Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 407

Chapter 407: Romelian preparations Chapter 407: Romelian preparations The docks outside the Romelian camp had been alive as it hadn’t been in weeks.

A congregation of furious merchants, their silk coats embroidered with gold thread and their plumed hats bobbing with each angry gesture, swarmed before a small maniple of imperial soldiers.

The air was thick with the scent of salt, tar, and sweat, but most of all, with outrage.

“This is theft!” one merchant bellowed, his face red as the velvet of his doublet.

He stomped forward, waving a parchment in the air.

“We came here under imperial sanction, with legal writs signed and sealed!

These ships are not war vessels, they are grain carriers!

You have no right-” “No right indeed!” another shouted, his many chins wobbling with the force of his indignation.

“We risk pirates, storms,between here and the capital, and now you would commandeer our ships as if we were your lackeys?!” “This is tyranny!

Lawless tyranny!” cried a third, his bejeweled hands clenched into trembling fists.

“If you take our ships, what are we to do?

Swim back home?

Do you even intend to compensate us?” The soldiers standing opposite them shifted uncomfortably.

Their faces, lined with exhaustion, remained stony, but beneath their polished breastplates, their patience was wearing thin.

The fat merchants jostled and flailed as they ranted, their rolls of flesh quivering with each indignant movement.

One of the soldiers, a thick-necked veteran with a scar running down his cheek, clenched his jaw so tightly that his teeth ached.

He tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword, the leather creaking under his fingers.

The merchants were shouting directly into his face now, spittle flying, their perfume mixing nauseatingly with the stench of their sweat.

“By the gods, do they ever stop talking?” he muttered under his breath.

Beside him, another soldier, younger and still unused to such displays, forced himself to inhale deeply through his nose.

His fingers twitched near the haft of his spear, every instinct screaming to shove the nearest merchant back and be done with it.

But he dared not.

Not yet.

One of the merchants, emboldened by their restraint, thrust a finger into the chest of the nearest soldier, prodding at the steel of his cuirass.

“Well?!

Say something, you glorified bandits!

What gives you the right-” The scarred veteran’s eye twitched.

His patience, already strained to its limits, frayed dangerously close to snapping.

It was only a matter of time, before the soldiers took out his weapon , and always before thousands more followed.

A battle was coming, inevitable as the tide.

Fortune had favored the Romelians-and cursed the merchants of Yarzat-when news of the approaching enemy fleet reached Lord Caius while the supply vessels were still docked at the island.

Seizing the moment, Caius absorbed the ten escort ships he had sent for protection back into his fleet, bolstering his numbers.

But that alone would not be enough.

To compensate for the losses suffered during the night raid a week prior, he had no choice but to borrow the merchant vessels that had just arrived.

It was hardly a fair trade-replacing four warships with a dozen lumbering merchant hulks-but necessity left him with little choice.

These were ships built for cargo, not for war.

They lacked reinforced hulls for ramming, their decks were not made to endure the chaos of battle.

That meant there was only one use for them: carrying troops for boarding actions.

The merchants, of course, were livid.

But their fury was as inconsequential as the waves crashing against the shore.

The Romelians had more pressing matters-an enemy fleet was on the horizon, and whether the merchants wailed or not, war was coming.

The soldiers exhaled long, weary sighs, their patience thinning as they faced the wall of enraged merchants.

One of them, a grizzled veteran with a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward and spoke in a tone that barely concealed his irritation.

“We are merely requisitioning the ships for the battle.

Once the enemy is dealt with, they will be returned to you-along with a fair share of the loot taken from the enemy.

Consider it an investment in victory.” But the merchants were not so easily placated.

“An investment?” one of them spat, his face red with fury.

“We were not even asked!

Is this how the Empire does business now?

Theft under the guise of duty?” The soldiers exchanged glances, resisting the urge to roll their eyes.

Why would we ask?

they thought.

We have steel, and they do not.

Another merchant, his feathered hat wobbling with each frantic motion, pointed an accusing finger.

“And what if the ships are destroyed?

Who will compensate us then?” “Aye!” another voice rang out from the crowd.

“What if you lose?

What happens to our livelihoods if the Romelian fleet is defeated?” At that, the soldiers snapped.

“Enough!” barked the veteran, his voice carrying the weight of finality.

“The orders came from Lord Caius himself.

If you have complaints, then march to his tent and voice them there.

But we are soldiers-we obey orders, not your whining.” The crowd wavered, but some still looked ready to argue.

The soldier took a step forward, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword.

His eyes narrowed.

“Now get out of our way.

If you do not leave this instant, we will restrain you with the necessary force to carry out our duties.

And believe me, we would rather not dirty our hands before battle-but we will if you give us reason.” A tense silence followed, the threat hanging in the air like a drawn blade.

The merchants hesitated, their faces shifting between outrage and reluctant acceptance.

Their hands twitched at their sides, as if grasping for some unseen leverage, but there was none to be found.

The soldiers had made themselves clear, and none of them were willing to test the sharpness of Romelian steel.

One of the older merchants, his face flushed and his fine robes slightly damp with sweat, let out a frustrated huff.

“Fine,” he spat, adjusting the extravagant feathered hat that had nearly fallen from his head.

“If Lord Caius has ordered this, then we will take it up with him directly.” Another, a portly man with thick gold rings on each finger, nodded hastily.

“Yes, yes.

We will do that.

There’s no point arguing with men who only know how to swing swords.” His words were laced with venom, but his retreating steps betrayed his lack of resolve.

The rest of the merchants muttered amongst themselves, some shaking their heads, others cursing under their breath.

Slowly, they began to disperse, their robes billowing as they turned toward the command tent, their pride wounded but their bodies intact.

The soldiers remained still, watching them go.

Only when the last of the merchants had moved a safe distance away did the veteran soldier let out a sharp exhale, rubbing his temple.

“Spoiled bastards,” he muttered under his breath.

“Let’s hope they waste their breath on Lord Caius instead of us.” ————- Lord Caius exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple as the muffled shouts from outside seeped into his tent.

He had been expecting this.

With a measured breath, he adjusted the thick crimson cloak draped over his shoulders, brushing off an invisible speck of dust before fastening the golden clasp at his collar.

His armor, polished but worn with years of use, shifted slightly as he stood.

Pushing aside the heavy fabric of his tent’s entrance, he stepped into the open air, the scent of salt and damp wood filling his lungs.

The sight before him was exactly as he had anticipated-dozens of merchants, their richly embroidered robes swaying with each exaggerated gesture, crowding at the entrance of his command post.

Their voices, high-pitched and shrill with indignation, rang through the camp as they berated his guards, who stood firm, their expressions caught between exasperation and restraint.

Lord Caius did not slow his stride.

He had neither the time nor the patience to entertain the whining of merchants when a battle loomed on the horizon.

The salty breeze rustled his cloak as his boots crunched against the dirt, his gaze fixed forward, his mind already occupied with formations, naval maneuvers, and the enemy fleet waiting beyond the horizon.

The merchants, however, were not so easily deterred.

One of them, a man draped in fine silk with golden rings adorning his fingers, stepped forward hastily, almost stumbling over his own feet in his desperation.

“My lord!

My ship-my ship has been requisitioned without my consent!

” Others quickly joined in, their voices rising, pleading, demanding.

“This is not what was signed with the guild” “Surely you do not expect us to simply accept this!” Caius did not break his stride.

He did not spare them a glance.

His voice, cold and unwavering, rang out over their grievances.

“Whatever questions you have can wait until after the battle.

If you still have complaints then, you may bring them to me, as I said after the battle.” His words were final, dismissive, and laced with the implicit warning that he would not entertain further discussion.

He did not need to look back to know that his guards had already stepped forward, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords, ready to enforce his command.

“Now leave,” Caius continued, his tone sharpening.

“Before the guards decide to remove you by force.” The merchants hesitated, their indignation warring with the instinct for self-preservation.

They knew better than to test a Romelian officer’s patience-especially not one preparing for war.

One by one, they stepped back, their protests dying in their throats.

Fat greedy fucks…

Caius did not stop to watch them retreat.

He had more important matters to attend to then the whims of commoners, namely a battle that would decide the masters of these seas…