Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 156

Chapter 156: Call from sea(2) Chapter 156: Call from sea(2) Ten minutes had passed, and Blake now stood in the center of the Call of Sea.

The walls of the stone amphitheater rising around him like the jagged teeth of a beast.

Above, the sky was overcast, casting a muted gray light over the assembly.

Around him, seated in the semi-circular rows carved into the mountain, were some one hundred and fifty lords-each representing their own pirate ships or coastal territories.

Their faces were hard, weathered by wind and salt, and their eyes bore down on him with a mix of curiosity, suspicion, and hunger for what was to come.

Blake felt their gazes like the weight of the ocean itself, but he stood firm, his back straight, shoulders squared.

This was the moment he had been waiting for.

The murmurs among the lords, their whispers of doubt and excitement, buzzed around the stone chamber.

At the top of the amphitheater, seated upon a throne carved from black rock, was the Elder of Blacktide Cove.

His hair was thin and white, his skin like worn leather.

He held a long, twisted staff in his hand, and when he raised it, the tip scraping the stone floor beneath, all noise ceased.

The echoes of murmurs were swallowed by silence, and all eyes shifted fully onto Blake.

The elder butted the stick against the ground with a resounding thud, the sound bouncing off the rock walls, sharp and final.

The room fell into absolute stillness.

Blake stared up at the elder, meeting his gaze.

It was time.

The old man, seated upon the black stone throne, tapped his staff against the ground once more, the sharp sound cutting through the stillness like a knife.

His voice, though aged and gravelly, carried authority across the amphitheater.

“Silence,” he commanded, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the faces of the gathered lords.

The weight of his words pressed on them all.

“We are here to pass judgment on Blake lord of Ela , the accused may step forward.” Blake stepped forward from the center, his boots echoing against the stone.

His face was hard, unreadable, as he stood tall before the assembly.

The old man’s piercing gaze settled on him, and for a moment, the world seemed to still.

“Tell me,” the elder began, his tone sharp, “I have heard troubling whispers.

Tales of a ship raiding in the imperial seas for weeks without end.

Is there truth to these stories?” Blake’s eyes flickered with defiance as he lifted his chin.

“There is.” The elder’s expression darkened, and his gnarled hand tightened around his staff.

“And tell me, was this ship one of yours?

Were you the one leading it?” Blake nodded, his voice firm.

“Aye, it was mine.

And I led it.” A murmur rippled through the crowd, like a wave breaking against the shore, but a quick glare from the elder silenced it.

The old man’s eyes hardened as the murmurs of the gathered lords subsided.

His voice, low and deliberate, echoed through the stone hall.

“Were you aware,” he began slowly, his gaze boring into Blake, “that your actions were a direct breach of the Treaty we signed with the empire ?

” Blake stood still, his jaw clenched, his hands at his sides.

His eyes flickered with the fire that had always burned within him.

“I knew,” he said, his voice strong and steady.

“I knew very well what I was doing-and the consequences of it.” Another wave of whispers coursed through the assembly, but Blake’s voice rose over them, raw and fierce.

“But hear me now!” Blake shouted, his words reverberating off the stone walls.

“What I did was not for greed of coin or hunger for glory.

I did not sail into imperial seas to line my pockets or feed my pride.

No.

I did it to save my people!” He stepped forward, his hands gesturing as he spoke with fiery conviction, addressing the entire council now.

“Look around you!

The free men of the sea have been withering under that cursed treaty for too long.

What future do we have if we sit idle, tied by agreements that were forged with our necks already halfway in the noose?

We call ourselves free, yet we bow to the whims of the Empire, afraid to touch their waters, afraid to raid where our ancestors once ruled without fear!” As Blake’s fiery words echoed across the Call, one of the lords suddenly rose from his seat, his face twisted in disdain.

“He is a traitor!” the man bellowed, pointing an accusatory finger at Blake.

It was Lord Cedric of Stothewhich, a man known for his wealth, not from the sea, but from his iron mines deep in the mainland.

Blake’s eyes flashed with fury as he turned to face the lord.

“A copper-counter dares speak at a Salt Call?” Blake spat, his voice filled with venom.

He stepped forward, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword, though he did not draw it.

“You and your kind are not worthy of speaking here.

This is a place for men of the waves, for those whose blood was born on salt and sea, you do not belong here..”  Lord Stothewhich’s face reddened in anger, but Blake continued, his voice rising with every word.

“You are the perfect example of the corruption that’s sinking its teeth into the free men of the sea!

While the rest of us rot under Rolmia’s thumb, you grow fat off your iron mines, happy to line your pockets by selling to princes and lords.

And what?

You support this treaty because it protects your coin, because you’d rather bow to the Empire than risk losing your precious trade!” The lords around Stothewhich glanced at him, some nodding in agreement while others remained silent.

Blake’s voice rang out, cutting through the growing tension.

“If we continue down this path, we’ll be no better than the land-dwellers-weak, shackled, and forgotten.

Our ancestors ruled these seas with fearlessness, not treaties!

But men like you,” Blake sneered, “have poisoned that legacy” Stothewhich, though fuming, did not speak immediately, aware of the growing disdain among the other lords for his position.

His wealth and connections with the empire had made him a powerful figure, but in this hall, among the free lords, his influence had already weaned.

The old man sitting on the stone throne suddenly slammed his staff onto the ground with a resounding crack once again , his voice rising with unexpected strength despite his age.

“Silence!” he commanded, his gravelly voice reverberating through the amphitheater.

Blake, momentarily startled, felt a flicker of surprise; he hadn’t expected to be allowed to speak, let alone retort.  “By the treaty,” the Keeper began, his tone heavy with judgment, “that the Confederation has signed with the Empire of Rolmia, Lord Blake of Hollowmark stands in direct violation.

His actions are not just a breach of trust, but an offense to every name signed on the treaty” The Keeper paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the crowd.

“The penalty, by the terms of the agreement, is clear.

Lord Blake should be fined twenty times the value of the loot he has taken, and his entire crew…” The old man’s eyes narrowed, “…should face crucifixion.”  The air felt heavy, suffocating, but before the tension could settle, a voice boomed from across the amphitheater.

“NO!” It was Kroll, Lord of Holworth, who leaped to his feet, his broad chest heaving with indignation.

His shout cut through the oppressive silence like a knife, and all eyes turned toward him.

“This is madness!

To crucify our own for doing what has been the very essence of our people, our traditions-raiding the seas, claiming what is ours-it would leave a stain on the soul of our Confederation that would never be washed away!” Kroll stepped forward, his fists clenched at his sides, his face flushed with anger.

“It is unheard of, unthinkable, to punish one of us for carrying out what is in our blood!

What Blake did may have broken a treaty, but it has broken none of our true laws, none of the ways that we have lived by for centuries!” The gathered lords erupted into shouts, some agreeing with Kroll, others uncertain, the hall filling with voices clashing like waves against rocks.

Blake stood in the center of it all, his eyes fixed on the Keeper, who had remained silent, watching the debate unfold around him.

For a moment, the Keeper did not speak, merely tapping his staff rhythmically on the stone.

When he finally raised his hand for silence, the chaos gradually ebbed away, the lords settling back into their seats.  The Keeper of the Call, his eyes gleaming with ancient wisdom, raised his hand once more, beckoning for silence.

When the hall had finally quieted, his voice rang out, calm but commanding.

“Lord Blake of Ela ,” he said slowly, “you may speak your case.” Blake stood tall in the center of the amphitheater, a sea of skeptical eyes fixed upon him.

The weight of the moment pressed against his chest, but his resolve was ironclad.

He nodded at the Keeper, then turned to address the gathered lords.

“My ancestors and yours ,” Blake began, his voice low but growing stronger with each word, “did not live by treaties.

They lived by the sword, by the sea.

We did not ask for permission to rule the waves, we took them.

And for a time, we were feared across the waters-pirates, some called us.

Free men, I call us.” He paced slowly as he spoke, his words measured, tapping into the history they all shared.

“The blood that flows through me, through all of us, is that of warriors, raiders, men who did not bow to any crown or empire.

My father , my brothers and I fought in the battle of Rock Bottom-many of your fathers and even grandfathers fought alongside him.” His voice cracked with the weight of memory.

“We smashed our ships against the imperial fleet, fearless, ready to die for the sea that belonged to us.” Blake stopped and looked up, his eyes searching the crowd.

“But we were defeated.

The Empire of Rolmia hid their fleet in the harbors of Hervia, lying in wait.

And when we stretched our forces too thin, they struck, ramming our ships from the east.

Eighty ships we sent-only twenty returned.

My father and three of my brothers died that day, as did many of your kin.” The silence was heavy, laden with the unspoken memories of that disastrous day.

Blake’s voice turned darker, more urgent.

“The Empire has ruled those seas ever since.

And now, we cower under a treaty they forced upon us, one that makes slaves of us all.” He spat on the ground, the bitterness clear in his tone.

“But we are not slaves.

We are free men.

We are lords of the sea!” The amphitheater was stirring now, soft murmurs of agreement rippling through the assembled lords.

Blake’s confidence grew, his voice swelling with conviction.

“The Empire of Rolmia is not what it once was.

Civil war plagues their lands, their fleets are in disarray.

Their emperor fights his own brothers for control, and while they fight amongst themselves, they grow weak.” Blake’s eyes blazed as he made his final plea.

“This is our chance-our only chance-to rise again.

To reclaim the seas that were stolen from us.

To make the Empire remember who we are.

If we let this moment slip by, we will fade into nothing.

But if we seize it, we will be kings of the waters once more.” At this, many voices rose in agreement, louder and more fervent.

The tide of the hall was turning, men murmuring to one another, nodding at Blake’s words.

A few, like Lord Kroll, even stood, shouting their support.

“He’s right!” “The time is now!” “We can’t let the Empire rule us forever!” Blake stood in the center of the storm, watching the momentum build, knowing that the fire he had stoked was beginning to blaze The Keeper of the Call raised his hand once more, his voice cutting through the rising clamor like a blade.

“Silence!” he commanded, and the hall obeyed.

“The time for words has passed,” the Keeper declared.

“Now, we shall cast our judgment.

Not just on Lord Blake’s actions, but on the future of our people.” He motioned with his hand, and attendants, clad in dark robes, began to move through the crowd.

Each lord in attendance was presented with two stones-one square, one round.

“The square stone,” the Keeper intoned, “signifies death.

Should you believe that Lord Blake’s actions have brought ruin upon us and our treaty with the Empire of Rolmia, cast this stone.

Let him face the price of his defiance and restore peace with the imperials .” The attendants moved swiftly from lord to lord, placing the stones in their hands.

“The round stone,” the Keeper continued, his voice grave, “signifies innocence-and more.

To cast this stone is to side with Lord Blake and to call for war against the Empire of Rolmia.

Choose wisely, for this vote does not concern one man alone, but the fate of us all.” One by one, the lords began to rise, casting their stones into the large, bronze urn set in the center of the Call.

Each stone fell with a soft but distinct clink, a sound that echoed in the silence of the chamber.

The voting continued, the rhythmic sound of stones being cast filling the air as each lord approached the urn.

Once the last lord had cast their stone, the attendants moved to the urn and began preparing to bring it forward to the center of the Call, where the final decision would be revealed.

The Keeper rose from his stone throne once more, his weathered hands gripping the arms of the seat as he pushed himself up.  “Before the counting begins,” he began, “there is something that must be said.

For decades, I have stood in this seat, overseeing the justice of our people.

I have listened, I have judged, and I have maintained the traditions of our ancestors.” A low murmur spread among the gathered lords.

It was highly unusual for the Keeper to speak beyond his role as the overseer.

Normally, his function was to remain impartial, to guide the process but never to offer his opinion.  “Quiet your yappings!” The Keeper’s voice thundered, silencing the whispers in an instant.

“For seventy-three summers, I have lived among you all.

I have seen our people rise and fall.

I watched us command the seas, feared by all who dared cross our waters.

But I must tell you this,” he paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembly, “the last fifteen summers… they have been the worst of my life and that of our history.” More murmurs followed, but no one dared speak aloud.

The Keeper had their full attention now, and he continued, his voice steady and filled with a deep, simmering fury.

“We were thrown from our thrones, our dominion over the seas usurped by the Empire of Rolmia.

They called it a treaty of peace,” he spat the word like it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“But it was not peace-it was submission.

We gave up our birthright for a false promise, and we have paid the price ever since.” He leaned forward, his knuckles white as he gripped the arms of the throne.

“I will be damned if I am to live another summer like that.

If this vote should go against our traditions, if it should force us to continue crawling like beggars before the empire, then I shall renounce my position as Keeper.

I will cast myself to the waves, and let them take me to join our ancestors, who would never have allowed this shame.” A heavy silence settled over the gathering as the weight of the Keeper’s words hung in the air.

His eyes gleamed with defiance as he took his seat once more, the deep creases of his face set in resolution.

Without another word, the attendants stepped forward.

The urn was brought to the center of the Call, and the counting of the stones began, tying the fate of a man with that of the state.