Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love
Chapter 257: The Newcomer’s Oath

Chapter 257: The Newcomer’s Oath

In the dimly lit war room of Duke Ravindor’s fortress, tension hung thick in the air. Maps and strategic plans were scattered across a massive oak table, illuminated by the flickering light of numerous candles. The Duke, a formidable man with a stern visage, stood at the head of the table, his gaze piercing through the shadows at the man standing before him.

General Alaric Vanathor, newly appointed to assist in the siege of Arkansas, stood tall and resolute. His eyes, cold and calculating, bore the marks of countless battles and hard-won victories. He was known for his ruthless efficiency and sharp mind, qualities that had earned him both respect and fear within Ravindor’s ranks.

"General Vanathor," Ravindor’s voice was a low growl, "Varkas has failed me. His incompetence has cost us dearly. The city of Arkansas remains out of our grasp, and our forces have suffered significant losses. I am entrusting you to rectify this. from the fool’s mistake"

Alaric’s lip curled in disdain at the mention of Varkas. "Varkas was never fit for command. His tactics are outdated, and his men lack discipline. It’s no wonder he’s been unable to take the city."

Ravindor nodded, his expression grim. "Precisely why you are here. You will take reinforcements to Varkas’s camp and assume command. I expect results, General."

Alaric saluted crisply. "I will not fail you, my lord. Arkansas will fall."

With a final nod from the Duke, Alaric turned on his heel and strode from the room, his mind already whirring with plans and strategies. He had little time for pleasantries or delays; the fate of the campaign rested on his shoulders now.

The journey to Varkas’s camp was swift. Alaric led a column of fresh troops, their armor gleaming in the midday sun. The air was thick with anticipation and the scent of iron and leather. As they approached the outskirts of the camp, the sounds of clanging metal and shouted orders grew louder.

Varkas’s camp was a disorganized sprawl compared to the disciplined ranks Alaric was accustomed to. Soldiers milled about with little sense of urgency, and the defenses looked hastily constructed. Alaric’s eyes narrowed in disgust as he surveyed the scene.

Varkas himself, a stout man with a permanent scowl etched into his face, emerged from a tent at the center of the camp. His expression darkened as he saw Alaric and the reinforcements.

"General Vanathor," Varkas greeted curtly, barely concealing his resentment. "What brings you here?"

"I’ve been sent to take command," Alaric replied, his tone brooking no argument. "Your failures have forced the Duke’s hand."

Varkas bristled, his fists clenching at his sides. "Failures? I’ve been holding this position under constant assault!"

"And yet, you’ve made no progress," Alaric shot back, his voice icy. "Your men are undisciplined, your defenses are weak, and your strategies are ineffective. It’s a wonder you’ve lasted this long."

A murmur of discontent rippled through the gathered soldiers. Varkas’s face reddened with anger, but he knew better than to challenge Alaric openly. Instead, he forced a tight smile and gestured towards his tent.

"Perhaps we should discuss this in private," Varkas suggested.

Alaric nodded curtly, following Varkas into the tent. Once inside, the facade of civility dropped.

"You overstep your bounds, Vanathor," Varkas hissed. "This is my command."

"Not anymore," Alaric replied coldly. "You’re lucky the Duke hasn’t had you executed for your incompetence. From now on, you’ll follow my orders, or I’ll have you removed."

The two men locked eyes, the tension palpable. Finally, Varkas looked away, conceding defeat. Alaric wasted no time in taking control.

"First, we need to reorganize the camp," Alaric ordered. "I want double shifts on watch, trenches dug around the perimeter, and barricades reinforced. Your men need to be drilled and disciplined. We can’t afford any more failures."

Varkas nodded stiffly, seething with anger but unable to refute the logic. They underestimated them and thought they wouldn’t attack and would only play defense. Alaric’s reputation as a master tactician and ruthless commander preceded him, and even Varkas knew better than to openly defy him.

Over the next few days, Alaric whipped the camp into shape. His presence brought a new sense of urgency and purpose to the soldiers, and the camp’s defenses were strengthened. Morale began to improve, albeit grudgingly, as the men saw the results of Alaric’s strict regimen.

As evening fell, Alaric called a meeting with his officers and Varkas. They gathered around a large table in the command tent, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows on their faces.

"Gentlemen," Alaric began, "Our previous attempts to take Arkansas have failed due to poor planning and execution. We will not repeat those mistakes. I’ve studied the city’s defenses and identified several weak points we can exploit."

He unfurled a detailed map of Arkansas, pointing to specific locations. "The key to our success lies in a coordinated assault. We’ll divide our forces into three groups. The first group will create a diversion at the main gate, drawing the defenders’ attention. The second group, led by Varkas, will attack the northern wall, where the defenses are weakest."

Varkas looked surprised but nodded, understanding the necessity of the plan.

"The third group, under my command, will use the tunnels beneath the city. Our spies have located several entrances we can use to infiltrate and open the gates from the inside. This will allow our main force to breach the city and take control swiftly."

The officers leaned in, studying the map and nodding in agreement. The plan was bold, risky, but meticulously thought out. Alaric’s reputation as a strategist was well-earned.

"We’ll move at dawn," Alaric concluded. "Prepare your men. Failure is not an option."

As the officers dispersed, Varkas approached Alaric. "I don’t like this," he muttered. "But I’ll follow your orders."

"You don’t have to like it," Alaric replied. "You just have to do it. This is our best chance to take Arkansas. Don’t squander it."

The night passed in a flurry of preparations. Soldiers readied their weapons and armor, nerves taut with anticipation. As dawn broke, the camp was a hive of activity, the men falling into their assigned positions with a newfound sense of purpose.

The diversionary force moved first, approaching the main gate with deliberate noise and aggression. The defenders, as expected, concentrated their efforts on repelling the apparent main attack. Meanwhile, Varkas led his group to the northern wall, where they began their assault, drawing more of the defenders away from their posts.

Alaric and his chosen soldiers slipped into the tunnels, moving silently through the dark, damp passages beneath the city. The air was thick with tension, the only sounds were the soft footfalls and the occasional drip of water. Alaric’s mind raced through contingencies and countermeasures, ready for any eventuality.

Alaric led his team through the narrow, damp tunnels beneath the city of Arkansas. The air was thick and stifling, each step echoing ominously in the confined space. His soldiers moved silently behind him, their expressions set with determination. Alaric’s mind raced, calculating every possible outcome of the assault. He knew the stakes were high, and failure was not an option.

Suddenly, the ground beneath their feet trembled. Alaric froze, raising a hand to signal a halt. The tremors grew stronger, and before they could react, the tunnel ahead collapsed with a thunderous roar. Dust and debris filled the air, choking their vision and lungs.

"Back! Fall back!" Alaric shouted, his voice barely audible over the chaos. His soldiers scrambled to retreat, but the tunnel behind them was quickly becoming unstable as well.

"Sir, we’re trapped!" one of his men called out, panic edging into his voice.

Alaric’s mind raced. They couldn’t afford to be stuck here, not when the success of the entire siege depended on their mission. He scanned the tunnel walls, looking for any sign of an alternate route. His eyes fell on a narrow passageway branching off to the side, partially obscured by rubble.

"This way!" he ordered, leading his men through the narrow gap. The passage was even tighter and more claustrophobic, but it was their only chance. They moved quickly, the sounds of collapsing rock echoing behind them.

After what felt like an eternity, the passage widened, and they emerged into a larger, more stable tunnel. Alaric took a moment to catch his breath, his mind already working on a new plan.

"We need to find another entrance," he said. "Our mission remains the same: infiltrate the city and open the gates."

His men nodded, their resolve undiminished despite the setback. They continued through the labyrinthine tunnels, moving as quickly and quietly as they could.

Meanwhile, at the main gate, the diversionary force was locked in a fierce battle. The defenders of Arkansas were well-prepared, and the fighting was brutal. The clash of steel and the cries of the wounded filled the air. Despite their efforts, the attackers were struggling to gain any ground.

At the northern wall, Varkas’s group was faring no better. The defenders had anticipated their move and reinforced their positions. Varkas fought with a desperate ferocity, but it was clear that their assault was faltering.

As if the situation weren’t dire enough, a scout came rushing to Varkas, his face pale. "Sir, reinforcements! The defenders have reinforcements!"

Varkas’s heart sank. He looked to the horizon and saw a column of fresh troops marching towards the city. They bore the insignia of Lyan’s forces, and their arrival would turn the tide decisively in favor of the defenders.

Back in the tunnels, Alaric and his team finally found another exit. They emerged into a dark, abandoned building within the city walls. The sound of battle was all around them. Alaric signaled for his men to move out, but as they stepped into the open, they were ambushed.

Out of the shadows stepped a man clad in dark robes, his face obscured by a hood. Beside him, a group of heavily armed mercenaries emerged, their weapons at the ready. Alaric recognized the leader immediately: Abraham the White Shadow, a notorious assassin. With him was an official of the mercenary guild, known for their ruthlessness and cunning.

"General Alaric," Abraham said, his voice dripping with mockery. "It seems you’ve walked into a trap."

Alaric’s eyes narrowed. "So it was you. I should have known."

The mercenary guild official sneered. "You’ve underestimated us, General. Now, you will pay the price."

Before Alaric could react, the mercenaries attacked. The fighting was intense, the confined space making every move critical. Alaric fought with all his skill, but he could see his men were outnumbered and outmatched.

As the battle raged, Alaric’s mind raced. He needed to adapt, to find a way to turn the tide. He spotted a narrow alleyway that could serve as a chokepoint. "Fall back! To the alley!" he shouted.

His men obeyed, retreating to the narrow passage. Alaric positioned his men to defend the entrance, using the terrain to their advantage. The mercenaries followed, but the confined space nullified their numerical superiority. The fighting continued, brutal and unrelenting.

Despite their best efforts, Alaric’s team was being worn down. The mercenaries were relentless, and Abraham was a master of the deadly arts. Alaric realized they couldn’t hold out much longer.

With grim determination, Alaric made a decision. "We need to get a message to Duke Ravindor. We can’t win this battle with the forces we have. We need a full-scale assault."

One of his men, a young soldier with a determined look, stepped forward. "I’ll go, sir. I’ll get the message through."

Alaric nodded. "Go. Tell the Duke we need immediate reinforcements. And tell him... we face formidable enemies. Evocatore the Goblin King Slayer, Gildevart the Guildmaster, Josephine the Madam, Abraham the White Shadow, and Borton the Brave Rings’ mercenaries. They’ve wreaked havoc on our supply lines. We need to crush them once and for all."

The soldier saluted and disappeared into the night, slipping past the enemy lines with practiced ease.

Alaric turned back to the battle, his resolve hardening. He knew they couldn’t hold out much longer, but they had to buy time for the message to reach the Duke. He fought with renewed ferocity, every strike a vow of vengeance against the enemies who had thwarted them.

As the night wore on, it became clear that the defenders of Arkansas were not to be underestimated. Alaric’s forces were pushed back, the city remaining out of their grasp. But unlike Varkas, Alaric did not despair. He had sent the message, and he knew Duke Ravindor would respond.

Breathing heavily, covered in blood and dirt, Alaric stood amidst the chaos, his eyes burning with determination. He swore an oath, his voice low and filled with resolve. "Under my noble name, I will see these enemies defeated, or I will die trying."