Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 483: Dance of the Decoys (2)

Lyan inhaled, tasting pine resin and the metallic edge of imminent violence. He felt Wilhelmina straighten, Alicia’s magic shiver at his back, Josephine’s cavalry gather like wound springs.

His knuckles whitened on the glaive. "Engage. No pursuit," Lyan ordered, his tone sharp.

Xena’s arrow sang, a high, keening note that cut through the hush like a violin string snapping. Even before the shaft found its mark, Lyan saw the way her shoulders dipped to ride out the recoil and how the bow-limbs quivered like startled birds. The first scout barely had time to widen his eyes; the arrow punched through the hollow beneath his jaw and lodged in the pine trunk behind him with a dull thuck. A wet hiss escaped his lips as he crumpled into the underbrush.

Xena did not pause to savor the shot. Her gloved fingers dipped, notched, drew. The string kissed the corner of her mouth a second time, and again the hiss of fletching sliced the mist. The follow-up scout, a wiry fellow trying to raise his horn, jerked as the broadhead slammed into the hinge of his shoulder and spine. He toppled backward, horn clattering on stone before rolling into shadow.

(Sharp as the moon’s own fang,) Lilith whispered approvingly. Even Griselda, who favored the roar of axes over the whisper of arrows, crackled a grudging spark of respect.

Ravia moved at that instant—no battle cry, just the crunch of grit beneath her boots as she exploded from cover. One heartbeat she was a statue at the column’s flank, the next a blur of leather, steel, and raven-black braid. Her curved blade flashed once, twice; mist splashed crimson where metal parted mail. The third scout managed a strangled shout that ended mid-syllable as her pommel cracked his larynx. His eyes filmed over in astonishment before he folded silently.

A fourth enemy lurched forward with a desperate backswing of a hunting mace. Ravia ducked inside the arc, shoulders rolling like water over stone, and plunged her sword into the man’s gut so deep the tip rang against backbone. She wrenched free without slowing, dark blade leaving a ribbon of steam in the cold air. Two breaths, four bodies—Ravia’s brutal arithmetic of war.

Josephine’s laughter sailed above the wet crunch of bodies meeting earth—bright, reckless, intoxicating. She pressed her heels; her gray gelding surged between trees, hooves flinging moss. A stunned scout spun to face the thunder of its charge—too late. Josephine stood in the stirrups, red hair whipping, eyes alight. Her knife—polished bone hilt, wicked inward curve—slid under the man’s ribs like a lover’s secret, up behind sternum, severing lungs from breath. She rode him down, wrenching the blade free as he collapsed in a wheeze. "You looked lost," she called over her shoulder, voice honeyed with mock sympathy.

Belle, ever the phantom, had peeled wide to the right. Where the pine trunks thinned, she burst through like green flame, mount dancing sideways to cut off the last scout as he bolted. Her rapier flashed—a silver thread drawn through fog. She did not hack; she stitched. One thrust found the gap above the man’s collar, another parted the artery at his thigh as he turned. He staggered, hand flailing for purchase; Belle whispered something he never heard and slid past, cloak snapping. He collapsed into ferns, leaving only the hush of settling fronds behind. freewebnøvel.coɱ

Only one Varzadian lived, panic lending strength to stumble deeper into the veil of mist. A spear in Josephine’s line dipped to a throwing angle, but Wilhelmina lifted a curt hand—let him go. The trembling figure vanished, footfalls crashing in brittle underbrush, every splash of mud a drumbeat of their looming reputation.

Wilhelmina reined up beside Lyan, breath a soft plume. "A message sent by fear," she said, wiping spatter from her cheek with the edge of her cloak. "They will report us, but with panic in their voices."

Lyan’s lip tugged into a near smile. It never reached his eyes. "Let them believe we are fewer than we are." The spirits hummed in agreement; even measured Cynthia allowed a note of satisfaction.

Around them, the column tightened and resumed motion. Xena lowered her bow, rolling her shoulders to ease tension. "Two arrows recovered," she murmured, collecting the shaft from the first kill. "The third stays—too deep." Ravia wiped her blade on the edge of a dead man’s cloak, eyes scanning for more threats.

Mist thickened as they advanced, creeping like rising tide. The forest path narrowed into steep switchbacks, rocks jutting like broken teeth; hooves clacked and slid, forcing riders to lean forward. Frost sparkled on every root. Lyan raised his voice just enough to carry: "Maintain formation. Keep your blades clean."

Behind him, soldiers sheathed weapons only after a quick swipe across cloak corners. Blood steamed where it touched steel, sweet metallic scent mingling with pine resin.

Wilhelmina adjusted her hood, eyes blue as glacier water scanning the slopes. "Varzadian eyes are never far. Watch for the shadow of an arrow." She signaled two runners, sending them along opposite flanks to remind footmen of spacing and silence.

Belle’s point scouts became little more than silhouettes flitting between granite outcrops. One broke off, whispering in her ear. She pivoted and fell back to Lyan’s side, cloak swirling damply around her calves. "Fork ahead. Right leads to the valley floor—quicker, but boxed by cliffs. Left climbs to the ridge."

"Left. We use the high ground," Lyan decided instantly. His internal map rearranged: higher altitude, colder air, less cover for enemy siege pieces. "They expect us to push the valley." He glanced at Wilhelmina; she nodded, shifting the tiny iron markers on her riding-slate—archers here, engines here.

Josephine’s voice drifted back, infused with impish glee. "High ground means I get a better view. Wonderful." Lyan chose not to imagine which view she valued—terrain, or perhaps the angle down his cloak collar she teased him about around campfires.

Alicia, riding just behind Wilhelmina, closed her eyes and hummed a note low in her throat. Mist coiled toward her, responding. When she opened them again, silver irises glowed faintly. "Illusion ready," she whispered. "We are mist within mist." Thin strands—seen only by those attuned—wove themselves over shields and helms, bending light, softening outlines until the Astellian host appeared half its size to any distant watcher.

The path corkscrewed upward. Trees thinned, replaced by jagged shale outcroppings where mountain wind funneled, sharp and cold enough to bite exposed skin. The sun, still pale, tried to burn away fog but only succeeded in turning it from gray to blinding white. Shadows stretched long and uncertain. Horses snorted, ears twitching at the hollow echo of their own steps.

At last the forest spat them onto the spine of a ridgeline. Below, hidden beneath a blanket of thinning fog, the black masonry of Varzadia’s outer fort revealed itself—walls thirty feet high, towers clutching the skyline like clenched fists. Its banners, serpentine green on sable, hung limp as if the fortress itself exhaled its last courage.

The sight pulled conversation from many throats. Some soldiers whispered prayers, others spat for luck. Lyan felt the weight in his chest shift—anticipation, yes, but also an ache for lives soon to be spent. He inhaled crisp mountain air laced with woodsmoke from unseen hearths within the walls.

He raised his right arm; ranks fanned out with practiced silence. Archers slid into staggered lines behind scrub pines—brown cloaks blending stone and needle. Spearmen began carving shallow trenches with spades, kneeling between thrusts to listen for alarm horns. Cavalry slipped into hollows, greasing axe heads to prevent glint.

Wilhelmina swung from saddle, boots crunching gritty soil. "Engineers," she barked, "south draw! Trebuchets here, here, and here. Anchor the frames in living rock; we won’t have time for a second setup." She strode among them, cloak snapping like an officer’s pennant, correcting rope knots, shifting cauldron tripods six inches to catch the wind just right. Her presence steadied shaky hands; Lyan watched a young crewman straighten under her brief smile.

Alicia stood at the ridge edge, arms raised like a conductor. Thin silver lines snaked through the fog—hundreds now, interlacing around siege frames, draping over wagon silhouettes until the wood faded into swirling vapor. Sweat pearled at her temple, but her lips moved in steady cadence. "They won’t see our siege weapons until the last moment," she promised.

Belle, harnessed in a narrow climbing rig, scaled a nearly vertical cliff that buttressed the fort’s western tower. Her smaller team followed, each wedge of piton driven soundlessly into cracks. From time to time she paused, fingertips brushing stone, seeking seams in the mortar invisible from below. She marked them with chalk—weak points for future firepots.

Down among the infantry, Lyan rode the lines, voice calm but fierce. "Signal when ready," he told lieutenants, "our shadows will become a storm." With every repetition the phrase gained weight until spearmen whispered it like catechism.

Josephine gathered her light cavalry—less than four dozen riders, yet all veterans. She leaned low from her saddle, voice velvet but edged. "Strike their supply wagons," she told them. "Burn them. Let their panic be our signal."

Cavalrymen grinned, eyes bright behind helmet slits. Leather harness creaked as they tightened girths, damp breath turning to white plumes in the cold air. One rider—an older woman with a notch missing from her lip—twirled an oil grenade, then kissed its clay body as if it were a lover. The unit fanned into wedge formation, poised on a narrow sheep trail that corkscrewed down toward the fort’s rear camp.

The ground shivered under distant footsteps—Varzadian patrols circling behind walls, oblivious. Lyan’s spirits fell silent, as if holding collective breath.

Josephine whispered commands to the light cavalry. "Strike their supply wagons. Burn them. Let their panic be our signal."

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