A Hard Reckoning: The System Integration Chronicles Book 3, page 34
Morris was already thinking ahead—I could see it in how his eyes moved. "We'll need suppressing fire during the approach. My archers and mages can force the orcs to keep their heads down, make it harder for them to target the ram crew."
"The ladders," Henrik said. "We've got six, maybe? Use them as diversions. Two or three teams hitting different points on the walls while the ram takes the gate. Make them split their attention."
"Rangers can lead those," Morris said. "They're climbers."
Silva grunted. "Three teams, six to nine fighters each. Enough to look like a real threat."
My brain was racing, trying to track all the pieces. This wasn't perfect—nothing about assaulting a fortified position was going to be perfect—but it was actual tactics instead of just throwing people at walls and hoping.
"Silva," I said, probably interrupting something important but whatever. "You'll need more than just Rangers for the ladder teams. Columbia's melee fighters—Emily, Jayden, the others—they can climb. You want them?"
Silva looked at me for a second, then nodded. "Yeah. Good blades for when we get to the top. Send them to me when we start organizing."
"My cavalry," Ashford said, still figuring out where his people fit. "Once the gate's breached—once it's open—we can exploit. Mounted pursuit, prevent them from reinforcing or falling back."
Henrik looked at him, and for the first time since we'd stopped, I saw something like approval. "Hold in reserve. When that gate comes down, you pour through. That's when cavalry matters."
"So we're agreed?" Morris looked at each commander in turn. "Main effort is the ram—Iron Guard and Croft Guard under testudo. My people provide fire support and lead ladder teams as diversions. Rockwall cavalry exploits the breach."
"How long until we can execute?" Henrik asked.
Silva was already scanning the treeline. "Hour to build the ram, get the ladders forward. Thirty minutes to position forces. Call it ninety minutes."
"Daylight?" Ashford asked.
I checked the sun—past its peak, heading toward evening. "Three, maybe four hours of good light."
Morris looked at each commander again. "Any objections? Last chance."
Henrik shook his head. "It's a risk. But calculated. Better than ladders alone."
"Agreed," Ashford said.
Morris nodded once, sharp. "Then let's get to work. Henrik, organize your people and coordinate with Ashford on the testudo. I'll handle fire support and ladder teams." He looked at Silva. "Get your Rangers on tree selection."
Silva was already moving before Morris finished.
And just like that, the impossible had become merely incredibly dangerous.
The next hour was controlled chaos. Everyone looked busy and purposeful, but you could feel the tension underneath—like a rubber band getting stretched tighter.
Silva's Rangers found their tree maybe two hundred yards into the woods. Oak, thick enough to matter but not so big they'd need all day. I watched from a distance, axes rising and falling in rhythm. The tree came down with a crack that echoed across the fields, then just the steady chunk-chunk-chunk of stripping branches.
The Iron Guard drilled on the road—not the assault itself, but the formation. Henrik had them locking shields over and over. Fifty men moving like one organism, shields overlapping until you couldn't see gaps.
The Croft Guard joined them after maybe twenty minutes. I held my breath watching how that would go. Mixing two different units mid-operation was the kind of thing that looked good on paper and went to hell in practice.
Except it didn't. Henrik walked them through it once, showed them where they'd slot in, and they just... did it. Disciplined infantry doing what disciplined infantry did.
Ashford was watching too, standing with his baronets. Relief mixed with something that might've been pride. His infantry was holding up their end.
Morris's people spread out along our position—archers checking strings, mages doing whatever mages did to prepare. I saw Lewis with his hands glowing faint blue, running through spell rotations. Brian was organizing healers into positions where they could reach the assault force quickly but stay protected. Healers did nobody any good if they died in the first volley.
Silva found me maybe thirty minutes in. "Your people ready?"
"Which people?"
"Columbia's melee fighters. Ladder teams."
Right. That.
I found Emily first—not hard, she'd positioned herself where she could see me. "We're on ladder teams," I said. "Silva's organizing them. You, Jayden, Hanna, anyone else who can climb and fight."
She didn't hesitate, just nodded and started gathering people. Give her a mission and she executed.
Jayden was less subtle. "Ladder assault? Hell yeah. Finally get to use my sword for something."
"You'll be climbing under fire," I pointed out. "Then melee at the top against however many orcs are waiting."
"Even better." He was already checking his sword, that grin on his face that meant he was either very confident or very stupid. Possibly both.
By the time Silva had his three teams organized, the ram was taking shape—stripped oak trunk, maybe twenty feet long and thick as my torso. They'd left the end blunt, better for smashing through a gate than a point that might stick or splinter.
Emily caught my eye from where she'd gathered with the other ladder climbers—Rangers leading, Columbia and guild people mixed in. I tried to give her something—confidence, reassurance, whatever you're supposed to give someone about to climb a ladder into orcs. Probably just looked constipated.
She smiled slightly. Like she knew exactly what I was thinking.
Henrik had the testudo ready—ninety fighters in formation, shields locked, ram crew in the center. It looked serious. Dangerous, but like they actually knew what they were doing.
Morris caught my eye and gestured me over.
"You're staying back," he said. Not a question.
"I'm a sharpshooter. I can suppress from here better than—"
"You're tactical coordinator," Morris interrupted. "And you're fifteen. You coordinate, you provide supporting fire, and you stay alive to help manage the withdrawal if this goes wrong."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to say I should be up there with Emily and the others. But he was right and we both knew it. My job wasn't proving I was brave—it was making sure someone was thinking clearly when the plan inevitably started breaking.
"Yes sir," I said, and hated how young I sounded.
Morris's expression softened slightly. "Your people are good, Taylor. They'll do their jobs. You do yours."
The sun was maybe two hours from setting when Henrik stepped forward. Everyone else got quiet—even the work on the ram stopped.
"Iron Guard," Henrik said, voice carrying without shouting. "Croft Guard. We're going to walk across two hundred yards of open ground carrying a tree trunk while orcs shoot at us. Then we're going to knock down their gate. Then we're going to clear that fort."
No inspirational speech about glory or honor. Just the facts, delivered flat.
"Form up. Shields ready."
The testudo pulled together. The ram crew lifted their burden—eight of them just to get it off the ground. Ladder teams moved to positions on the flanks.
Morris gave final instructions to his archers. Silva had his Rangers positioned. Ashford's cavalry was mounted and ready, held back where they could see the gate.
My hands found the Sharps without me thinking about it. Heart hammering, that pre-combat adrenaline making everything too sharp and too loud.
Through my scope, I watched the fort. The orcs on the walls were moving now—organizing, preparing. They knew what was coming.
The only question was whether our plan was good enough.
Henrik raised his hand. Held it there for a heartbeat.
Then his hand dropped:
"Advance."
The shields began to move.
* * *
"Advance."
Henrik said it like he was ordering coffee, not marching ninety people into the teeth of orc archers. That metallic rattle when shields locked together made something in my chest tighten—not because it was loud, but because it meant we were really doing this.
My scope found the fort one more time. You know that desperate hope where you keep checking the same thing, thinking maybe reality changed while you weren't looking? Yeah. Same eight-foot stone walls. Same two hundred yards of nothing between the testudo and those walls. Same orcs on the ramparts who weren't even bothering to look worried.
They weren't rushing to positions. Weren't shouting orders or scrambling to prepare. Just watching. Waiting. Like they'd done this before and knew exactly how it would go.
My stomach tried to crawl up behind my lungs.
The testudo started moving.
God, they looked serious. A wall of shields locked tight, moving as one piece. Maybe eight shields across—narrow enough for the road—and maybe a dozen ranks deep. Long enough to hide that twenty-foot ram somewhere in the middle. The whole thing moved with mechanical precision you only get from drilling the same movement over and over.
In any other situation, ninety fighters like that would be overwhelming force.
But none of that mattered when you were walking across open ground toward fortified positions.
Morris's suppression team started down the road behind the testudo—maybe forty fighters in loose formation. Guild archers and crossbowmen, mages, my Columbia people with bows. Kyle and Isaiah were in that group.
I followed behind on foot, Sharps in hand. Staying mobile.
The testudo hit three hundred yards. Still moving steady.
At two-fifty, Morris called out: "Suppression team, take positions!"
I kept moving until I was about two hundred yards from the fort. Found a spot with decent cover—just enough of a rise to give me a good angle without making myself a target. Perfect range for the Sharps.
Morris's people peeled off into the drainage ditches along both sides of the road—closer than me, maybe one-fifty yards out. Natural cover, good angles on the walls.
Morris raised his hand. Held it. Watching the testudo continue its advance.
At two hundred yards, his hand dropped. "Mark! Begin suppression!"
The first volley went up—maybe thirty arrows plus a few crackling mage bolts. They arced high, coming down on the walls in a scattered pattern. Some forced defenders to duck. Most didn't.
Not enough. Not nearly enough.
Through my scope, I watched an orc take an arrow in the shoulder. He jerked back, disappeared behind the wall for maybe three seconds, then reappeared with golden light fading from where the wound had been. They had healers too. Of course they had healers.
I brought the Sharps up, settling the stock against my shoulder. Two hundred yards. Easy range with mana enhancement. I pushed thirty mana into the loaded cartridge—more than usual, but I wanted to make sure. The brass grew warm against my fingers.
An orc was leaning over the wall, shouting orders to defenders below. That was a problem.
Crosshairs on his chest. Half-exhale. Squeeze.
The Sharps boomed. Through the scope I watched his chest explode—the mana-enhanced round punching through armor like it wasn't there. He toppled backward off the platform.
Left hand came up automatically, catching the ejected brass. Old habit. Pocketed it, pulled a fresh cartridge from my trouser pocket, reloaded. The round slid into the breech smooth, action closing with a solid click.
Another orc was already taking his place.
Fuck.
The testudo was at one-seventy-five now, and the arrow fire was getting serious. Not ranging shots anymore. I watched shields sprout arrows like deadly flowers—two, three, four shafts per shield. The weight had to be dragging arms down.
"Ladder teams, prepare to move!" Silva's voice carried from somewhere in the formation.
My scope found Emily automatically. She was with the right-side ladder team, rapier already drawn, that look on her face that meant she was in combat mode. Nine fighters total in her group—Silva leading, Emily right behind him, Jayden next to her with that grin on his face, Hanna and five others.
Don't be a hero, I thought at her. Please don't be a hero.
Like that ever worked.
The testudo hit one-fifty yards.
I could see the ram crew now through gaps in the formation—eight men in the center, carrying that stripped oak trunk. Their movement was strained, careful. Twenty feet of solid wood, thick as my torso, and they had to haul it one-fifty more yards under fire without dropping it.
One man stumbled. The formation rippled—just for a second—before discipline kicked in and they closed the gap.
"Continuous fire!" Morris called. "Keep their heads down!"
More arrows. More mage bolts—fireballs now, small ones, splashing against the walls. One caught an orc in the throat. He went down hard.
But there were so many defenders. Every time I tried to count through my scope, more appeared. A hundred on the walls I could see, easy. Probably twice that inside—and that was just what I could see. At two hundred yards, my command abilities gave me nothing. No threat markers, no position data. Just me squinting through glass like it was the damn Middle Ages.
We were trying to suppress all of that with forty archers.
One-twenty-five yards.
The arrow fire intensified. Constant now. A storm of shafts coming down on those shields. I watched one man in the third rank take an arrow in the thigh. He went down to one knee, face twisted. The man behind him grabbed his collar and hauled him backward out of formation without ever dropping his own shield.
More golden light. More healers racing forward. They'd save him if they could reach him fast enough.
But how many more?
I forced myself to reload. Eject brass, pocket it, grab fresh cartridge, load, close action. Scope back up.
There. Defender with what looked like a horn. Command and control. Crosshairs. Drop him before he could blow it.
One hundred yards.
First serious casualty—an Iron Guard fighter in the front rank took an arrow through the eye slit. Just perfect, horrible luck. The kind of shot that shouldn't happen but does. He dropped. The man behind him stepped over his body without breaking stride, shield coming up to fill the gap.
Golden light flared from somewhere behind the formation—healers moving forward. But you can't heal dead.
More arrows. More shields sprouting shafts. The formation was taking damage but holding through pure discipline.
My scope swept the walls. Rocks and debris stacked at the wall's edge. Defenders clustering at the gate and at the points where our ladders would hit.
They knew exactly where we were coming.
Of course they did. We'd spent ninety minutes building a ram and ladders in plain sight.
Seventy-five yards.
The testudo was in the kill zone now. That last stretch where the defenders could pour everything they had into the packed formation.
Arrows came down like rain. The sound of them hitting shields was like hail on a metal roof. I watched men stumbling, arrows finding gaps in armor, in shields, in the overlapping formation that was supposed to protect them.
A man in the ram crew took an arrow in the neck. He dropped the oak trunk. The man next to him grabbed it before it could hit the ground—pure reflex—but now seven men were carrying what eight could barely manage.
The formation wavered.
"Steady!" Henrik's voice cut through everything. "Stay tight! Don't drop that ram!"
They steadied. Because that's what they did—followed orders even when it meant walking into hell.
"Silva's team, break right!" Henrik again. "Second team, break left! Third team, center support!"
The ladder teams sprinted.
Silva's team hit solid ground and ran—nine fighters carrying two ladders, moving fast toward the right wall section. Emily and Jayden were right behind Silva, weapons already out. The defenders noticed immediately, arrows tracking them, but the angle was wrong and most went wide.
Silva reached the wall first. Slammed the ladder against stone. Started climbing before it even settled.
Emily was right behind him. Jayden took the second ladder, grin still on his face even under fire.
My scope tracked Emily up the ladder and I knew I should be watching the whole battle but I couldn't look away. She cleared the top, rapier already moving, that efficient motion that meant someone was about to have a very bad day.
She was on the wall. Actually on the wall. Fighting. Jayden topped his ladder a second later, big sword already swinging.
The second team hit the left wall with their ladders. Rangers leading, guild fighters following. They started climbing under heavy fire.
The third team moved to support the ram approach—shorter ladder, different angle, forcing the defenders to split attention.
Fifty yards.
The testudo was committed now. No turning back. That last fifty yards where everything either worked or fell apart.
Through my scope I could see the gate. Heavy wood reinforced with iron bands. The defenders had cleared the area around it—no cover, just open ground with nowhere to hide.
"Suppression teams, increase rate of fire!" Morris's voice. "All mages, target the gate defenses!"
More arrows. More mage fire. A fireball hit a cluster of defenders—explosion of force that scattered them across the ramparts. Orcs screaming, scrambling away.
Good. That bought us maybe ten seconds.
Silva's team was fighting on the walls now. Silva's bladework—economical, precise, each strike ending someone. Emily beside him, rapier finding gaps in armor. Jayden's big sword doing what it did best. They'd cleared maybe ten feet of rampart.
Ten feet. With the whole rest of the wall still crawling with defenders.
But they'd done it. They were actually up there.
The testudo hit thirty yards.
Henrik was at the front now—full plate, that heavy sword he carried, positioning himself for the final push.
This might actually work.
