Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 93: The Rusty Throat and the Dead Money in the Warehouse

The spring mud of the Blue Fork Valley no longer smells of fermentation or sourness.

The only remaining smell in the air was an extremely dry, dusty smell, similar to the rubbing of raw iron.

In the center of the inner fortress, the deep well that had been watched by more than 500 people for three days and three nights finally made a "click" sound.

Foreman Pollifer knelt in the mud, his hands gripping the well rope tightly.

He lowered the broken wooden bucket with the stones tied to it all the way to the deepest crevice at the bottom of the well and shook it vigorously for a long time.

When it was lifted out, there was only a shallow layer of yellowish-brown mud in the wooden bucket.

"That's all."

Pollifer's voice was hoarse, like two pieces of dry wood rubbing together.

His lips were split open with three deep, bloody gashes, and blood seeped out whenever he spoke.

"The underground water veins have also been cut off. Not even the last bit of muddy soup can be extracted."

The courtyard was deathly silent.

Only the mournful sound of the wind whistling through the barricades could be heard.

Three charred remains still clung to the barricade's spikes, and three days of spring rain couldn't wash away the burnt smell.

Instructor Torun stood not far away.

His face, weathered by the northern winds and snows for many years, now appeared ashen.

He turned his head and looked at the temporary stable in the corner of the training ground.

There were four inferior horses tied up there, bought from Haijiang City and used to pull salt carts.

They had been thirsty for three days, were skin and bones, and were irritably gnawing at the wooden railing.

"Mood."

Torun's voice was deep.

John Mudd emerged from the shadows, holding the steel dagger with a blood groove in his hand.

He didn't ask why, nor did he even glance at Toren, and went straight to the oldest chestnut horse.

Gareth was squatting at the entrance of the wounded soldiers' camp, bandaging a militiaman who had been grazed by a stray arrow.

Upon seeing this, he suddenly stood up.

"What are you going to do?"

The knight's voice was hoarse with thirst.

"Feeding the soldiers."

Torun didn't even turn his head.

"If we don't drink some wet food soon, by nightfall, the brothers on watch on the outer wall won't even have the strength to draw their bows."

"Once our spies in Blackwood get over the wall, we won't even be able to lift a knife."

Mudd stood beside the horse's neck, his left hand holding down the horse's mane, while his right hand precisely sliced ​​the short sword into the neck.

He didn't slit the throat; he just cut a small opening that allowed blood to flow continuously.

"hiss--"

Old Ma let out a painful neigh, but he was unable to move under the iron grip of Mud's arms.

Warm, viscous horse blood, emitting a strong rusty smell, gushed out from the opening and fell into the wooden tub that had been prepared below.

When the blood came into contact with the cold air, it foamed up with a layer of dark red foam.

"Iron Oath Regiment, bring the bowls over here."

"Mood shouted coldly."

The veterans, whose eyes were already green with thirst, lined up without the slightest hesitation.

They took the bowls of still-steaming raw horse blood and gulped it down, mud and foam, in large mouthfuls.

Blood stained their beards and chins.

Some people bend over and gag due to gastrointestinal discomfort, but quickly force themselves to swallow it back down.

Gareth watched this scene and felt a spasm in his stomach.

He was a knight who had been anointed with oil.

The ground floor of the stone tower was dimly lit.

Otto Hohenzollern did not light a lamp.

He crouched in the shadows of the fireplace corner, holding a sharpened iron shovel in his hand.

His hand movements were very steady.

The iron pry bar was inserted into the mortar gap between two gray stone bricks. With a forceful pry, a stone brick weighing more than ten pounds was pulled out in one piece with a "click".

Hidden in a partition in the wall was a heavy iron box wrapped in thick canvas soaked in grease.

"grown ups."

Gareth's footsteps sounded outside the door.

Otto did not immediately put the metal box back.

He stood up and placed the box filled with golden dragons directly on the rough hardwood desk.

"Enter."

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

"Sir, the brothers are drinking horse blood."

Gareth's voice trembled.

"How many horses do we have left to kill? One day? Two days?"

"Tytus Blackwood doesn't even need to attack; just by surrounding us, we'll all turn into dried-up corpses in the mud."

"So, we can't wait any longer."

Otto looked at the cracked "mirror" in front of him.

"You saw the log that Tethos laid down, you saw the charred corpse of the farmer. That's a fact."

Otto grabbed a handful of golden dragons and threw them back into the tin box with a "clatter".

The dull thud of metal clashing echoed through the stone chamber.

"But I am inside this stone wall, guarding this group of people who are about to die of thirst. No matter what I say, in the eyes of Duke Horst of Riverrun, it is just two minor nobles from the Riverlands fighting over territory."

Otto fixed his gaze on Gareth's face.

"I need someone to go to Riverrun. Not to ask for help, but to state the facts."

"I'll go."

Gareth straightened his back without hesitation.

"My sword can cleave through their blockade..."

"Your sword cannot cleave through the formation of two hundred rangers."

Otto coldly interrupted him.

"You won't even get past the barricades outside; you'll be pinned to the ground by longbowmen."

Otto pushed the heavy iron box toward Gareth.

"Your value lies not in your sword, but in the fact that you have no fiefdom and no private army."

"You are a fence knight who has been anointed by the seven gods and whose reputation is spotless."

"Duke Horst doesn't trust me, but he will trust a knight whose eyes have no greed."

"Take this money and crawl out through the sewage culvert in the East Tower."

"Smuggler Raymond Frey's boat will be waiting for you at the confluence of the Red Fork River."

"This gold is enough to buy his fastest flat-bottomed sailboat, and enough to shut that fat man up."

Otto took out a roll of parchment stamped with the wax seal of Baron Bluefork and placed it on the tin box.

"Place this letter, along with the waterwheel wreckage you saw with your own eyes, the dried-up well, and the three charred corpses of farmers, exactly as they were, in the main hall of Riverrun."

"Tell Duke Horst that Tytos Blackwood, out of personal grudge, cut off the spring flood channel of a tributary of the Trident River, thus ruining the Duke's salt tax."

"No need to embellish, just vomit the stench and blood you've smelled these past few days onto the Duke's carpet exactly as they are."

"I will deliver the letter."

Gareth picked up the metal box, its weight causing his wrist to sag slightly.

"But what if the Duke doesn't believe it?"

"That's your problem, knight."

Otto turned around and looked out the window at the gloomy sky.

"My task is to use the blood of the remaining few inferior horses to keep these five hundred men alive until the day you bring back the Tully army's orders."

Late at night. The outlet of the sewage culvert in the East Tower.

The stench here is ten times stronger than the silt at the bottom of the well.

The spring rain pattered softly on the decaying water plants.

Gareth stood in the stinking water, which was above his knees, carrying a tightly wrapped iron box on his back.

He wasn't wearing his gleaming armor, but only a dirty and tattered black cloak.

Fifty paces from the sewage outlet, in the reeds, were two hidden sentries from Blackwood.

"Hold your breath. Follow me for ten steps. Don't show your face until you hear birds chirping."

John Mudd's voice came from the muddy water ahead.

This former captain of the Golden Company had almost become one with the darkness.

He held the short sword, smeared with soot, upside down in his hand, like a venomous snake slithering through mud.

Twelve-year-old William Charlton followed closely behind Mulder, half a step behind.

The boy's body was covered in rotting fish intestines, which perfectly masked the smell of a living person.

"laugh--"

From the reeds far ahead, a faint, almost inaudible sound came from the reeds.

It sounded like the sound of a ripe fruit being cut open.

Immediately following was a short, soft cry from a night bird.

William poked his head out of the mud and waved back.

A few drops of hot blood splattered on the boy's face.

Gareth gritted his teeth and groped his way forward through the slippery mud.

As he passed the clump of reeds, he saw that the two Blackwood sentries had been dragged into the pit.

Mudd's technique was clean and swift, killing the victim with a single blow.

"Keep going, don't look back. Raymond's boat is on the riverbank two miles away."

Mudd stood in the shadows, wiping his short sword with the clothes of a dead man, and spoke coldly.

Gareth remained silent.

He took one last deep look at the fortress shrouded in darkness, clutched the bundle of money tightly to his chest, and disappeared alone into the raging spring rain.

William watched Gareth's disappearing figure, a disdainful smirk playing on his lips.

"Sir."

William lowered his voice and looked at Mulder.

"That big, dumb guy is gone. The adults said that starting tomorrow, there won't even be any horse blood left."

Mude sheathed the cleaned dagger.

Those emotionless gray eyes looked across the murky river and fixed their gaze on the faintly visible Blackwood longbowmen's position on the opposite bank.

"In Essos, if the wells dry up, the mercenaries will mutini."

Mud licked his chapped lips.

"Go tell the Baron. The knight is gone; it's time for the butcher to get to work."

"Let's cross the river. Let's borrow some blood from those black crows who shoot arrows."