Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 502: The Siege Begins (4)

He attacked first, sweeping the glaive in a deceptive low arc that slammed into a kite shield’s rim, jerking it wide. With the same motion he reversed the haft, jabbing the butt spike through eye-slit and brain before the knight could adjust to the feint. Armor crashed to cobbles; the body inside it made no sound.

A second knight lunged, longsword aimed at Lyan’s midsection. Surena intercepted: she stepped in, letting the sword glance off her pauldron, then drove her own blade up beneath the attacker’s gorget. The thrust came from her shoulder, smooth as a loom shuttle sliding through warp threads. The knight froze, surprised, and she kicked him off her blade with enough force to send him sprawling over his fallen comrade.

An arrow whistled between them; Lyan’s head snapped toward the source. Emilia stood atop the rubble mound, greatsword in one hand, a short spear in the other—clearly stolen on the run. Her eyes shone volcanic under the blood spatter. She hurled the spear as casually as throwing a stick for a dog. It skewered two footmen, pinning them to a half-collapsed portico.

"Stay alive, idiot!" she shouted, then vaulted after the spear, landing on a broken balustrade like a cat and yanking it free again.

She leapt down, reached Lyan, and—without slowing—cupped his cheek in a gauntleted hand and kissed him full on the mouth. The copper of his own blood smeared between them.

"Emilia !" he managed.

"Later." She wiped her lips with the back of her hand. "There’s a staircase behind the next colonnade. Spire entrance."

A raw cheer thundered overhead. Lyan glanced up to see Raine balanced on the inner parapet, silver hair whipping around her face like winter lightning. She raised the phoenix banner high, fabric catching wind, silver thread igniting like frost in sunlight. When she slashed the serpent banner loose, it spiraled down through the smoky sky, flames licking at its tail before it even struck the courtyard flagstones. The cheer spread outward, echoing down alleys and up broken towers as though the city stones themselves rejoiced.

Belle’s voice crackled in his comm-bead—no illusion this time, just actual lungs strained to their limit. "Ridge – south flank—clear. I’m pivoting illusions to the high square. Ten more minutes of fog."

"Understood," Lyan replied, turning as he parried another strike. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Belle weaving her fingers in tight sigils, conjuring a line of phantom tower shields that advanced over the plaza toward a cluster of crossbowmen. Their bolts thunked uselessly through empty air. The moment they realized, Wilhelmina’s real archers stepped from a side street and loosed point-blank. Crossbowmen fell like wheat.

Josephine galloped past again, cloak ablaze at its hem—her doing, surely—laughing like she’d just cheated death at cards. "Docks aflame!" she yelled, voice bright with manic triumph. "No more fish, no more ropes!"

The acrid stench of burning oil fat clung to every breath. Lyan’s eyes watered; Surena tossed a strip of cloth soaked from a trough to him. He tied it over his nose, already tasting soot and salt.

A sudden hush rippled through the immediate street—a dragging, collective inhale—when a titanic crash rose from the direction of the mid-wall: Wilhelmina’s second ram had finally shattered the portcullis. In its wake, shieldmaidens surged, berserkers howled, and a stolen war horn blared a note so deep it vibrated in bone.

Elite guards near the spire faltered. Their formation, perfect just moments ago, flaked at the edges as men glanced over shoulders, gauging whether retreat might be wiser than suicide.

Lyan took the hesitation. He lunged forward, using his glaive shaft to vault onto a toppled statue plinth. From the higher ground he could see the approach to the spire’s arched doorway—a short, narrow bridge over what had been a decorative moat, now half drained and filled with debris. Two dozen serpent-guard clustered there, tower shields locked to form a turtle. Beyond them, on the stairs, a half-circle of war mages chanted, palms glowing sickly green.

Alicia arrived at his side, cheeks pale as wax but eyes afire with purpose. "I can disrupt two, maybe three at once," she said, breath hitching.

Belle jogged up behind her, almost dragging her. "She can barely stand."

"I must, Belle," Alicia argued hoarsely. Light flickered between her fingers already. "Their counterspell nexus is there. If they complete the casting, they’ll nullify half our illusions. Panic could flip on us."

Lyan assessed the turtle shield. He needed the barrier distracted.

"Josephine!" he shouted across the din. The cavalry commander reined near, smoke still curling from her scorched cloak. "Break them open."

She followed his gaze, eyes narrowing with understanding. "On it." With a sharp whistle she summoned her reserve cohort—twenty riders still fresh. They thundered in line abreast, hooves loud as drums. At the last second Josephine gave a battle cry—half rebel yell, half opera high-note—and swerved aside; her riders split like river water around a rock, each tossing a clay pot of naphtha onto the turtle shields.

Flames whooshed, clinging to oiled wood and bronze. Serpent-guards faltered, trying to beat fire from their mantlets. Arrows from Lara and Xena knifed through the new gaps, punching eye slits and throat joints. The formation sagged.

"Now," Lyan hissed.

Alicia stepped to the plinth edge, lifted both hands. Silver-white threads erupted across her palms, spidering out to form a lattice that caught the ambient torch-glow and bent it wrong, twisting it into lances of refracted brilliance. She flung the lattice like a net. It sagged over the chanting war mages, collapsing around them in a cage of mirrored light.

Spells mis-fired. One mage screamed as his own arcane bolt ricocheted back into his chest, imploding the iron breastplate inward. A second fell to his knees, clutching a bleeding nose as glyphs fractured into static Sparks.

Smoke cleared briefly. Belle flicked her wrists and an entire squadron of phantom archers sprinted up the bridge, arrows nocked. The remaining serpent-guards turned swords toward the illusion—and Ravia burst through their unlocked flank with two mountain berserkers on her heels. She fought silent, blade dipping and rising like hawk wings. Armor cracked; flesh parted.

Lyan vaulted down, glaive spinning. He landed among the guards with Surena at his left shoulder, Emilia at his right. They moved like pieces in a veteran tactic: Surena sweeping low for legs, Emilia hacking high for helms, Lyan skewering the off-balance bodies that remained. Steel rang like smith’s hammers on every side.

One last knight, taller than the rest, barred the stair mid-run. He raised an ornate flanged mace, roaring, "For the Serpent King!" Spittle sprayed, eyes wild behind the visor grille.

Lyan stepped into the arc, letting the mace head skim past his hip. He drove the glaive’s butt into the knight’s chin—helmet peaked backward, exposing throat. Surena punched her sword through gaps at the pauldron seam. Emilia wrenched the mace free and smashed it down on the man’s crown. Three strikes, perfectly nested. The knight crumpled like wet parchment.

"Stair’s open!" Surena called over shoulder.

Wilhelmina’s spear phalanx pounded across the bridge right behind them, heels keeping perfect timing even while stepping over corpses. Josephine’s riders peeled away to chase stragglers and herd pockets of surrendering militia into side courtyards. Flames from the naphtha-soaked mantlets licked at the stone parapets, sending ember flakes swirling like diseased snow.

The spire door, surface carved with a thousand overlapping serpents, stood ajar. Apparently someone had hoped for retreat. Lyan kicked it wider. Inside, marble staircase spiraled up, steps smeared with muddy boot prints. Surena, Emilia, Belle, and Wilhelmina filed in behind him along with a handful of mountain shock troops.

Halfway up, archers on the landing tried an ambush—arrows whistling down the corkscrew. Lara, who had ghosted in last, simply leaned around Lyan’s shoulder and returned a single shaft. A scream and tumbling body signaled her perfect aim. Belle conjured a brief illusory wall to block the next volley long enough for them to sprint the rest of the distance.

At the top platform the command staff—a clutch of generals, paymasters, and silver-robed viziers—made their last stand. Swords trembled in soft scholar hands. One man attempted a dignity he no longer possessed. "This is outrage. You are brigands. You will respect—"

Emilia threw her greatsword like a javelin. It punched through three officers, embedding in a map table. The remaining two backed away, urine darkening trousers. "Respect earned," she growled, crossing the floor to wrench the blade back out. She glanced at Lyan. "Still breathing, idiot?"

"Mostly." He inhaled smoke, coughed. "Thanks."

She smirked, then, surprisingly gentle, pushed part of his hair back where blood mats had glued it to his brow. "Keep that brain clean. Kingdom needs it."

A round window behind them shattered. Raine swung inside on a long silk rope, phoenix banner still clutched in her fist. She stuck the staff into a vase of dried lilies, nodding satisfaction. "Proper place for weeds," she declared, stepping over a felled paymaster to join them.

Red light of sunset slipped through the broken sash, catching dust motes mid-air. It painted every dented breastplate and blood-slick sword in molten color. For a beat, the war faded to background hum, and all Lyan could do was stand there, watching the golden flecks drift between the people he loved more fiercely than he ever thought possible.

Belle leaned against a pillar, one hand pressed to her ribs. She caught Lyan’s eye, offered a tired smile—tired but proud. Xena clambered up through the same broken window a heartbeat later, depositing a quiver filled with confiscated jeweled scroll rods like trophies at Belle’s feet. They shared a breathless laugh.

Alicia hobbled in last, limping, supported by Tara. Silver-burning eyes dimmed to softer mercury now that the leygrid lay shattered. She studied the room, took in the phoenix flag, the toppled officers, the burning city beyond, and released a whispery sigh. Relief and heartbreak at once. Lyan crossed the floor and squeezed her hand. She blinked up, cheeks streaked with ash, and simply nodded—no words needed.

Surena sauntered over, wiping sword on a velvet drape. "Was the kiss necessary?" she asked, tone dry but eyes glimmering with something warmer than chiding.

Lyan lifted a shoulder, lip caught between teeth in sheepish grin. "Morale boost?"

She snorted, but the corner of her mouth curved. "Next time, warn me. Might aim my blade better if I know swooning’s on the agenda."

"I’ll schedule it between charges."

"See that you do."

Josephine burst onto the platform with smoke curling from her armor like a walking forge. She tossed Lyan a charred ledger. "Port authority records—all gone. They won’t count barrels for a while." She cocked an eyebrow at Surena. "Discussing his kiss form, are we? I give it seven of ten for surprise, five for tongue discipline."

"Focus, red-hawk," Surena retorted, but she was grinning. Josephine responded with an exaggerated curtsey before flopping onto a crushed velvet couch and kicking feet over the armrest.

Wilhelmina cleared her throat. Slashes in her cuirass bled slowly, staining the pink braid clinging to her neck. "Gatehouses secured, all signal towers down. Enemy command in disarray. I’d say the stage is ours." She paused, then let a tiny smile soften the severity. "Congratulations, Commander."

Lyan scanned their faces once more—smoke-blushed and blood-flecked, armor bent, shoulders weary, yet eyes blazing with the same impossible fire that had carried them from the River Fort to this serpent’s nest. Pride welled so fierce it hurt.

Outside, trumpets—Varzadian brass now claimed by berserker lungs—blared in mismatched harmony. Cheers rippled through streets below, swelling until they shook loose tiles from the spire’s roof. Somewhere a mountain drum boomed a heartbeat rhythm, joined by clattering shields as warriors pounded victory into stone.

But beneath the exultation lay quieter sounds: groans of wounded, crackle of fires still uncontrolled, the distant wail of a child calling for a mother who would never answer. The city breathed both triumph and mourning; Lyan felt each in equal measure.

He exhaled and turned toward the window where the silver phoenix flapped proud in a rising wind. Beyond, evening bled orange and purple across tattered plumes of smoke. The banner’s metallic thread caught fading sun, setting the emblem ablaze against the dark.

"Rest well," he murmured softly, glancing toward the rising silver phoenix. "The war isn’t over yet."

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