Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 501: The Siege Begins (3)

"That arch!" she barked. "Clear ten paces either side—we ride through!"

Tara and Sigrid’s shieldmaidens locked together, forming a mobile wall. They advanced under arrow-fire, shields overlapping. When a bolt clanged off Tara’s helm, she laughed—high, bright, terrifying—and hammered her axe against her shield three times. The formation surged.

But new troops poured from the mid-ring guardhouse: fresh conscripts in quilted jackets, noble retainers in gilded corslets. Someone dragged a cart into the boulevard, toppling it to form a barricade. Arrows rattled off the cart’s sides; one struck a shieldmaiden through the thigh. She roared, snapped the shaft, and kept limping forward.

Lyan’s lungs burned. He pivoted, hooking a pikeman at the knee, then reversed and spiked another through the visor slot. His peripheral vision kept snagging on motion—Surena’s sword rising, Emilia’s greatsword carving a swath, Wilhelmina’s gloved hand flashing signals. He realised, with a throb of pride, that they no longer waited for his commands; they wove battle patterns around his presence the way dancers circle a fire.

A rush of heat at his flank warned him an instant before a falchion would have bitten deep. He twisted; the blade skimmed his mail instead of spine. Josephine had ridden up again—she leaned low, snagging the attacker’s collar, yanking him off his feet to be trampled beneath her horse.

"Eyes up, darling," she teased. "I already saved that pretty back once today."

"Noted," Lyan gritted, though a grin tugged.

She blew him a kiss, then spurred off, cloak snapping.

Up on the wall Lara shouted, "North tower clear!" Her arrow stabbed toward the sky, trailing a ribbon of blue silk: agreed signal that the next ladder wave could climb.

Below, Belle’s latest illusions shimmered—rows of phantom pikemen driving invisible stakes. Defenders wasted crossbow bolts on them until magazines ran dry. By the time they realised, real skirmishers were sprinting across no-man’s land under the low parapet.

Alicia, bruised and shaking, reached into a pouch and drew a shard of the shattered ley-stone. She whispered a formula; the shard glowed, then burst into dozens of motes that raced along the cobbles like fireflies. Each mote sank into a cobblestone carved with ward-sigils. The street trembled. Protective glyphs dimmed across doorframes; windows that had been opaque shimmered transparent. "Arcane grid dead!" she called, voice cracking. "You have free run!"

Ravia heard, tossed a quick salute, then snapped hand-signs at Xena. They split: Ravia dove left into a narrow stairwell, Xena climbed the wall’s outer face with finger-nails and footholds no wider than coins. Seconds later a door burst inward above; Ravia’s sword flashed. Two startled guards died without raising alarm. She leaned out the window, thumbs-up. Xena nodded, nocked two arrows at once, and sent them down into the courtyard where a mage attempted to reignite the wards. Both arrows struck spine. The mage folded like cloth.

In the dust-choked boulevard Wilhelmina’s ram team—now shieldless and blood-spattered—brought the oak trunk to bear on the mid-ring gate. Three heaves. Crack. Four. Crack. On the fifth slam the bar splintered. Shieldmaidens surged, singing. Lyan’s spirits thrummed.

(The shell breaks,) Griselda crackled.

(Heart lies ahead,) Cynthia finished, voice quiet.

Josephine’s riders re-appeared, this time dragging a chain of flaming hay bales. They slung the burning bundles at the barricade; flames licked sky-high, forcing defenders to retreat from the heat. freeweɓnovēl.coɱ

"Make a path!" Josephine shouted. Her second rider swung a weighted hook, snagging the cart’s frame. Horses leaned, wood shrieked, the barricade toppled sideways. Fresh air blew through.

Lyan rallied his breath. "Push to central square!"

Surena met his gaze. Mud, ash, and blood streaked her cheek. She grinned—wolfish, exhilarated. "Race you."

He laughed despite the carnage. They vaulted back into saddles acquired from fallen guards. With a shared nod they shot forward, cutting through smoke.

Ahead, nobles’ retainers formed a thin, glittering wall in front of a marble fountain dedicated to the First Serpent King. One knight barked orders but his voice trembled. He raised a gilt shield.

Emilia thundered in, greatsword held like a scythe. "Break their line!" she roared. She swung. Steel met gilt; the shield split like melon rind. Lyan followed, glaive thrust low, hooking boot laces and dragging two men sprawling. Surena’s blade flickered, opening throats in passing. Behind them Wilhelmina’s infantry poured into the gap like water through a burst dam.

Around the corner Josephine’s fire reached the grain store. A dull thump shook the street—grain-dust explosion. Windows rattled; defenders shrieked. Smoke mushroomed, acrid and black.

Above it all Raine’s banner crested the highest tower, serpent emblem tumbling away. She let the cloth flutter down into flames, then raised a phoenix wrought of silver thread. Its wings caught sun, blinding.

A cheer rippled outward. Even weary archers found voice, lifting bows in salute. Lyan’s chest tightened; for a heartbeat noise dulled, and he heard only the thunder of his pulse and a thin sob somewhere— relief, grief, he couldn’t tell.

Then reality crashed back. A horn wailed alarm deeper in the city. More defenders surged from side alleys, desperation lending courage. But the line had snapped; panic spread faster than orders.

Josephine rode past Lyan again, smoke painting red streaks across her grin. "Stables gone, silos gone, grain store flying. Want the docks next?"

"Later!" he shouted. "Secure the gatehouses first."

"Bossy," she laughed, but wheeled away.

Alicia staggered up, leaning on Belle. Her eyes glowed faint silver still. "Ley-grid... done," she panted. "But I’m spent."

Belle braced her, eyes scanning rooftops. "I’ve got you. No arrows will reach." She flicked her wrist; three illusionary shields shimmered around them, mirroring brick patterns so perfectly they vanished when still. Lyan wanted to go to them, thank them—but another wave of household guards demanded attention.

Steel clashed, splinters flew, curses and prayers tangled in the smoky air. Somewhere a woman screamed for her child; somewhere else a bard who’d never lifted a sword jabbed a spear and died with shock frozen on his face.

Through it all moved Lyan’s companions like bright threads in a dark weave: Ravia’s sword carving silent arcs; Xena’s arrows striking with surgeon precision; Wilhelmina rallying broken ranks by calling numbers instead of hope; Josephine laughing at death; Belle dancing through shadows; Alicia burning herself down to the wick to snuff the enemy’s glow; Surena and Emilia, Tara and Sigrid, Raine and Lara turning fear into song.

A rumble shivered through the street—Wilhelmina’s second ram breaching a side portcullis. The iron teeth groaned upward. Mountain berserkers who had been pounding fists on shields now poured under, howling, axes held high.

Across rooftops, civilians watched wide-eyed—some cheering, some weeping. A few hurled chamber pots or bricks; most simply stared at a future rewriting itself before their doors.

Smoke mushroomed again—Josephine must have reached the fish-oil warehouse. A wave of pungent stench rolled over the boulevard. Lyan gagged, laughed, coughed. "She’ll burn the whole pantry before we sit to supper."

Surena, blade resting across her shoulder, smirked. "Less to guard later."

In the next heartbeat a battered courier sprinted out of an alley, eyes wild. "They’re inside!" he screamed, voice cracking. "The capital’s breached!" The words echoed off marble and slate, bouncing from balcony to balcony. Guards wavered; some dropped weapons outright.

Doors splintered inward, tribeswoman shock troops storming through. Elite guards fell swiftly.

The moment the last of the barricades shattered inward, sound seemed to compress around Lyan—an avalanche of clanging steel, screaming horses, and crumbling masonry driven into his skull like a spike. He forced one breath, then another, pushing through the pressure until each sense returned in painful high-resolution.

To the left, a Varzadian banner unit tried to re-form beneath a rain-gutters’ overhang, gold serpent heads gleaming in firelight. Their captain barked orders that wavered between courage and panic. Lyan felt the tremor in the man’s voice before he heard the words. Good. Fear meant hesitation, and hesitation gave space to breathe.

Surena’s stallion pounded alongside his—ashen mane whipping like tattered silk. She rode low, almost hugging the horse’s neck, grey braid streaming behind her. Sparks skittered from her mail as she leaned across a wounded pikeman, carving an underhand slash that ripped through chain and clavicle. Blood fanned across her cheek in a fine red mist, but her eyes never left the command spire ahead.

"One last sprint!" she shouted, voice raw with iron dust and triumph.

Lyan’s thighs tightened against his saddle. There was no need for a response; the way he angled his glaive, the way his mount plunged forward answered her well enough. Together they took the narrow debris-strewn lane at breakneck speed, hooves drumming a war-beat that rattled shutters and shook loosened tiles free from rooftops.

A spent infantryman staggered into their path, sword dangling from numb fingers. Surprise flashed on his soot-smudged face. Surena, not breaking stride, released the reins with her left hand and back-handed him with her kite-shaped targe. The crunch of bone felt more audible than the battle around them.

Five paces ahead, a low rubble mound forced them to abandon their mounts. Lyan vaulted clear first, rolling once to take the shock, glaive clutched tight. Surena landed beside him, armor plates chiming. Their horses continued a few more strides, riderless, before rearing and bolting toward safer streets.

Enemy knights blocked the way—five, maybe six. Their black-lacquer plate reflected torchlight like oil on water. In their visor slits, Lyan saw only narrow eyes and the hard brick-red of desperation.

His spirits crackled in his head.

(Left shield gaps—patterned edging—blades slide in,) Griselda advised with grim relish.

Cynthia murmured, (Don’t waste motion; their fatigue is heavier than their steel.)

This 𝓬ontent is taken from fre𝒆webnove(l).𝐜𝐨𝗺