himself up.
The west wall felt like a bad joke.
No ditch here. No stake-line. Just the three, four meters of logs and a narrow field gate in the middle of the stretch—two wagon-wide doors meant for carts and sheep, barred and hastily braced from the inside with carts and barrels.
Maybe twenty militia already lined the parapet. Bows, old shields, a few rusty helmets. Behind them, on the ground inside, a scatter of villagers heaving extra timber and rubble toward the gate to brace it.
Out beyond them, Felix's cavalry wing was in motion.
A dark crescent of horseflesh swept across the trampled fields, forming into a looser, slightly ragged wedge as it angled in. Lances dropped. Riders shouted. Fire-glow clung to some arrowheads in the second rank.
An older man with a gray beard and a dented kettle helm turned as William stepped up. "My lord. This is what we've got. The ditch is north. Out here it's only logs and prayers."
"What's your name?" William asked.
"Halden Brewer," the man said. "I pour ale when fools aren't trying to knock our walls down."
"Today you lead this wall," William said. "Congratulations."
He raised his voice so everyone could hear. "Listen! This is how we hold."
He pointed first to the walkway. "Archers and good shots on the wall with Master Brewer. You're our roof. You bleed the charge before it reaches us."
He jabbed a thumb down into the yard. "Spears, shields, anyone with a decent blade, down on the ground with Sergeant Bale and Corporal Marsh. You brace that gate and you stand in front of the folk trying to make it thicker."
Osric nodded once. His voice came out crisp and iron-flat. "You heard him. Ground with me—shields to the fore, spears behind. We'll make them earn every hoofprint."
Marsh barked to the nearest spearmen, "You—take that cart. Ram it harder against the doors. I want the gate to think it's part of the wall."
Villagers scrambled to obey, grunting as they shoved carts, barrels, anything heavy against the barred field gate. A couple of younger lads dragged a broken plough over and wedged it sideways.
William turned back to Halden. "How many decent archers?"
"Ten that can hit what they aim at," Halden said. "Another ten that can scare it."
"Right. " William faced the line. "You've all hunted, aye?"
Hands went up, tentative.
"Good," William said. "Then you know a horse bleeds like anything else. You don't stare at the fancy helm. You watch the step. Chest, shoulder, knee. Miss the man and break the horse, the pair of them are finished."
He held up his bow. "My father had me shooting hart at fifty paces before my voice broke. I'm not missing now. Nor are you."
That earned a few thin smiles.
A skinny boy near his elbow swallowed. "Name's Jory, my lord. I can take a stag through the ribs at forty paces easy."
"Then these bastards picked the wrong field," William said. "You're with me. Halden, you keep the others steady. Shoot when I call it, not before."
"Aye, my lord," Halden said. His voice had the slower roll of the village, but it firmed when he spoke to his own people. "You heard him. We shoot together or we die in pieces."
Below, Osric was already sorting the ground team. Soldiers and villagers lined up two deep in front of the gate—shields to the front, spears just over their shoulders, spare hands hauling beams and broken furniture into the brace.
Marsh stalked along the line like a shepherd with wolves. "Spears down the middle, not off to the sides like you're poking pigs. If a horse hits you, you sink that point and twist. Don't stand there admiring your work."
William forced himself not to fuss over them. He trusted Osric and Marsh to shape that knot into something resembling a line.
His job was the sky.
"Arrows ready," he called to the parapet. "Not yet. Don't waste your first shot trying to impress me."
Out in the field, the cavalry line rolled forward, breaking over a low stone wall and pulling itself back together as it ran. Fire-laced arrowheads glowed dull orange in the second rank.
William drew and felt the bow sit into his hands like an old friend. Bowstring to cheek. Breath out. The world narrowed to the beat of hooves and the arc of the charge.
His father's voice came back, calm and infuriatingly patient. Wind off the right. Don't chase the stag. Loose into the step, not the body.
From the north, on his rise, Felix watched the wing sweep.
He'd thinned his infantry to form that flank. It annoyed him. But the Lockhart boy had earned the attention with the ditch and the fire.
"Captain Roderic has his orders?" Felix asked.
"Aye, commander," his aide said. "Sweep wide, press the west stockade, take the field gate if it looks weak, then run the inside of the wall toward the south."
"And he is not to waste men bashing straight into logs," Felix said. "He keeps them moving. Keeps the boy looking over his shoulder. If he sees a crack, he rides through it."
The aide saluted and ran to the signalman.
Felix watched the wedge tighten and drop.
"They're coming!" Jory blurted beside William, voice too high.
"I can see that," William said, but not unkindly. "Breathe. Nock."
They nocked.
The cavalry moved from heavy trot to full charge, hooves tearing divots from the churned field. Lances dropped. The first line of horsemen thundered straight for the west wall, using the slight rise to gather speed.
"Not yet..." William murmured.
Closer. The ground shook.
The lead horses hit the rougher patch where old plough furrows and fresh mud mixed.
"Now!" William snapped. "Front rank—chests and knees. Loose!"
The bow-line answered.
Arrows streaked out from the parapet, a rough but solid volley.
William's arrow flew among them, headed for the gap between a bay gelding's forelegs, right where its chest would be in the next stride.
He exhaled as he loosed.
Out in the field, shafts met flesh.
One horse screamed as an arrow punched into its knee, stumbled, and went down. Its rider flew, hit hard, and vanished under the hooves of those behind.
Another mount took William's arrow straight in the chest and folded like a dropped puppet. Its rider barely had time to understand before his world became mud and metal.
The point of the wedge wobbled.
"Again!" William shouted. "Same targets! Make them climb their dead!"
They drew and loosed again, hands shaking, mouths set.
More horses went down shrieking. A lance spun away. A rider caught a shaft in the armpit and tumbled.
The wedge did not break.
Captain Roderic had trained them too well. The line flowed around the fallen, bending, tightening, adjusting pace.
"Fire!" someone bellowed from the second rank.
Fire-laced arrows rose, glowing like a crooked constellation.
"Down!" William barked. "Helms low! If you've a shield, use it. If you don't, get behind someone who does!"
They ducked.
Flaming shafts hissed overhead and smacked into timber and thatch. One bit deep into the edge of the parapet, setting a small tongue of fire licking along the log. Another cleared the wall entirely and plunged into a bale of straw by the smithy.
"Straw's lit!" someone yelled behind them.
"Bucket line!" Halden roared without taking his eyes off the field. "Garin! Hara! Off the wall—put it out!"
Feet pounded away down the ladder. Water sloshed. William stayed where he was.
The wedge closed.
Up close, the riders' faces were a smear of steel and strain, the horses' nostrils flared, eyes wide and white.
"Hold..." William whispered, feeling the drumbeat in his ribs.
They hit the worst of the churned earth.
"Now! Knees!" he shouted. "Drop the front!"
The third volley flew.
Arrows knifed into joints and forelegs. Several horses crumpled almost together. The leading edge of the charge turned into a pile of falling flesh and metal.
One rider slammed into the wall with a sick thud, slid down out of sight.
The wedge's tip died a dozen strides from the palisade.
The rest of the cavalry split on instinct.
Half peeled right, toward the northwest corner. The other half swung left for the southwest, aiming to run along the wall's base, stab upward, hook logs, and find anything soft.
"Osric!" William shouted down. "They'll try the gate next!"
"Aye, my lord!" Osric's voice floated back, steady iron. "We're ready to greet them."
On the parapet, Jory flinched as a wider arc of Fire Muti arrows hissed overhead and dropped deeper into the village. A new bloom of smoke rose near the storehouses.
"They're circling wider," Halden said through his teeth. "Trying to cook us from the inside."
"I know," William said. The words tasted like ash. "We'll not give them the time."
He risked a glance over the inside edge of the wall.
Below, in front of the braced field gate, Osric's line had formed—shields locked, spears bristling over the top, villagers and soldiers shoulder to shoulder. Behind them, more villagers strained to drag another wagon into the brace, shoving until its wheels lifted off the ground.
Marsh stalked behind the line, tapping shields with the butt of his spear. "Tighten it up! If I can see daylight between your boards, so can a lance."
Hooves slammed along the base of the wall as a knot of riders managed to keep their horses upright and race along the logs, looking for a softer spot.
"Archers!" William called. "Split! Half of you stay guns on the field—anything that comes in again, you break it. The rest of you—look down. You see a rider too close to the wall, you turn him into a pin-cushion before he hooks a log."
Halden flashed him a sidelong grin. "You heard the lordling. Sky and ground both. No one gets a clear run."
They moved, quick and clumsy but determined.
William shifted with the downward group, planting his feet at the corner where the parapet overlooked the field gate. From here, he could see both the circling riders outside and Osric's line below.
The sound of hooves angled in.
A small wedge of horsemen had broken off, aiming straight at the field gate—the weakest-looking patch of wall, doors braced or not.
"Marsh!" William shouted. "Incoming!"
"We see them!" Marsh answered. "Spears set! Shields low!"
The front rank of the cavalry lowered lances, hooves pounding, aiming to smash the braced gate and trample anyone fool enough to stand in front of it.
William nocked, drew, and picked the lead rider.
He didn't aim for the helm.
He aimed for the horse.
"Jory," he said, voice low. "Take the one left of mine."
"Aye," Jory whispered.
"Loose!"
Two arrows flew.
William's shaft buried in the lead horse's shoulder. Jory's took the next mount in the chest.
Both beasts screamed and collapsed, smashing into the wagon-brace and the packed earth. The riders pitched forward, one flung straight into Osric's shield wall.
"Brace!" Osric roared.
The front rank took the impact with a collective grunt, knees bending, boots skidding half a pace before they dug in. Spears darted over the shields, punching down into the tangle of fallen horses and men.
A third rider tried to leap the wreck; his horse half-made it, clipped a corpse, and tumbled. The rider went rolling, slamming into the ground just short of the gate.
"Now!" Marsh shouted. "Step and stab!"
The whole line moved as one, a half-step forward and down. Spearpoints flashed, finding gaps in mail, punching into throats and armpits.
On the parapet, William barely had time to feel the grim satisfaction before another knot of riders peeled away from the larger swirl, angling for the same point.
"Halden, keep the line on the field!" William snapped. "You, you, and you—" he jabbed at three archers nearest him "—keep feeding that gate approach. Anything that comes in straight, we drop it before it hits Osric."
"Aye, my lord," one of them said—a gaunt woman with a bow as old as she was. "We'll not let them ride him down."
Fire-laced arrows hissed overhead again, landing somewhere toward the square. Smoke thickened.
A shout went up from below. "Flankers on the right! They're trying to ride past the gate!"
William didn't think.
"Halden, you have the wall," he said. "Jory, with me."
He slung his bow across his back, grabbed his practice spear from the parapet, and bolted for the ladder.
Jory hesitated only a heartbeat before following.
They hit the ground hard and pushed through the press behind the gate line.
The air here was thicker—sweat, smoke, horse stink, fear. The crash of hooves on the other side of the wall shook the brace.
Osric glanced back, eyes quick, then forward again. "You're late," he said, almost conversational.
"You started without me," William replied, taking his place beside the shield line, spear in hand. "How rude."
Marsh barked a laugh. "Right side's thin, my lord. They swing round there, we'll feel it."
"Then we hold the right," William said. He raised his voice. "You—three spears with me! Jory, behind us—if anything gets through, you shoot its rider off before he remembers his name!"
"Aye, my lord!" spattered back at him, rough and quick.
Outside, the hooves drew closer again, angling slightly, trying to slide along the wall and catch the gate's corner.
William planted his boots, felt the line shiver as Osric shouted, "Spears set! Shields firm!"
Time felt short and too long at once.
North, Hobb and Hale were still holding. South, Alaric stood at the main gate. West, between wall and field and the thin brace of doors in front of his back, William could feel the weight of everything pressing in.
If they break here, they roll us, he thought. If they don't... we live another minute.
He lowered his spear. "All right," he muttered under his breath. "Come on, then."
When the next wave hit, he would not be on the wall. He would be in the line.
Exactly where he'd always pictured himself.
Not as a banner of Light. Not as a saint in a painting.
Just as a knight who did not break.