Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 94: The Suspended Charcoal Stick and the Dim Candle in the Mud

The night wind in the Blue Fork Valley carried a pungent, fishy smell from upstream, a mixture of rotting aquatic plants and quicklime.

The study at the bottom of the stone tower had no brazier; only a flickering mutton oil lamp on the corner of the table provided dim light.

The lack of water for several days had made the stone chamber extremely dry, with fine dust floating in the air.

Otto Hohenzollern sat behind a hard wooden table.

Before him lay a rough sheepskin map, a topographical sketch of the southern shore mudflats and the edge of the birch forest.

The scout with the severed hand, Rosso, stood stiffly in front of the table.

His eyes were sunken and his lips were cracked and bleeding, but his bloodshot eyes still showed absolute faith in the young baron before him.

Just half a day ago, following his superiors' instructions, he successfully fooled everyone with a lie that seemed to guarantee his survival.

John Mudd stood silently in the shadows behind and to the side of Rosso, like a black iron relief.

"Mood is going to cross the river tonight to remove those dozen or so longbows that are watching the canal on the other side."

Otto's voice sounded somewhat hollow in the silent stone chamber.

"Rosso, you know the terrain on the south bank best. You know best where the hard soil is and where the man-eating mud is."

"Rest assured, sir! I will lead the way for Captain Mud!"

Rosso immediately straightened his chest and patted his leather armor heavily with his only remaining right hand.

"Even with my eyes closed, I can find out where those black crows are hiding!"

Otto looked at Rosso.

His gaze swept over the veteran's loyal face, which was covered in mud, and finally settled on the empty left sleeve.

That was cut down by rioters last year at the Haijiang City dock while they were protecting the territory's supplies.

Otto picked up the charcoal sticks on the table.

According to the tactics, he only needed to mark the two men's routes and support positions on the map.

But his right hand, holding the charcoal stick, abruptly stopped just half an inch from the parchment.

Only the faint sound of the wick of the mutton oil lamp popping remained in the stone chamber.

Rosso was a good soldier, one of his own men who would carry out orders without hesitation, even if it meant his death.

Rosso executed that extremely dangerous bait lie flawlessly.

The charcoal strips were suspended in mid-air.

Take a breath.

Two breaths.

Otto's Adam's apple bobbed slightly. He saw the trust in Rosso's eyes.

That was a question posed to him whether he really wanted to become a monster that devoured everything.

Three breaths.

John Mudd, standing in the shadows, narrowed his gray eyes slightly.

As a veteran who had witnessed betrayal and slaughter in contested lands, he keenly sensed the unusual nature of this deathly silence.

He understood the Baron's hand hovering in the air, and he understood that moment of weakness and struggle.

Mudd waited. He waited for the nineteen-year-old to make the final decision.

Otto slowly inhaled a breath of cold air, thick with dust.

His left hand was under the table, gripping the unmarked iron ring tightly.

The cold, metallic edges dug into my palm.

"Click."

The charcoal stick landed heavily on the parchment, making a harsh scraping sound.

Without any hesitation, Otto drew a solid black line on the map.

He placed Rosso's "first scout position" on a patch of exposed mudflats.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, he drew Mude's "cover and support position" on the back of a high slope, exactly two hundred paces away from the mudflats.

"This is your position."

Otto raised his head, his eyes filled with nothing but death.

"Rosso, you go first. Mudd, you provide support from behind. Once the enemy is spotted, signal to surround them immediately."

Rosso didn't understand the picture; he only understood the important task the adults had entrusted to him.

He responded loudly, then turned and walked out of the study.

Mudd did not leave.

He walked to the desk and glanced at the sketch.

Two hundred steps away.

There was no cover on the mudflats ahead. And Rosso was a cripple who was missing an arm.

Mude raised his eyelids and glanced at Otto.

Otto was looking at him too.

There were no superfluous words exchanged between the two, such as "leave him alone" or "let him die."

All there is is a cold, hard map, and a rescue distance that can never be bridged.

If the old soldier were ambushed by longbowmen on the mudflats, a charge of two hundred paces would be enough to kill him ten times over.

This isn't a coordinated effort; it's a professional, deliberate attempt to use someone else to do the dirty work.

Mud's lips twitched slightly downwards. He felt neither anger nor cruelty.

In the Golden Regiment, wounded veterans who knew the dirty secrets of their employers never lived to see the day they received their severance pay.

He looked at the young baron before him.

Mude even felt a genuine sense of awe—this man, who clearly felt pain and struggled before putting pen to paper, could still unhesitatingly throw his most loyal subordinate into the mud to avert a potential risk.

With such a lucid monster by his side, perhaps the crown of Old Stone City can really be dug out from the ruins.

"As you wish, sir."

Mud bowed slightly and accepted the parchment that pronounced the death sentence with the highest courtesy reserved for mercenaries.

Late at night, the spring rain was as fine as cow's hair.

The reeds on the south bank rustled in the night wind, as if countless ghosts were whispering in the mud.

Rosso rode his skinny scout horse, carefully stepping on the hard soil at the edge of the mudflats.

He was exhausted; the days of dehydration and extreme tension had blurred his vision.

But he still straightened his back, thinking that once the nail was removed, the adults might reward him with a whole jug of fine Nanzhen wheat wine.

He didn't even touch the short sword at his waist.

"laugh--"

A muffled whistling sound, muffled by the rain, rose from the depths of the reeds on the right.

Rosso did not make a sound.

There was no dying shout, no struggle to draw the sword, and no protest against the injustice of fate.

A heavy arrow with barbs that pierced armor, like iron teeth that could crush rotten wood, pierced his neck with pinpoint accuracy.

The veteran's body stiffened for a moment on horseback.

Immediately afterwards, he slid off the saddle silently, like a piece of dried-out wood.

With a "thud," he fell face-first into the cold, foul-smelling mud.

His only remaining right hand loosened the reins, twitched twice, and then fell into complete stillness.

Like a candle blown out in a storm, it died cheaply and quietly.

And two hundred paces behind Rosso, on a high, muddy slope.

John Mudd lay silently in the rain, like a cold, black rock.

His eyes were fixed on the reeds from which the arrow had just flown.

Rosso's death freed up three concealed longbowman positions.

Mudd waited patiently.

Watching the three Blackwood soldiers, clad in black and red robes, emerge from the shadows as if identifying prey in a trap, short swords in hand, they approached Rosso's corpse step by step, preparing to search for the spoils.

Mude slowly drew the short sword covered in soot from the bottom of the pot.

The four veterans of the Golden Regiment behind him, like four black hyenas that had smelled blood, silently rose from the mud.