landbeastnovel Chapter 117: The Ironclad Evidence of the Blackwood River and the Legal Basis of Rust
Chapter 117: The Ironclad Evidence of the Blackwood River and the Legal Basis of Rust
The continuous muddy rain of early summer lasted for two whole nights, and the waters of the Lancha River became turbid and swollen.
The uprooted dead trees tumbled down the muddy, yellow water, crashing through seven or eight rows of dilapidated fishing fences along the muddy bank, making a dull thud as the wood broke against the flood control stone piers.
The stone pagoda stands behind the river valley. The bottom blast furnace, with its exhaust vents blocked by rainwater, emits a foul stench of rotten wood smoke mixed with sour mud that is impossible to wash away.
It was not yet time to light the lamps, and the dim light of the overcast sky seeped into the study on the second floor through the gaps in the wooden blinds that were not fully closed.
A piece of coarse cloth was casually tossed aside, followed by several dull thuds as it struck the table, breaking the tension in the room.
The edge of the rosewood desk was chipped with paint chips.
A bundle of cast iron spearheads, covered in dried, dark brown blood clots, was thrown on the table like dead flesh.
The smell emanating from the weapons was not from the blast furnace; it was the stench of human chests and mud that had been rotting for days.
Several carrion flies, their abdomens covered in white ash, buzzed around the bloodstains on the edge of the spearhead.
William Charlton stood in the shadows at the far side of the desk.
His left hand rested on the non-slip leather sheath of the sword hilt, his eyes fixed on the spearhead closest to him on the table.
On the metal forged surface of the spear base, there is a deeply recessed hammer pattern.
The hammer handle mark is crooked to the upper left, and a piece is missing from the bottom corner.
This clumsy hammer mark could only be made by Cole, the one-eyed blacksmith at the Blue Fork River workshop, when he was rushing to meet a deadline and swinging his heavy hammer off course.
The man who brought the weapons stood across the long table.
He wore a red and blue fish-scale robe, with water droplets hanging on his shoulder armor, and a silver trout leaping in the water was embroidered on his chest with silver thread.
That was Lord Horst Tully's chief bodyguard in Riverrun.
Otto Hohenzollern sat in the main seat, wrapped in a thick, gray-black woolen coat without coat of arms.
"baron."
The old knight's voice sounded like rusty iron chains rubbing together.
He pulled a parchment scroll stamped with a leaping fish fire lacquer seal from the leather tube at his waist and slapped it on the mahogany table.
"Three days ago, Earl Jonas Brecken's vanguard raided the Widow's Mill. Tytus Blackwood repelled them, and among the bodies of the Brecken soldiers, five cartloads of weapons bearing the Blue Fork River mark were seized."
The old knight's gaze was fixed on Otto's ashen face.
"The Duke of Horst has sent me to deliver a message. Blackwood has formally accused Riverrun of illegally dumping weapons into Brecken, deliberately instigating civil war in the Riverlands, and undermining the King's peace."
"The Duke demands an explanation from you, or the Tully family's halberdiers will once again blockade this territory."
The only sound in the study was the faint crackling of charcoal in the brazier.
Pollifer stood beside the bookshelf, gripping the edge of the account book.
Caught red-handed, Blackwood handed the noose directly to Riverrun.
Otto looked at the letter of inquiry, neither covering his nose to dispel the stench of the corpse nor offering any explanation like a thief caught red-handed.
He extended a black-gloved index finger and fiddled with the blood-stained spearhead on the table.
The spear scraped against the mahogany table.
"The workmanship is rough, only enough to pierce leather armor. This is indeed the workmanship of the Blue Fork River workshop."
Otto acknowledged the origin of the weapons.
"Since you've confessed..."
The old knight's rough, large hand pressed down on the counterweight ball at the tip of the sword.
"Is there anything that needs explaining?"
Otto looked up at the old knight.
"Blue Fork River governs the Willow Forest Iron Mine and owns the blast furnace. In order to collect the tax revenue demanded by the Duke, my blacksmiths not only forge plowshares but also regular self-defense weapons in exchange for Golden Dragon. It's a business."
"Two months ago, Jonas Breken sent men with Golden Dragon to Blue Fork River to purchase these spears. I took the money, and he took the goods. The accounts were settled."
"That's a murder weapon used to slaughter vassals! You're essentially funding a rebellion!"
The old knight roared angrily, his beard trembling.
"A weapon is a weapon; only the person who wields it can distinguish right from wrong."
Otto's words were like a tempered blade, cutting open the loopholes in the legal system of Westeros.
"Whether Blaken used the spear to guard against bandits or to pierce the stomachs of Blackwood soldiers after buying it is not within the jurisdiction of a blacksmith."
Oto leaned forward, staring intently at the old knight.
"Captain of the Guard. If a blacksmith in King's Landing sold a dagger to a drunkard, and the drunkard slit someone's throat in a flea's nest, would King Robert hang the blacksmith?"
"If any law of Westeros forbids minor lords from forging and trading ironware, I'll shut down the blast furnace right now. If not, Bluefork is operating legally."
The old knight choked.
He racked his brains but couldn't find any law that could be used to punish a steel merchant.
"The Duke of Horst is not blind."
The old knight gritted his teeth.
"Your sophistry, which relies on a fallacy of semantics, will not escape the wrath of Riverrun. The Duke will never tolerate the existence of an armory in the Riverlands ready to supply swords for a civil war!"
"Of course Duke Horst isn't blind."
Otto leaned back in his high-backed chair, pulled a blank sheet of parchment from the drawer, and picked up a dip quill pen.
The quill pen scratched on the parchment.
"Tell the Duke a message."
As Otto wrote, he also laid out the chips for this confrontation.
"To make amends for the bloodshed caused by the freedom of trade, Bluefork River is willing to donate an additional fifty suits of superior chainmail and one hundred fine steel spears to Riverrun, in addition to this year's taxes, to enrich House Tully's arsenal so that the Duke can better maintain peace."
"As for Tytos Blackwood's grievances."
Otto folded the letter he had written and applied a red wax seal to it.
"I also made it clear in the letter. Blue Fork River only recognizes gold coins and doesn't care about grudges. If Blackwood feels he has been cheated in terms of weaponry, Blue Fork River's doors are also open to Blackwood River. As long as he can afford the price, our blast furnaces can be running day and night for the Blackwood family at any time."
The old knight held the letter, looked at the baron with grey-blue eyes in front of him, and felt a chill creep up his spine.
The old knight turned around with a gloomy face and walked toward the oak door of the stone tower.
He paused for a moment as he grasped the doorknob.
The old knight turned his head slightly, his wrinkled eyes coldly sweeping over the bloodstained spearheads on the mahogany table.
He opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing. He pushed the door open forcefully and strode into the shadows of the stairwell.
The sound of horses' hooves echoed in the muddy water downstairs, then faded into the wind and rain.
Outside the window, the muddy water in the flood control canal roared.
A section of deadwood, uprooted and swirling, was swept away by the muddy torrent and disappeared into the bay.
Pollifer pushed up his brass-rimmed glasses.
He walked to the mahogany table, picked up a coarse cloth, and wiped the tabletop clean.
William stood in the shadows.
He didn't speak. He looked at the broken weapons left behind by the old knight on the table.
William slowly loosened his grip on the leather sheath of the sword hilt.
He stepped forward and picked out a fine steel spear from a pile of scrap metal, one that was not yet completely dulled.
He took out a greasy cloth and began wiping the blood off the spearhead.
The faint light of the oil lamp on the table was reflected in those gray eyes.
He simply cleaned the rust off the murder weapon, stroke by stroke.
The rain intensified.
A plume of black, acidic smoke billowed from the blast furnace flue at the bottom of the stone tower, melting into the cold winds of the Blue Fork Valley.