Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 485: Dance of The Decoys (4)

Lyan’s army surged forward, each file of infantry moving in perfect lock-step cadence so precise that the thud of boots on wet earth sounded like one colossal heartbeat. Fog twisted around their shins, drawn apart by their passage the way surf parts around a prow; every man knew his place in the rhythm, every woman felt the invisible thread that tied spear to shield to the soldier beside her. Above them the River Fort brooded, torch-light staining its battlements the color of old rust. From a distance it might have seemed silent and impregnable, yet Lyan tasted disarray on the air—shallow horn‐calls that faltered mid-note, the unpracticed clash of dropped weapons against stone. The Varzadians were already rattled. They just didn’t know why.

Out on the flank Josephine led thirty riders in a sweeping crescent, her scarlet hair snapping behind her like the banner of some rebellious fire-sprite. She guided her gelding with easy knees, laughing every few strides—a bright, unsettling sound that carried across the river’s sluggish current. As her wedge rounded the east corner of the fort she lifted one torch, whirled it twice overhead, then hurled it into the nearest supply wagon. Oil-soaked canvas whooshed upward in a pillar of gold. The blast of heat felt like the opening gasp of a forge. Behind her, troopers flung their own torches; flames leapt wagon to wagon, licking up the rims of grain carts, exploding pitch kegs in dull, concussive pops. Within heartbeats the enemy rear was a maze of orange corridors, shadows capering wildly while Varzadian teamsters shrieked to cut horses free. Some ran in circles, cloaks ablaze, before stumbling to their knees in the muck. Josephine’s laughter rang higher—less mockery than the wild delight of a gambler who knows the dice are hers tonight.

To the south wall Belle flowed upward like living shade, climbing a grapnel line so thin it looked spun from spidersilk. Her emerald cloak hugged the stones, darkening where fog condensed, yet every movement kept perfect poise: a toe to a mortared seam, a palm to a weather-smoothed sill, the whisper of breath timed to when wind rattled arrow-slits. At the parapet she paused, eyes glinting cat-bright, and counted the pacing guard’s steps—one-two-three, turn. On the fourth step she vaulted, landing behind him as softly as mist alighting on moss. Steel flashed, kissed nape, withdrew. The guard folded without so much as a rattle. Belle caught his falling weight, eased it down, then flashed two fingers into the gloom below: gates clear. Her squad answered with identical gestures, fanning across the wall, silencing targets so quickly the torches seemed to dim in mourning. fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm

On the ridge opposite, Wilhelmina stood beside the lead trebuchet, rain-pearls clinging to the pink braid that fell over her cuirass. She watched the pendulum counterweights climb, lips counting under her breath. When the frame reached proper tension she snapped her hand forward. "First rank, release!" A groan of timber, the hollow clap of the arm striking its stop, and the boulder vanished into the murk. Three heartbeats later a dull, ribs-deep whunk rolled back: outer wall breached. She didn’t allow herself a smile, merely pivoted to the second engine. "Next crew, elevation two degrees higher—ruin their tower roof." Her voice never rose, but men straightened as though a lash cracked. Arrows sang overhead—her ordered flight, loosed in perfect ripple—so dense the sky looked slashed by black rain.

High on the battlements a Varzadian poured a cauldron of burning oil, but Alicia stood below him already weaving. White sigils twined her wrists like frost vines; with a flick of her fingers the stream of fire bent mid-air, splitting around an invisible dome to splash harmlessly in the moat. The soldier leaned forward in disbelief—Xena’s arrow took him through the eye and pinned him to the crenel.

At the center, Lyan raised his glaive, feeling its familiar weight settle his breathing. Each rune in the metal throbbed against his palm like an old friend urging patience. He scanned—left flank good, right flank good—then dropped the blade forward. "Advance!" His infantry surged. The gate, half-open thanks to Belle’s sabotage, groaned wider as a ram team shoved it aside. Lyan darted through the gap like lightning down a conductor.

Inside the courtyard defenders formed a ragged shield wall. Lyan’s awareness narrowed: he marked the spearman with the trembling front foot, the captain whose visor left an inch of jugular exposed, the archer fumbling for a second shaft with shaking fingers. He strode forward, parried a thrust, hooked his blade behind a shield-boss and yanked. The defender staggered; Lyan reversed, butt spike cracking helm. Another swung high—he ducked, slid, felt the hot wind of missed steel, then rose, cleaving upward through chain and sternum. Around him Xena’s arrows found gaps like threading a loom while Ravia danced in his wake, finishing any who dared rise.

Minutes felt like mere breaths. Suddenly there were no standing foes. Only the wet hush of fog and the hiss-pop of burning wagons. Lyan lifted his visor, scanning. Broken crossbows, splintered pikes, the sick-sweet smell of blood on rain-soaked stone: the fort was theirs.

He led his core officers into a hastily cleared storeroom. Smoke from oil lamps mingled with the scent of damp parchment. The scarred oak table, scavenged from the Varzadian mess, already bore a spread of maps. Lyan set gauntlets on either side of the river symbol and exhaled.

Belle entered first, wiping soot from her cheek with the back of a gloved hand. "Scouts are ash," she reported, satisfaction warm in her voice. "No bird, no runner left the walls."

Wilhelmina traced the southern ridges with a charcoal stylus. "William pushes up the valley today," she said, using the prince’s field name. "That gives us twelve hours before Varzadia’s main host can pivot. But they’ll march hard the moment they realize the River Fort is silent." She tapped the eastern forest. "They’ll hit here, trying to wedge between us and the capital."

Josephine lounged against a crate of captured quarrels, helmet tucked under one arm. "A hammer poised," she mused, "and our skulls are the anvil if we linger."

Lyan nodded, gaze flinty. "This is the hardest turn. We cracked the door; now they will slam it." He stabbed a finger at a castellated icon near the capital. "Fortress Eboncliff—outer gatehouse to their royal road. If we seize it tonight we force them to split. Leave a shadow garrison there, make them think we’re digging in."

Alicia, pale but steady, whispered, "I can cloak our real numbers. Straw men walk in moonlight, fires burn in empty barracks."

Josephine’s grin sharpened. "My riders will circle, strike at shadows, scream loud enough to wake their dead. Enemy scouts will swear thousands roost inside those walls."

Belle’s emerald eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "We’ll tarp wagons in Eboncliff’s colors on the roads—convince watchers reinforcements arrived already."

Wilhelmina’s stylus flew, drawing two converging arrows: one William’s, one Lyan’s. "We rendezvous here, outside the capital’s east gate. Their command will see threats everywhere and nowhere to muster."

Agreement rippled like fire over oil. Lyan caught the momentum, penned a quick cipher, pressed his hawk-seal into the wax. He flagged a young runner, rested a hand on the lad’s shoulder. "Ride. Swim the river if you must. William moves the instant Eboncliff falls." The runner saluted, eyes bright, then bolted.

Lyan turned to the narrow arrow-slit. Outside, smoke curled from the ruined tower tops, dissolving into starless sky. The air smelled of victory—copper, ash, wet pine—but also of unfinished tasks. He felt the tug of those remaining miles like hooks in his ribs.

"Let’s finish this swiftly and return to Grafen," he said quietly.

The women exchanged firm nods, boots already pivoting toward their duties, but that single shared glance carried volumes—trust, ferocious urgency, the unspoken vow that none of them would let the others down.

The Astellian camp exploded into purposeful motion. Lanterns swung from hastily-strung guide ropes, their amber throats bobbing above a maze of canvas and mud; each pool of light revealed a vignette of organized frenzy. Quartermasters shouted numbers over the clatter of crates, trying to keep inventories straight while teamsters unhitched exhausted horses and led them to fresh pails of oat mash. Sparks leapt where armorers hammered dented breastplates back into shape, the ring of iron oddly musical beneath the low boom-boom of distant trebuchets still dismantling themselves ring by ring.

Wilhelmina strode straight into the thick of it, braid tossed across her back like a commander’s baton. Rain-glossed firelight gilded the seams of her cuirass as she pointed to a stack of captured serpent shields. "Stuff those with straw, lash them along the battlements at three-pace intervals," she ordered, voice slicing through the din without needing to shout. A corporal blinked, unsure, and she tapped the edge of her riding slate against his pauldron—firm, not unkind. "Our ghosts need armor that gleams. Polish first, dirt later." The man snapped to, barking for rags and grease.

Nearby, two infantrymen tried stuffing a tunic with hay only for the shoulders to sag like wilted cabbages. Wilhelmina knelt in the muck—didn’t care that water seeped into the leather seams of her boots—and showed them how to twist rope through the armpits, binding the straw tight so the dummy stood proud. "Point the chin up," she murmured, fingers pressing an invisible jawline. "A sentry who slouches invites arrows." When she rose, mud streaked the knees of her trousers, but the straw soldier looked ready to salute.

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