Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 484: Dance of the Decoys (3)

The low horn rolled across the valley in a single quavering note that rattled every rib-cage in the Astellian line. Lyan felt the vibration travel through his war-horse’s withers and up his own spine; for an instant the sound seemed to throb inside his skull, like a heartbeat that wasn’t his. On the battlements distant silhouettes shifted—pale smudges against darker stone—then resolved into defenders scurrying to firing positions. Lanterns flared all along the rampart, orange pinpricks blinking alive one after another, the serpent banners beside them jerking in startled gusts of torch-lit wind.

He caught the moment a Varzadian lieutenant leaned out between crenellations to stare into the fog, jaw slack with dawning horror. A heartbeat later Wilhelmina’s cry cut the chilled air as cleanly as any blade: "Trebuchets—ready!"

Crew chiefs answered with clipped affirmatives. Great wooden frames groaned, counterweights clacking like giant bones as winches released. Lyan inhaled the resin-and-hemp scent of fresh-wound ropes, the faint sour tang of pitch on the payload stones. The first arm snapped forward; the throwing sling whipped through white gloom and vanished. A full second passed—then a resonant booom echoed back as masonry shattered somewhere behind the curtain of mist. A puff of darker dust geysered up and drifted over the wall’s edge. Muffled screams followed, thin and tinny, as though the fog itself choked them.

More arms swung, staggered but relentless, each release marked by the deep thunk of oak striking its limit pin. Boulders arced unseen; the fort shuddered under successive impacts, stones pulverizing battlement merlons, timber hoardings splintering like kindling. Chips of rock pattered across rooftops inside, an obscene hail.

"Archers—first and second rank—loose!" Wilhelmina’s second order chased the first before echoes died. She stood on a slight rise, arm extended, pink braid snapping like a pennon. The archers obeyed in flawless cadence: the thrum of two hundred bowstrings snapped the hush, followed by the hiss of flights slicing damp air. The arrows disappeared into the murk—then pocked the ramparts in a staccato hiss, followed by guttural cries. Lyan pictured shafts punching through cloak and mail, punching through skin, pinning men to the very stones they swore to protect.

He lifted his hand, palm flat. "Advance in waves. Pressure them." His voice carried steady, but his pulse hammered. Behind him the second infantry surge jogged forward, shields overlapping, boots splashing through shallow standing pools left by overnight rain. Fog clung to their greaves like clutching fingers until body heat broke it apart.

Josephine’s wedge broke from the treeline with a cheer that was half laughter, half war cry. Her riders burst through the side gullies where nobody expected cavalry, spears leveled, banner tails streaming so fast they cracked. They barreled straight into the supply corral behind the fort’s west tower. Stable hands raised fists in confusion; wagon drivers froze mid-yoke. By the time comprehension registered, Josephine’s front rank had already thrust torches into straw bales stacked along the fence line. Oil casks—placed for lantern refills—caught next. Red-gold flame whooshed up the wagon canvas and raced along grease-soaked timbers. Smoke billowed, thick and black, rolling low under the fog roof until it turned the whole rear courtyard into a choking blindfold.

Belle’s climbing team crested the parapet in that same moment. She swung her light grapnel clear, letting the hook clatter harmlessly outside, then flipped over the stone lip in one fluid move. Her rapier tip rested against a stunned archer’s throat before the man could pivot. "Shhh," she breathed, pressing just hard enough to draw a bead of blood. He swallowed. She twisted her wrist; the blade flicked once—quick, bloodless from where Lyan watched—yet the archer folded anyway, throat slit so neatly his scream never found breath. Belle’s gauntleted hand snapped twice, signal fireflies. A scout behind her raised a hooded torch and swept it in a slow arc—three beats wide, then doused. Down on the slope, Lyan saw the flare through mist and bared his teeth in approval.

"Walls are ours!" she called, voice marginally louder than a conversational murmur, but the acoustics of fog carried it down to the waiting ranks.

Wilhelmina caught the message. "Push forward! Take the gate!" She pivoted to the siege crews now man-handling a covered ram toward the barbican. "Shields up! Runners with sand—move!"

The ram team surged, iron-shod feet digging. Alicia was already beside them, silver threads swirling from her fingertips into the ram’s linen cover. Each strand hardened into a shimmer just an instant before a quarrel thunked into the cloth and bounced away, point dulled. Every breath she took fogged white; sweat beaded her lip from concentration, but she pressed onward, voice lilting arcane cadences. Somewhere above, a Varzadian gunner shouted for oil. Alicia traced a final glyph overhead; droplets of burning pitch flattened against an invisible plane, then dribbled harmlessly to hiss out on wet stone.

Lyan spurred ahead, spearhead of the infantry tide. His glaive met the first defender on the narrow outer stair. A short shock, the vibration humming through oak shaft as steel bit steel, then bone. He pivoted, elbow tight, letting momentum wrench the blade clear. Blood misted—not a spray, just a crimson fan that vanished instantly in the white swirl. He stepped over the corpse before it finished sliding, eyes already on the next target.

The next man came on with a billhook, desperate. Lyan recognized panic in the wide whites of his eyes. He feinted high, let the billhook overcommit, then reversed the glaive hook behind the man’s knee and yanked. The Varzadian hit the stair stone; Lyan’s boot struck his helm downward, and a sharp crack told of skull meeting edge. All executed in two blinks.

Griselda pulsed hot delight through his veins. (Faster! Make the wind your drum!)

But Cynthia whispered calm. (Measure every stroke. Wasted motion is wasted life.)

He heeded both. His glaive danced, sometimes heavy like a woodsman’s axe splitting stump, sometimes light as reed swishing through meadow grass. Whenever a defender rallied, Lyan’s sweep carved space, and the Astellian shields closed up to lock footholds.

Behind, Josephine’s fires roared higher. Tarps collapsed inward, spraying sparks that whirled like drunken fireflies. Within minutes three supply wagons were towering torches, the heat punching holes in low fog so red light bled across the courtyard stones. Horses in the enemy stables screamed and kicked; tackboys wrestled to free them but retreated when Josephine’s riders wheeled back, sabers flicking. She laughed—a sound vibrant and shocking amidst the screams—then led her unit deeper, out of sight. New plumes of smoke spooled skyward a moment later, proof they’d found more stores.

On the wall Belle’s scouts fanned left and right, taking the crenels like stepping-stones. A defender lunged from a doorway brandishing a pike. Belle parried, wrist rolling so her guard slid up under his chin. She kicked his knee; cartilage popped. As he dropped, her rapier point drove through the soft palate. She wiped the blade on his cloak and advanced without breaking gait. Her left hand rose, flashing a small mirror toward Lyan’s position—code for "west tower secured."

Closer to the gatehouse, Wilhelmina arrived with the ram team. The great oaken beam slammed the first time—thud echoing in the throat of the fog. Iron bands clanged off the portcullis grid, rattling teeth of rust. She counted beats between impacts, adjusting angle by centimeters, calling for rhythm like a conductor. Blood streaked her cheekbone—someone else’s—yet her expression was as cool and precise as always. "Two more strikes," she muttered. "Then chain supports. Watch the murder holes!"

Above, sludge of sand and debris cascaded—but Alicia raised a palm, murmured, and the falling mass sluiced sideways, sparing the crew. A loader blinked in astonishment, then set his shoulder harder to the ram.

Lyan gained the upper courtyard. Here the defenders wavered, numbers thinning as arrows cut them from behind courtesy of Xena, who had climbed after Belle and now used a parapet as personal firing gallery. Every time a sergeant tried to rally, an arrow appeared at his collar, or thigh, or eye socket. Ravia ascended beside her, swordwork dispatching those who survived Xena’s strikes. Together they advanced like knitting needles closing a seam.

Belle’s torch signal flicked again—different pattern: interior gears visible in west tower. Lyan understood: the gate windlass accessible from captured side. He barked to a nearby archer squad leader. They sprinted to reinforce Belle while she cranked the counter-lever. A grating rumble began as iron chains unwound. fгeewebnovёl.com

Defenders felt the tremor. One officer—rank shown by silver piping—shouted, rallying a dozen around him. Lyan intercepted. The officer swung a longsword in textbook form, overhand descending cut—beautiful, practiced. Lyan admired in a flash of detached respect, then stepped inside, let the sword skim his pauldron, and drove the glaive blade straight through gorget and clavicle. The steel grated against mail links, then bone. He ripped free sideways, blood sluicing off the curve. The officer sagged, shock dilating pupils.

Lyan’s voice rang across the courtyard, cutting through flame roar and steel clash. "No survivors!" The words hung, harsh and crystalline. "None must speak of our strength until we are at their heart."

The phrase spread on soldier lips, a litany of ruthless necessity. Those Varzadians still standing glanced toward escape only to meet an Astellian spearpoint. Panic bloomed, wild and contagious; organized ranks dissolved into stumbling shapes desperate for any gap. Fires crackled louder, reflecting in their terrified eyes. Somewhere a temple bell inside the fort began to toll—but the clear peal only underlined chaos, rung by hands that no longer believed salvation would come.

Lyan’s glaive swept wide, cleaving a Varzadian officer who tried to rally his men. Panic spread like wildfire. "No survivors!" Lyan commanded, voice cutting the chaos. "None must speak of our strength until we are at their heart."

The phrase spread on soldier lips, a litany of ruthless necessity. Those Varzadians still standing glanced toward escape only to meet an Astellian spearpoint. Panic bloomed, wild and contagious; organized ranks dissolved into stumbling shapes desperate for any gap. Fires crackled louder, reflecting in their terrified eyes. Somewhere a temple bell inside the fort began to toll—but the clear peal only underlined chaos, rung by hands that no longer believed salvation would come.

Follow current novels on (f)reew𝒆bnovel