Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 367

Chapter 367: Calling the shots(1) Chapter 367: Calling the shots(1) Blake had never set foot inside the cave beneath the island of the Call.

It was sacred ground, where only the most momentous councils in their history were held.

His father, before his death, had surely stood within these halls.

The old man had once commanded ten ships at his peak-one-tenth of their entire fleet during the fateful battle at Rock Bottom.

A man of such standing would have been present.

By contrast, Blake was still seen as a boy.

Too young.

Too untested.

Too unworthy to stand where legends had gathered.

Well , he was now the one standing there.

The cave itself was no ordinary hollow of stone.

It had been shaped by the hands of his ancestors, transformed from a natural wonder into a living record of their history.

Its walls bore the scars of their past-etched with victories, defeats, and the bloodlines that shaped the Call.

Not figuratively, either.

The names of the most virtuous and the bravest among them were literally carved into the rock, forever enshrined in a space dedicated to the heroes of the Confederation and the Salt Kingdom.

Much of this work dated back two centuries, to the time of the Old Salt Kings-the rulers of these waters before the Free Lords rose against the crown.

They had seized their moment when a mere boy took the throne, striking before he could grow into his power.

Less than a year into his reign, he was captured and forced to abdicate, leaving behind a kingdom shattered, a title stripped of meaning.

In its place, the Free Confederation was born.

And it still endured.

The walls of the cave, save for the jagged ceiling where the rock remained untouched, had been meticulously smoothed and polished to resemble the fortresses of the mainland.

Generations had labored to shape them-generations of slaves, their toil forever imprinted in the gleam of the stone.

Dozens of torches lined the walls and central pillars, their flames stretching high, sending flickering shadows across the chamber.

At the heart of it all, a grand circular table of stone dominated the space.

Seated around it were fifteen captains-the most powerful among the Free Lords.

Each commanded a fleet, the weakest among them still possessing five ships under his banner.

The firelight illuminated their faces, revealing eyes sharpened by years at sea, etched with determination and hardened by battle.

Before them, maps sprawled across the table-works of cartographic mastery, perhaps the finest in the known world.

The Free People were not merely pirates, though their name was infamous for it.

They were explorers, navigators, and mappers of unmatched skill.

Their charts, scrawled in ink and blood, mapped the known seas with a precision no empire or kingdom could rival.

The southern principalities, the treacherous reefs that spelled death for the unskilled, the hidden inlets where a ship might disappear without a trace-every inch of their world was charted in the hands of these men.

And now, as their torches burned and the sea raged beyond the cave’s stone walls, they gathered to plan for war.

A full Imperial invasion loomed on the horizon.

Currently Blake stood holding his face at how the meeting was proceeding.  Was this what I always dreamed to be part of?

Blake wondered as he eyes raised up toward the spectacle once again.

It began predictably enough when Captain “Ironhand” Jericho-a name he gave himself and reminded everyone of far too often-slammed his fist on the table and proposed an audacious plan: a preemptive strike against the Imperial Navy while they were still nestled in their home port.

Jericho, who commanded a respectable , great and strong fleet of five ships ,two of which were barely seaworthy, insisted that he, naturally, should lead the charge since the plan was his.

His chest puffed out as he declared himself the boldest among them, a man with the nerve to strike at the heart of the enemy before they could even raise their sails.

Captain Borvik however, had other plans. Borvik, whose fleet of nine vessels dwarfed Jericho’s ragtag squadron, leaned over the table, his broad frame casting a shadow over the maps, and scoffed at the very idea.

With mock gravitas, he pointed out the obvious flaw: Jericho’s fleet was “barely enough to take on a flock of seagulls, let alone the Imperial Navy.” Borvik, of course, was happy to volunteer himself as the rightful leader of the strike.

After all, he had more ships, more experience, and, as he reminded everyone repeatedly, “a face that even the gods respect.” It didn’t take long for the debate to devolve into chaos.

Jericho, red-faced and determined to defend his honor and his plan, accused Borvik of cowardice, saying that his preference for leading from the largest ship in the fleet was more about his girth than his courage.

Borvik, unamused, retorted with a colorful insult about the dubious sturdiness of Jericho’s vessels, which he claimed were held together by little more than spit and optimism and of course after that he called his mother a whore.

And then, predictably, fists flew.

The table became a battlefield of its own, with maps crumpled and torches nearly toppled as Jericho and Borvik lunged at each other.

The other captains, half amused and half exasperated, stepped back to avoid the flailing limbs.  However the one who was not amused was Blake.

Blake turned his gaze to Kroll, hoping to find help, only to find him utterly engrossed in the spectacle before him.

Kroll was roaring with laughter, egging the brawlers on as if this were the grand entertainment of the evening.

Blake’s eyes narrowed, and he wondered-Are these the men who will decide the fate of the Free People?

Are these the one that defend our freedom?

A chaotic bunch of undisciplined ruffians, raising their fists in battle more often than their mugs for toasts .  The commotion showed no signs of abating as lord Borvik, threw himself atop the barrel-chested Jericho Blake’s patience snapped.

“Enough!” he bellowed, but his words barely registered above the cacophony of blows, grunts, and jeers.

His jaw tightened.

Resolved, he strode forward, shoving his way through the gathered captains who had formed an informal circle to watch the brawl.

He grabbed Borvik by the collar, yanked him off Jericho, and, with a single firm push, sent him sprawling onto the larger man.

The clash of bodies hit the floor with a satisfying thud, followed by a stunned silence.

Blake stood over them, his voice sharp and commanding.

“This is a war council, not a tavern brawl!

If I wanted to see men knock each other senseless, I’d have dragged us all to the pits and thrown in some coin!” His eyes swept across the room, meeting each captain’s gaze with cold fury.

“How in the depths of the sea are we debating who will lead a plan that only you two fools seem to agree on?” The room stilled, save for a faint cough from Kroll, who tried to suppress his laughter.

Blake ignored him.

He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and said with icy clarity, “We’re facing an Imperial invasion, and you’re squabbling like deckhands fighting over a lost card game.

Do you think this is how the Free People prevail?

By punching each other senseless over who gets to fail first?You think this a game?” The captains exchanged sheepish glances, the weight of his words finally sinking in.

Jericho groaned from the floor, Borvik muttering something unintelligible, but neither dared to meet Blake’s glare.

Satisfied that his point had landed, Blake stepped back, his shoulders squared.

“Now,” he said, voice steady but firm, “shall we actually discuss how to deal with the Imperial Navy?

Or are you all just here to practice getting tossed overboard?” Seeing that no one argued, Blake assumed he could continue.

He let out a long, tired sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose before stepping back to his place at the head of the stone table.

“Now that we’ve regained a semblance of order,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “perhaps we can actually discuss what to do next.” SaltBeard, slapped his palm down on the table.

“Simple!

We sail out at once to meet the Imperials in battle!” His voice carried the same blunt force as his reputation-a man of action, never hesitation.

“Catch ’em before they can form up properly.

Smash their fleet before it’s even out of port!” He said as he proposed the same plan of before.

Several of the other captains nodded in agreement, murmurs of approval rippling through the chamber.

Blake watched as hands gestured and heads bobbed, the eager posturing spreading like a fever.

A few even slapped the table, clearly itching for blood and glory.

Blake’s jaw tightened as unease churned in his mind.

Is this how we lose again?

He stared at the map spread across the stone table, its intricate details illuminated by flickering torchlight.

His eyes drifted southward, tracing the coastline of Romelian-allied lands.

It was far too easy to imagine the trap-a powerful Imperial fleet luring them into enemy waters, only for allied southern princes to pincer them from hidden ports.

It had happened before, a painful memory etched into the Free People’s collective history, just less than two decades years ago.

A bold fleet sailing headfirst into foreign seas, only to be torn apart when reinforcements struck from an unexpected angle.

Have they learned nothing from that debacle?

Blake wondered bitterly.

His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table.

To charge blindly into enemy territory, assuming the Imperials would be as unprepared as they hoped, was arrogance bordering on suicidal.  Blake’s gaze swept across the room, taking in the eager faces of the captains.

Men who, despite their experience, were blinded by their lust for an early victory.

SaltBeard, loud and commanding, continued to argue his point, detailing a bold strike that would carry them straight into Imperial waters.

And likely into disaster, Blake thought grimly.

He sighed again thanking the Sea god and perhapse another one, that he was the war-commander, as if it was the opposite than they would had most certainly sailed towards their own deaths.