Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 91: Two Cows in the Mud

The Blue Fork Valley was filled with a nauseating, sour, and rotten smell in the early morning.

It was the smell of melting spring mud mixed with the entrails of livestock that had been filled into the drainage ditch last winter, slowly fermenting beneath the warming earth.

The frozen soil on the drill ground had completely thawed, turning into a red mud pit that was ankle-deep.

Each step produced a sickening sucking sound, and when the boots were pulled out, they kicked up a clump of sticky mud that couldn't be shaken off.

Otto Hohenzollern stood behind a narrow window on the second floor of the stone tower, holding a bowl of porridge that had gone cold in his right hand.

He didn't drink; he just looked down.

The drill ground was divided in two by a newly dug shallow ditch.

To the east, Torun, with twelve peasant militiamen, was carrying out their daily routine of advancing the shield wall.

The bone whistles were short and rhythmic, and the twelve oak round shields made a dull thud as they struck the mud.

The spears peeked out from the gaps in the shield and then retracted, the rhythm rigid yet orderly.

Torun stood at the rear of the formation, his leather whip not striking anyone, but occasionally cracking in the air like a shepherd herding sheep.

To the west, John Mudd squatted in the mud.

He had only two people with him—the veterans he had brought back from the Golden Regiment.

Three people were gathered around a wooden stake stuck in the mud. Mud was holding a blunt charcoal stick and drawing something on the mud.

The two groups of people stood apart by the shallow ditch, neither looking at the other.

But that silent standoff was even more suffocating than the clash of swords.

Supervisor Polyver emerged from the side door of the stone tower.

He walked on the log path, the mud from the soles of his boots leaving a trail of footprints of varying depths on the logs.

He looked up at Otto at the window, then at both sides of the training ground, and muttered something under his breath.

They're probably calculating how many extra pounds of oats these people will eat today.

It all started at breakfast.

When Mude and his five men went to collect porridge, they lined up behind the veterans of the Iron Oath Regiment.

That was a perfectly normal thing – whoever arrives first gets to eat.

But Mud glanced at the pot of wheat porridge while holding his bowl, then looked at the portions in the bowls of the Iron Oath Regiment members, and turned to say something to the veteran next to him.

The sound wasn't loud, but everyone in the quiet food stall heard it.

"These men eat better than the eunuchs guarding the gates of Mil City, yet their formation is so well-trained that even the prostitutes of Lis can't stop them."

One of the Iron Oath Corps' deputies was about to draw his sword on the spot.

It was Torun who stopped them.

The veteran used his elbow to pin down the enraged quartermaster, uttered a vulgar Northern swear word, and then picked up his bowl and left.

He didn't look at Mudd, or even turn his head.

But when he left, his back was taut like a fully drawn bow.

Mude didn't say much.

He squatted in the corner and finished the bowl of wheat porridge. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, stood up, and walked towards the drill ground.

Otto witnessed the entire process from the window of the stone tower.

He did not go downstairs.

It was well past noon when the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, casting a pale glow on the muddy ground and creating a thin layer of white mist.

Mude finally stood up, patted the mud off his knees, and walked toward the shallow ditch in the middle of the training ground.

He didn't cross over; he just stood on the edge of the ditch, watching Toren, who was packing up on the other side.

"Instructor, your shield wall push on flat ground would get full marks."

Mud's voice was not loud, but carried a slow and unhurried rhythm that he had developed on overseas battlefields.

"But on this kind of muddy ground, with every step you take in the front row, the suction from your feet will shift their center of gravity forward by half an inch."

"If there are three veterans with barbs on the other side, as long as you catch that half inch the moment you push your shield, your front line will fall into the mud like ducks being pulled into the water."

Toren stopped in his tracks.

He didn't turn around, but just turned his head and glanced at Mude out of the corner of his eye.

"How many days have you been in this muddy area?"

Torun's voice was hoarse.

"Three days? Or four days? I've been guarding this place for three years. I know with my eyes closed how deep the mud is with every step I take, which patch of ground is hard soil and which is loose sand."

"The fighting style you practiced on the beaches of the disputed lands will make you unable to even make the first turn at Blue Fork River."

Mudd wasn't angry. He even smiled.

"Then let's give it a try."

Mude pointed to the shallow ditch in the middle of the training ground.

"Your men are on the east, my men are on the west. You push forward with your shield wall, I'll block with my three men."

"If you can push me across that ditch, your men will get double the lard tonight. If you can't, come over here and take a look at what I've drawn on the mud."

The air on the drill ground seemed to freeze.

More than forty militiamen and laborers who were tidying up farm tools nearby all stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at the two men.

Toren slowly turned around.

His face, etched with wrinkles by the northern winds, showed neither anger nor hesitation.

He simply gritted his teeth and spat out the dry grass stalk he had been holding in his mouth.

"Are twelve people enough?"

"Take them all with you."

Mud retreated to the west.

He wasn't wearing armor, just a black deerskin vest.

Standing beside him were two veterans from the Golden Regiment, also unarmored, each holding a sharpened white ash wood stick, without even an iron tip.

Torun blew the bone whistle.

The twelve shields pounded into the mud with a series of muffled thuds.

The six men in the front row crouched down, shields raised, while the six men in the back row held their spears horizontally.

This was his signature skill, honed over three years at Blue Fork River; every beat was as steady as if nailed to the ground with iron nails.

"push!"

The shield wall began to move.

The twelve people trudged through knee-deep red mud, like a slowly rolling gray stone wall.

The mud was pushed into a foot-high wave by the bottom edge of the shield, and the heavy footsteps made a uniform, muffled sound on the drill ground.

Mud stood still.

He is waiting.

When the shield wall was five steps away from him, Muld made a move.

Instead of confronting them head-on, he led the two veterans three steps to the right.

Those three precise steps were all taken on a narrow path paved with logs along the edge of the training ground.

His boots didn't sink into the mud.

Torun's shield wall advanced in a straight line.

When Mulder dodged to the side, the right flank of the shield wall lost its target.

The militiaman on the far right in the front row instinctively tried to turn around, but his right foot was deeply stuck in the mud, and the turning motion caused his center of gravity to shift sharply.

It's this half-breath.

The white ash wood stick without the iron head in Mud's hand was extended from the side.

It wasn't a thorn, it was a hook—the tip of the stick got stuck on the upper edge of the militia shield and pressed down sharply.

The militiaman's shield was pulled askew, exposing half of his body.

If this were a hook-and-sickle spear, the militiaman's throat would have been ripped open by now.

"stop."

Mude put away the stick, his voice calm.

The shield wall stopped.

The twelve men were panting heavily, sweat mixed with mud streaming down their foreheads.

The militiaman whose shield was caught was deathly pale; he knew that if this wasn't a drill, he would be dead.

Torun stood at the back of the formation, saying nothing.

He saw those three lateral steps. The narrow path that Mud had trod was one he had laid out himself three years ago; he knew it all too well, walking through it every day.

Mudd walked to the edge of the ditch, squatted down, and pointed to the lines he had drawn on the mud.

"Instructor, your formation is perfect at the front. But the Blue Fork River is not a plain."

"This place is full of the boundary between hard tracks and mud. Your farmers will just push through the mud, but the people of Blackwood aren't stupid; they'll walk around to your side on the hard tracks."

Mudd drew an arc in the mud with the tip of his stick.

"What you need is not a faster pace of advance, but to bury a three-man corner lock team at every junction of hard roads and mud."

"Let them stop advancing, just rotate, and only guard the gaps on the flanks."

Toren stared at the lines on the ground and remained silent for a long time.

"These things you drew on the ground..."

Torun's voice became very low, so low that only Mud could hear it.

"Is this the Golden Company's strategy for dealing with the Dothraki light cavalry in the contested lands?"

"Similar. But Dothraki rode a horse, and Blackwood rode mud. The principle is the same: don't try to block a flood with a wall, but use nails to divert it into a trench you've dug."

Toren crouched down and stood beside Muld, looking at the lines.

The distance between the two men changed from twelve steps to one and a half steps.

Gareth stood outside the training ground.

He had just come out of the wounded soldiers' camp, still holding a roll of old bandage stained with blood.

He watched the backs of Torun and Mudd crouching in the mud.

The two men, who were just moments ago like two bulls butting heads, are now squatting together, heads touching, because of a white ash wood stick.

Gareth tried to say something, but found himself unable to get a word in edgewise.

He lowered his head and continued walking towards the wounded soldiers' camp.

After walking a few steps, he looked back at the narrow window on the top floor of the stone tower.

That window was black.

But he knew that the adults were always there watching.

William Charlton was not at the drill ground.

He crouched at the end of the corridor on the first floor of the stone tower, and through a fist-width crack in the wall, he could see everything that had just happened clearly.

He saw the precision of Muldur's three-step lateral movement, and he also saw the shattered silence on Toren's face.

He silently counted in his mind: it took Mud less than five breaths from the moment he stood still to the moment he tore through the shield wall.

Five breaths.

The twelve burly men carrying shields were pierced through the flank by three unarmed men within five breaths.

William touched the long, black dagger at his waist.

He remembered the saying his elders had taught him: "In this world, only dead enemies will not question your territory."

He decided to go see John Mulder tonight.