"Does anyone have an estimate of how big the Red Sail armada actually is?" Lorian asked the room, his eyes specifically locking onto Anya Vesper, "Anyone?"
"My Lord," Anya replied, hesitating, "We know that the Red Sails absorbed and assimilated all the pirate fleets in this part of the ocean. So, they must be massive... but I am sorry, I cannot give you an exact estimate."
Lorian exhaled a deep sigh of frustration. "Do you think they have invaded with their entire fleet in this naval battle?" he turned his gaze toward Vorlag, "Just give me a rough estimate."
"Around sixty, my Lord," the Admiral answered after a quick mental check, "Forty-five caravels and fifteen brigs, if my memory serves me correctly."
Lorian nodded, but the Admiral pressed on, "On the first day alone, we destroyed six caravels when they made back-to-back attempts to rain fire on the mainland. And when the main pirate armada engaged at night, our carracks ran down and crushed six more caravels just by their sheer weight." A tint of pride appeared om the man's weathered face.
Although it was an information overload that Lorian hadn't explicitly asked for, he didn't stop the man. More than Vorlag's body, his ego was bruised. To bring him back to the battlefront, Lorian knew he needed to heal the man's spirit more than his health. So, he let him continue narrating the story of his exploits.
Admiral Vane continued, "Oh, and you know, my Lord, when the cowards' stealthy brigs tried to slide into the Goldstar's blind spots to use their liquid fire, it was Vespera who intercepted them with her brilliant maneuvering. She sent six brigs straight to the bottom of the sea before they could incinerate the flagship."
The part of the Admiral's face that wasn't covered in bandages lit up with joy and pride, "And since Vespera took absolute command, her uncanny ability has allowed her to predict and counter the pirates' erratic maneuvers. She has baited and destroyed three more brigs, as far as I can see from here. If my vision serves me correctly, the enemy has only thirty-nine ships remaining- thirty-three caravels and six brigs. They won't survive against our navy! OH, LOOK OVER THERE…"
He pointed out toward the sea, which looked like a cremation ground on water. The forty-two-year-old Admiral was excited like a kid as he pointed at two more brigs slowly sinking as the Goldstar inserted herself between them, crushing them in her wake, "Now thirty-three caravels and only four brigs!"
Lorian didn't ask about their own losses; no good would come from dampening the mood. He gave a soft, careful tap to the man's bandaged belly, ensuring he wouldn't hurt him, and said, "As expected of Admiral Vane and his men!"
Then, he turned back to the balcony, "But my question remains unanswered. Is this the whole of their navy?"
Lady Anya Vesper approached, her head hung low, "Forgive me, my Lord. As I told you earlier, I do not have a concrete idea, and I do not like to make wild guesses."
Lorian rolled his eyes. Not again. Even in this world. In his past life, he had always loathed people's tendency to freeze up instead of making a rough estimate, completely paralyzed by the fear of being factually incorrect.
"Look out there," Lorian said in stern voice, "My city is on the verge of collapse, and you are still sticking to your ideology of only giving certified information? Give me an estimate, for God's sake!"
Anya was visibly shaken by the Lord's sudden outburst.
Lorian took a breath, forcing his frustration and anger back down, "Can you guesstimate?"
Anya blinked, there was genuine confusion crossing her face, "A... guest-estimate, my Lord? What is that?"
Lorian shook his head in disappointment. He crossed his arms, and his posture instinctively mimicked the professor who had taught his class the art of guesstimation.
"It means you don't freeze just because you don't have a certified document in your hands," Lorian said with a dry chuckle, "You see, whether it's business or war, you are often forced to make massive decisions with zero data. If I ask you right now exactly how many linen tunics are woven in the Seven Cities every single year, you don't have a master ledger for that. You'd refuse to answer because you are scared of being wrong.
A guesstimate is just a way to force a logical answer out of total darkness. No, it's not shooting blindly and hoping you hit something. Rather, it's about taking a huge, seemingly impossible question and breaking it down into small, common-sense pieces that you do know.
Look at the math. Let's say the Seven Cities have roughly three million people. That's our baseline. Now, let's break it down. Everyone wears clothes, but a rich merchant buys five new tunics every year, and a poor farmer makes one last for two years. Let's average it out and say the average person buys one new tunic a year.
What does that tell us? Three million people, one tunic a year. The weavers are turning out roughly three million tunics annually. And bingo! In less than a minute, we turned a completely blind question into a logical, defensible baseline."
Lorian placed a hand on her shoulder, "Try to understand! I don't need you to be one hundred percent accurate, Anya. I need an estimate. I need to know the scale of what we are dealing with so I can plan our next move. It is a thousand times better to be approximately right than to stand perfectly still while the city burns.
"Now," Lorian leaned over the balcony rail, his eyes locking onto hers with intense focus, "Look at the Red Sails. You know how many pirate crews used to infest these waters. You know how much territory they control, and how much food a fleet needs to survive. Break it down. Give me a guesstimate on the true scale of Red Sail armada."
Anya kept a blank stare, trying to grasp what the Lord had just said. She realized his words made perfect sense, but she couldn't wrap her head around the execution just yet.
Lorian looked at the bystanders. Gravil, Lucien, Vorlag, Theron- even his own mother- were looking at him with equally blank expressions. Only Rylan's face sparkled with pure joy and astonishment.
"Splendid, my Lord! Completely spectacular! It's like…. It's like… " Lorian smiled and raised a hand to stop Rylan, as the man seemed entirely at a loss for words to express his excitement.
Lorian looked at Anya with expectation, wanting to start the exercise with her right then and there. But Anya dampened his mood when she informed him that she would give him the estimation by tonight; she needed time to process the concept first. Rylan immediately volunteered to assist her, claiming he understood the process well and was eager to put it to practical use.
Lorian was just about to erupt in a fresh wave of frustration when a Throne Guard rushed toward him. The guard was visibly shaken, huffing out a panicked, "At the gate… at the gate… "
The room froze, assuming the pirates had breached the walls.
"SPEAK UP!" Lucien roared.
The Throne Guard swallowed hard and informed them that a band of Half-Orcs riding direwolves had arrived. They had a group of humans tied up with them, along with a Throne Guard's corpse. Furthermore, they were holding Jax and Kaelen hostage.
Everyone exchanged puzzled looks at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Lorian raised an eyebrow, asking if Jax and Kaelen had actually confessed to being hostages. The guard shook his head, replying that, on the contrary, Kaelen was loudly demanding they open the gate immediately.
Realizing the true nature of the situation, Lorian ordered them to be brought to the training grounds in the barracks. He would meet the gang there himself. He requested the High Council accompany him. Though the council members were highly resistant to the idea given the risks, they were quickly growing accustomed to Lorian's outlandish tactics and simply agreed.
Soon, the two groups met in the barracks. To everyone's utter surprise, the Wolfriders dismounted from their direwolves and knelt before Lorian. The massive wolves lowered their heads as well, mirroring their riders. The High Council had a barrage of questions, but realized this was neither the time nor the place.
Lorian looked at Zot'r, "Any casualties on your side?"
"Not at all," Zot'r grinned, baring his fangs, "It was a completely one-sided massacre. The boys thoroughly enjoyed it." His eyes scanned the gathering, searching for someone special.
Lorian caught his drift and smiled, "She is under the care of our finest healers."
Lorian then looked past the wolves toward a group of men behind them, their wrists were tightly bound, "And they are…?"
"They dropped their weapons and surrendered," Zot'r replied.
Lorian nodded and waved his index finger, signaling the prisoners to approach. The men looked at each other hesitantly, but as the Half-Orcs began to herd them forward, they scrambled toward Lorian.
"Save us, Great Lord! Save us from the beasts!" they cried, throwing themselves to the ground.
A smirk played on Lorian's lips. He locked eyes with one of them and asked directly, "Was that the complete fleet of the Red Sails out there, or are there more?"
The man fumbled over his words, terrified. "They... they were nothing compared to our main armada. We have two hundred caravels and sixty-five brigs. We even have fifteen of your big ships as well!"
A heavy, stunned silence fell over the gathered Lords.
"Manpower?" Lorian demanded, leaning in, "How many men?"
"Twenty thousand," the prisoner whimpered, "Give or take a thousand more."