Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 92: Blood-Soaked Oats and Burning Filth

The spring rain in the birch forest to the south pattered against the ripped iron helmet, making a dull dripping sound.

The muddy water, mixed with the stench of decaying leaves, churned up a layer of sticky black slurry under the repeated trampling of warhorses' horseshoes.

Three corpses dressed in tattered burlap jackets lay scattered haphazardly beside the leaky cart, like tattered burlap sacks torn apart by wild animals.

The ranger sergeant in Blackwood wiped the cold rain from his face and flicked away the long string of dark red blood beads from the blood groove of his short sword.

He was panting heavily, and a large patch of warm, dirty blood belonging to a farmer had splattered onto his black robe with red patterns.

"Damn it, these peasants have gone mad."

The squad leader kicked the corpse on the ground.

The strongest farmer, before he died, used a rusty pitchfork to pierce the neck of his second-in-command's warhorse.

Even after his collarbone and ribs were severed by three longswords at the same time, the farmer's hands still clung tightly to the hemp rope on the edge of the cart, and he died with half of his body hanging from the wooden barrel that held the ale.

"Boss, that cripple on horseback has vanished without a trace."

A ranger, wiping his blood-stained saber, stepped forward and used his toe to pry open the tarpaulin covering the cart.

Underneath the felt cloth were two barrels of ale sealed with corks, and a dozen bags filled to the brim with dried oats.

The ranger swallowed hard.

They waited like wild dogs for three days in the cold rain of the spring flood season, and could only gnaw on old jerky that was so hard it could break your teeth.

Now, the slightly sour aroma emanating from those barrels of ale is more tempting than gold in this freezing weather that makes your bones ache.

"They'd risk their lives just to protect this food."

The squad leader stepped forward and used the weighted ball on his short sword to smash open the seal of a wooden barrel.

He lowered his head and smelled it, then looked at the several shocking bloody handprints belonging to the farmer on the outside of the bucket.

"Hohenzollern's inner fortress must be out of food; this is a last-ditch effort being sent to the southern watchtower."

The sergeant pulled out his dagger, casually cut open a bag of oats, grabbed a handful, stuffed it into his mouth, and chewed it vigorously, a ferocious smile spreading across his dry face.

"Take them back to camp. Let the brothers have a good meal, as if these three peasants are paying their respects at the young baron's funeral."

Night falls on the Ranger camp deep in the birch forest.

The air was filled with a sweet, fishy, ​​and foul stench.

That's not the smell of the dead; it's the stench of a living person rotting from the deepest part of their intestines.

The campfire struggled to burst into a few sparks in the cold rain, illuminating the twitching, curled-up bodies on the muddy ground.

In just half a day.

The truck, mixed with beer and oats from the scabs of dysentery victims, turned into a devastating massacre in this frontline camp of just over forty people.

The first to react was the squad leader who had drunk the most.

At that moment, he lay sprawled on the edge of the muddy ditch, like a stray dog ​​whose tendons had been pulled out.

His pants were completely soaked with dark red blood and feces, and he had completely lost control of his lower body.

His eye sockets sank deep within a few hours, his cheekbones protruded high, and his skin took on a sallow, deathly gray hue.

He tried to grab the short sword that had fallen to the ground, but the hand that had once been able to easily sever a farmer's collarbone now lacked even the strength to grip the hilt.

"Water...give me water..."

The entire camp was filled with these hoarse, sandpaper-like wails.

More than forty elite light cavalrymen, without even seeing the enemy's face, had all their strength drained by this invisible demon.

Dark red excrement was everywhere, and rainwater washed away the filth carrying the deadly plague, turning the entire camp into a huge swamp of poison.

At dawn, the sound of horses' hooves shattered the deathly silence of the woodland.

Lord Tytos Blackwood reined in his horse, and the ten guards behind him covered their mouths and noses tightly with linen soaked in strong liquor.

The old-fashioned lord sat on his saddle, looking down at the hellish camp before him.

His hooked nose looked particularly pale in the cool morning light.

He did not approach.

As a commander who had fought countless fierce battles, he knew what had happened the moment he smelled the first scent wafting in the wind.

"grown ups……"

A personal guard adjutant, barely suppressing the churning in his stomach, spoke in a muffled voice through the burlap sack.

"It's dysentery. They've all contracted it. Over there on the cart... there are three more corpses of Hohenzollern farmers."

Tethos did not speak.

Those cold, gray eyes were fixed on the broken cart parked in the center of the camp, and the three farmers beside it whose faces had been hacked to pieces, yet who still maintained their guarded postures.

A chilling, sinister feeling crept up Tetos’s spine and up to the back of his head.

"He knows what we're waiting for."

Tethos's voice was terribly hoarse.

"He neither saves people nor defends. He directly uses three farmers who know nothing, their despair and blood, to lower the guard of my soldiers."

Tethos closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the cold, rainy air.

Otto Hohenzollern would even dismantle his own bones for firewood if it was worthwhile.

"Sir, some of our brothers are still alive. Should we send a carriage...?"

The adjutant hesitated before asking for instructions.

"Surround the camp. No one is allowed to come within ten paces."

Tethos opened his eyes, interrupting his adjutant.

His eyes regained the cold decisiveness that belonged to a great nobleman.

If the dysentery spreads, the entire Blackwood family's army will be reduced to a pile of mush within days, and he would never take the risk of transporting these people back to Raventree.

"Go and cut down all the dead trees and withered branches around here. Pour kerosene on them."

The adjutant suddenly looked up, his eyes filled with shock.

"Sir! Those are our own brothers!"

"They're dead! From the moment they drank that wine, they were already poisonous mushrooms Hohenzollern planted in our land!"

Tethos roared in a low voice, the veins on his hooked nose throbbing.

He suddenly drew his long sword from his waist and pointed it at the soldiers who were still writhing in the mud.

"Set it on fire! Burn everything—the corpses, the tents, even this contaminated mud—to the ground! Not a single fly is allowed to escape!"

The guards trembled as they received the order.

The towering flames tore through the morning mist of the birch forest.

The oil-soaked wood crackled and popped in the rain, and the flames mercilessly consumed the soldiers who were still weakly groaning.

The acrid smell of burning human flesh briefly masked the stench of dysentery.

Tytus Blackwood sat on his horse, the firelight casting flickering shadows on his aged face.

He looked at the camp burning fiercely.

"Hohenzollern..."

Tethos slowly sheathed his longsword, the sound of metal scraping against metal jarring in the firelight.

"Now that you've gone mad, we'll leave no survivors in this valley."