Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 77: Spring Ridges and Anvils

The sound of ice cracking echoed across the Blue Fork River for a whole week, sounding like countless giant beasts grinding their teeth simultaneously deep underground. By the end of the month, the deathly silence created by the freezing was finally shattered, replaced by a violent, muddy, and pungent melting.

Otto Hohenzollern stood on the gentle slope of the side entrance to the stone tower. He had changed into a wool lining that was slightly yellowed from the smoke. He looked at the territory beneath his feet, which had once been a smooth white covered by snow, but was now a black and red wound trampled by countless feet and hooves.

"Sir, old man Matt is arguing with Instructor Torren over there."

Steward Pollifer strode over, his boots caked in mud like heavy iron weights, each step producing a dull, thumping sound. He clutched a stack of yellowed accounts, his fingernails grime black and soot-covered.

"For those six strong oxen." Pollifer wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, his voice filled with anxiety. "Matt said spring planting can't wait, all the oxen have to go to the fields to plow. But Toren wants to requisition two oxen to go to the north slope to haul iron ore, saying that the furnace over there can't be without fuel."

Otto didn't speak. He leaned on his wooden pole and walked along the log path towards the ridge beside the training ground.

In the field, six oxen were puffing out white steam, their shoulders marked with deep red welts from the thick leather straps. Old farmer Matt was gripping the bit of one of the oxen tightly, his wrinkled face flushed a deep liver color with excitement, and he was roaring at Toren.

"Without wheat to eat, whose stomachs will those iron sheets protect?" Matt's voice was hoarse. "If we can't turn the soil over in the next two weeks, we'll all be eating weeds in the river for the rest of the year!"

Toren stood in the mud with his arms crossed, his eyes as cold as ice. Behind him stood two Iron Oath Guards, their hands already resting on the wooden stakes of the chevaux-de-frise.

"The Duke's envoy will be here next month to verify the number of soldiers." Toren's voice was short and sharp, like a knife. "No iron, no armor. No armor, and the sheriff of Seafront City will take this land back. Matt, take your men away."

Otto stepped between the two.

Two pairs of eyes simultaneously fell upon the nineteen-year-old baron. Otto did not judge who was right or wrong.

"Leave four oxen in the fields. The remaining two belong to Cole. They'll plow the fields during the day and transport the ore at night."

Otto's voice was perfectly steady, without any inflection.

"But sir, the ox can't stay up all night..." Matt was so anxious he wanted to slap his thigh.

"If they can't endure it, kill them and eat them." Otto coldly interrupted him, his gaze sweeping over the refugees who were toiling in the muddy ditches. "Oxen can be replaced if they die, but once the farming season is over, these 575 mouths will have to be filled."

He turned his head and looked at Toren.

"We can't leave out any soldiers. But starting today, those sixteen men will have to spend three hours every afternoon helping the laborers plow the fields. They won't wear armor, just tattered hemp clothing. I want every passing scout to think that my Hohenzollern territory has become so poor that even my soldiers have to work in the fields to survive."

In the afternoon, next to the "smoldering fire seedbed" on the north slope.

Twelve-year-old hostage William Charlton knelt on the wet, heavy mud. His expensive green oak robe had long been stripped off, replaced by a short, rough linen jacket. His hands, which had once held fine wooden swords, were now covered in blackish-purple chilblains, his fingers stuffed with rotten horse manure and quicklime.

Together with several displaced women, he carefully transplanted the first batch of vegetable sprouts cultivated at the bottom of the ditch onto a sunny slope.

"Hurry up, young master." An old farmer with half an ear missing shoved him. "If these delicate seedlings aren't covered with dry grass by sunset, tonight's frost will kill them all."

William bit his lip, remaining silent. He recalled two months ago, when he was secretly drinking fruit wine behind the stables in the Twins. Now, his world consisted only of endless mud, the stench of lime, and the baron sitting atop the stone tower, his eyes as cold as a ghost.

He glanced back at the stone tower.

He knew that if he didn't get these seedlings to grow, that damned accountant Pollifer would really take away his bowl of oily soup that night.

At this moment, deafening metallic clanging sounds erupted from the blacksmith's shop at the bottom of the stone tower.

"Ding! Clang!—"

Cole's single eye glowed red in the furnace fire. He swung his twenty-pound armor-piercing hammer, repeatedly forging a wrought iron ingot unloaded from the Brecken merchant ship. Each strike sent up a shower of sparks, and the pungent smell of sulfur was almost suffocating in the sweltering workshop.

On the cutting board covered with oil paper, there was a completed breastplate template.

This is not the traditional full armor of the Sea Frontier City, but rather the "improved fish scale armor" designed and drawn by Otto himself.

Each scale is slightly larger than an adult's thumb, with sharpened edges, and its overlapping structure helps to absorb the impact of blunt force. The most crucial design element is the shoulder—Otto required two small, flattened lever plates to be embedded in the leather lining of the shoulder.

This was designed specifically for the "backless formation". When the person at the top pushes the shield bearer's shoulder, the tiny displacement of the metal plate creates a vibration that is felt even on the noisiest battlefield.

"Sir, this is a sample of the first 'Summit' heavy armor."

Cole wiped the soot off his face, his tone carrying the fervor unique to craftsmen. "It uses two hundred and fifty pieces of finely forged iron scales. A thick layer of cowhide was added to the chest. This armor weighs over fifty pounds; an ordinary farmer would collapse from exhaustion after walking only two miles. But if you establish a firm formation..."

Otto reached out and touched the cold iron scales. They still carried the residual warmth of the quenching process.

"It's too bright," Otto frowned.

"Bright?" Cole was taken aback.

"Paint it black. Use that kind of waste paint mixed with graphite and lard." Otto's voice sounded particularly cold amidst the hammer blows. "I want a group of shadows that can disappear into the night and the mire, not knights who go to the arena to show off. Also, the lining of this batch of armor must be made of that greenish Frey leather—boiled thoroughly, softened, and then sewn in. We must make the most of everything."

As evening fell, Gareth returned from the muddy ditch of the moat. He was covered in mud and carrying a chipped wooden bucket.

He saw a figure huddled in the shadows by the roadside.

That was an old farmer from the second labor group. He was no longer moving. He was still clutching a handful of dry straw used to cover the vegetable seedlings. His chest was not rising and falling, and his eyes were half-open, shrouded in a layer of gray, lifeless light.

He was either exhausted to death, or his heart and lungs were shattered by the spring chill after the ice melted.

Gareth stood before the corpse for a long time. He remembered what Otto had said earlier on the edge of the field: "If you can't hold on, kill you and eat you."

"Garres, what are you standing there for?" Toren walked over and kicked the corpse on the ground. "Polliver has already settled the accounts. For those without families, just drag them to the lime pit downwind and fill them in. Don't let the fever spread."

"He helped me push the car this morning," Gareth said in a low voice, with a kind of innocent pain.

"In the Blue Fork River, those who were alive yesterday may not be able to stand today." Toren glanced at him, his eyes devoid of any pity. "If you really want to feel sorry for him, chop a few more bundles of firewood tomorrow. This place doesn't recognize tears, only strength."

Gareth didn't speak. He dropped the bucket, bent down and picked up the emaciated corpse, and trudged towards the burial pit on the north slope.

The top floor of the stone tower.

Otto was drinking a bowl of bitter tea with dried mint leaves. It was specially prepared for him by the Maester Ilion to suppress the stale air in his lungs.

Pollifer sat opposite him, quickly making the final settlements on the wooden plank.

"Thirty death row inmates have now been reduced to dredging laborers. They don't even have the strength to speak." Pollifer's eyes were cold. "The grain and iron that Lady Maria brought back has already suffered a 30% loss. To maintain the progress of those fourteen sets of heavy armor, our salt reserves for this month are about to run out again."

"Once it reaches rock bottom, go and urge Brecken."

Otto put down his teacup.

"Tell Steward Kevan that if I don't see those two extra carts of pig iron by next week, his red-flag merchant ships will be stuck in the mudflats to the south, exposed to the elements. Also, write a letter to Seafront City."

Otto stood up and walked to the narrow window.

"Tell Earl Jason that Maester Theron has 'confirmed' the barrenness of the territory. In return for the Earl's 'goodwill,' I'm willing to add an extra 'compensation' to next month's silver mine share. But I need his help to stop those herbalists from going to the Blackwood family. Since everyone's doing business in the spring, it's a matter of who has the stronger bargaining chip."

Outside the window, the first unknown migratory bird flew across the cracked surface of the Blue Fork River.