Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 480: The Fog of Deception (4)

Above them, hidden in the black-leafed canopy, Astellian bowstrings thrummed a second time. Xena’s arrow sang past her cheek; the feather tickled skin, but she’d long ago stopped blinking at that near-kiss. She tracked a lieutenant barking orders and released. The shaft vanished into the mist—half a breath later, the lieutenant jerked back as the arrow buried in his open mouth, his cry silenced. Xena’s lips tightened in grim satisfaction, though her eyes stayed cold, already measuring the next target.

Ravia used the distraction with surgical precision. She burst from the treeline, boots splashing through shallow mud. Her sword flashed—a quick, silver crescent under the gray light—and she hamstrung the first Varzadian she met. He collapsed with a howl; before the sound finished, her blade punched clean through another man’s ribs. She pivoted, cloak swirling, and brought the edge up beneath a visor, splitting the scout’s windpipe in a bright arc of red. Fog sucked the spray away instantly, as if hungry.

(Beautiful economy,) Cynthia murmured, her calm voice like a cool hand on Lyan’s shoulder even though he still waited, half crouched behind a fallen cedar. (Every motion earns its keep.)

Griselda crackled in agreement. (But storms crave thunder. Let us taste it.)

"Soon," Lyan muttered, though the word was almost swallowed by the chaos swelling ahead. He could feel his men vibrating with restrained fury behind him—an arrow unit to his left, spear wall to his right, cavalry horses snorting further back, restless at the scent of blood.

Josephine’s laughter rang out, bright as broken glass. She rode straight into a knot of Varzadian officers who were frantically trying to re-form ranks. Her curved dagger flicked left—disemboweling a sergeant—then sliced right to hamstring the bannerman. His banner toppled into the mud, its serpent standard half-submerged. "Good morning, gentlemen," she cooed, voice sugary. "Breakfast in bed?" One officer, white-faced, managed to raise his sword; Josephine leaned aside, letting the blade skim her cloak, and kissed him on the cheek before slitting his throat. Hot blood misted her freckles; she licked a droplet from her lip, savoring the metallic tang. "Delicious."

Belle rode close behind, emerald cloak snapping. She did not waste flourishes—her rapier darted in like a tailor’s needle, piercing gaps at elbow and armpit. Each thrust ended an order before it began. She spied the wax-sealed false orders still stuffed in the dying captain’s belt pouch and snagged them with two fingers, slipping them into her own saddlebag without slowing. Her eyes scanned for any Varzadian who still looked capable of rallying: there—a grizzled centurion dragging men into a huddle. Belle’s heel nudged her mount; she made straight for him, mouth set.

Down the line, Wilhelmina kept her voice measured, but her eyes blazed. "Second rank—advance three paces. Shield wall, tighten! Archers, adjust five degrees; compensate for the cross-wind." She saw the way mist curled leftward where valley currents tugged, and she recalculated arrow drop on the fly. A runner dashed up, wild-eyed, reporting that a flank was thinning. Wilhelmina pointed with her stylus. "Reserves to the birch stand. Use the rise as cover—go." The runner sprinted, steadied by her unflurried tone.

Suddenly the Varzadian captain spurred his horse through the swirling fog, bellowing for a counter-charge. He’d shaken off shock, and a handful of veterans rallied around him, shields locking. Their disciplined wedge punched into Wilhelmina’s spear line, driving two men back. For a moment it looked as if they might carve an escape path.

Ravia saw the breach. She flicked two fingers skyward—signal to Xena—then ran, boots splattering, to intercept. The captain’s warhorse barreled toward her. She dropped low, sliding beneath the beast’s neck, blade flashing to sever the girth strap. Saddle and rider toppled; the horse veered off. Ravia rolled to her feet just in time for Xena’s arrow to thud into the captain’s exposed thigh. He screamed, faltering. Ravia’s sword punched through his helm visor, silencing him forever.

The wedge faltered—and Josephine arrived like a red-haired storm, laughing as she reefed one man backward by his gorget. Spears surged forward to close the gap, their wood shafts slamming in unison, and the Varzadian veterans broke under the renewed press.

That was Lyan’s cue. "Forward," he breathed, but his company felt it as thunder. He rose, glaive spinning up in a tight flourish to clear damp soil from the blade. Under his command, the hidden main force burst from cover with a roar that shook droplets from leaves. Lilith purred with delight; Griselda howled for blood. Lyan’s soldiers streamed past him, but he advanced at measured pace, each stride deliberate.

A Varzadian footman swung wildly—panic behind the blow. Lyan parried with the shaft, slid forward, and used the butt spike to crack the man’s knee. As the soldier crumpled, Lyan pivoted, cutting a crescent that opened a second attacker from hip to shoulder. He felt hot spray across his gauntlet—heat oddly comforting in the clammy air. (Swift. Steady,) Cynthia approved.

He heard Wilhelmina questioning status behind him. "Left flank?"

"Secure!" came the reply.

"Right?"

"Pushing them toward the creek!"

Lyan trusted her to weave the battle’s fabric; his task was the seam rip that would unravel enemy will. He sighted a Varzadian trumpeter fumbling for his horn—trying to sound retreat, perhaps. Lyan flicked his glaive; the blade sailed free, spinning end over end in a blur, and cleaved through the trumpeter’s throat before embedding in a tree trunk yards beyond. The fallen horn rattled in the mud. Lyan strode forward, yanked the weapon free, felt the wood hum beneath fingers. (Nice throw,) Lilith crooned.

Near the center, Varzadians attempted a desperate rally, clustering shields. Belle saw them and wheeled her mount alongside Josephine. "Combine," she called. Josephine nodded; together they guided scattered Astellian cavalry into a hammer. When they crashed into the rallying knot, Belle’s rapier stabbed over Josephine’s shoulder while Josephine’s dagger sliced under Belle’s elbow—an elegant two-woman engine of death.

Somewhere to the rear, a Varzadian banner bearer broke and ran, the serpent pennant whipping as he fled. Xena tracked him through branches. Normally she reserved arrows, but a fleeing standard would breed rumors of rout more surely than any survivor’s tale. She exhaled, loosed. The arrow pierced banner cloth and spine at once; man and flag pitched forward, embedding in wet loam. The serpent lay face-down, colors dim.

Panic now rolled like a contagious fever. Soldiers hurled shields, sprinted into trees. Spearmen in Wilhelmina’s second reserve advanced but did not pursue beyond formation; discipline chained them. Ravia darted after one squad of fugitives until she reached the kill perimeter she and Lyan had agreed on; there she halted, merely shepherding them into escape lanes. "Run," she hissed, letting one see the grave smile on her lips. Terror widened his eyes further and he fled.

Josephine wiped her blade on a fallen officer’s cloak, then noticed the man still faintly breathing. She crouched, pressing two fingers to his neck. "Shh," she cooed, as though soothing a child, and slid steel beneath his chin. He gurgled once, stilling. Josephine stood, squared her shoulders, and flashed Belle a grim wink. The stage was almost done.

Fog thinned at last, shredded by currents of warm midday air. Sunlight speared through, catching motes of crimson. The battlefield came into stark relief: bodies strewn like cast dice, shields splintered, arrows bristling from tree trunks. Crows, bold already, flitted from carcass to carcass.

Lyan raised his arm. A lieutenant sprinted to him, horn clutched. "Sound cease." The horn blast rolled deep, echoing off stone ridges. Astellian spear points lowered; archers eased bowstrings, sighing as tension drained from backs and shoulders.

"Let them run," Lyan called, voice carrying across the sudden hush. "Fear will ride faster than we ever could."

A few Astellian soldiers muttered disappointment but obeyed. The surviving Varzadians—fifty, perhaps fewer—tore away into underbrush, armor rattling discordantly. Each footfall was another seed of dread headed back to their commanders.

Wilhelmina strode up, wiping blood-flecks from her cheek with a linen square already half-crimson. "Seven hundred down by count," she reported, voice brisk though a tremor hid beneath. "No serious breaches on our side. Minimal casualties."

"Good assessment," Lyan said, eyes scanning treeline. He wiped his glaive with a swatch of moss until the steel gleamed again. The weight of it grounded him, kept memories of past battles from clawing too hard.

Josephine arrived, Belle at her shoulder. Belle opened her saddlebag, producing the false orders now spattered with real blood. "Retrieved without suspicion," she said. "No one alive saw me take them back."

Josephine chuckled darkly. "A perfect loop of lies."

Alicia jogged up, silver threads still faint in her pupils. "Scout traces moving southwest at speed. They’ll reach their field camp before sundown."

Lyan nodded, then drew a fresh parchment sealed with blue wax—his letter to Prince Erich. The seal bore a hawk clutching a serpent. He passed it to Belle. "Your fastest rider. Tell Erich the vanguard is ashes. His road is open."

Belle saluted, eyes bright. She turned, whistled for a courier, and thrust the letter into the rider’s gauntlet. Hoofbeats faded down the slope.

Lyan faced his troops. Mud, blood, fog—yet their eyes shone. "Form ranks,"

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