Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 90: The Roar of the Broken Wood and the Bloodstained Bait

Pollifer stood by the pier, clutching the ledger tightly in his hand.

He ignored the panicked farmers around him, his eyes fixed on the thick white fog upstream.

The roar of the water was mixed with a dull, rumbling sound, like the crashing of a giant beast.

"Scatter! Get away from the canal!"

John Mudd's rough voice boomed across the muddy bank.

He kicked a militiaman who was still trying to retrieve the wooden bucket, sending him flying into a muddy pit in the distance like a sack of potatoes.

In the next instant, three thick black fir logs, each requiring two people to encircle them, crashed into the giant wooden wheel of the watermill like battering rams, propelled by the surging spring floodwaters.

"Click—"

A piercing cracking sound tore through the cold morning rain.

The main shaft, reinforced with pig iron, became as fragile as a rotten piece of firewood under the impact of the forces of heaven and earth.

The massive waterwheel shattered into pieces, and the remains, splintered with sharp wooden spikes, were swept into the whirlpool.

Immediately afterwards, the turbid river water, mixed with rotten wood and mud dumped upstream, relentlessly poured into the low-lying white salt sedimentation ponds.

Pollifer watched as the snow-white salt grains, which had been painstakingly crystallized, were completely swallowed by the black mud in just a few breaths, and his face contorted with heartache.

"Those damned black crows..."

Pollifer gritted his teeth, his fingers digging deep into the ground.

"The iron bars the adults just bought, the filter bed they just built! All ruined!"

John Mudd stared coldly at the broken logs churning in the vortex. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

"Decisive and efficient. They smashed our pot without shedding a drop of blood."

The former captain of the Gold Regiment spat out a mouthful of muddy saliva.

"Tethos Blackwood is a veteran who knows how to pull teeth. My hook-and-sickle spear can't pierce through this ton of wood."

The riverbed was destroyed, salt washing was halted, and more fatally, the murky water, filled with dead rats and rotting leaves, was no longer drinkable.

Panic spread like wildfire across the territory.

Without anyone giving an order, the parched farmers and their families began to carry their wooden buckets and spontaneously flock to the four deep wells in the inner fortress, which had long since run dry.

In the chaos, no one noticed that two people were standing in the shadows of the outer wall.

William Charlton pressed himself against the cold, gray stone wall.

His tattered linen jacket was covered in mud, making him look no different from the terrified refugees outside.

Standing before him was a refugee dressed in coarse linen clothes, pushing a broken wooden cart.

"This awful weather, even the river stinks."

The refugee lowered his voice, pulled a small black box sealed with lead from under the hay on the cart, and discreetly slipped it into William's hand.

"Lord Tethos said to put this thing into those four wells. After it's done, your father's lands will be returned."

William took the lead box.

It was very light, and it seemed to contain some dried-out crumbs.

He kept his head down, his shoulders trembling slightly with fear.

"I...I'm scared. Lord Otto...he doesn't even spare the dead."

William's voice was barely audible, with a vibrato characteristic of puberty.

"Don't be afraid, child. The iron cavalry of Blackwood will soon raze this place to the ground, and Hohenzollern won't survive this spring."

The refugee patted William on the shoulder reassuringly, preparing to turn and blend into the crowd fetching water.

Just as the refugees turned around, William's trembling shoulders stopped.

Every detail of how John Mudd taught him about exerting force flashed through his mind like lightning.

He lowered his center of gravity and used his left hand like an iron clamp to tightly cover the refugee's mouth, silencing the cry of surprise that was about to escape his throat.

With a sharp angle, the black dagger in his right hand pierced the refugee's ear and twisted upwards with force.

"laugh--"

Warm, black blood gushed out from the blood groove and splashed onto William's face.

He felt the body in his hands convulse and lose strength in despair, finally turning into a lifeless mass of dead flesh.

William dragged the body into the nearby sewer drain.

He casually wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve, looked at the cold lead box in his hand, and a cruel smile curled at the corner of his mouth.

Send them to King's Landing as squires? Take back that pitiful fiefdom?

The study is located at the bottom of the stone pagoda.

Otto Hohenzollern sat behind a hard wooden table.

On the table lay the lead box stained with bloody fingerprints.

William stood respectfully three steps away, his back ramrod straight. He recounted the refugee's words without any hesitation.

"Open it."

Otto's voice was as calm as a stagnant pool.

William drew his dagger and used it to cut open the lead sheet.

A stench of decay and putrefaction filled the study.

The box contained a dozen or so dark red, dried abscess scabs.

Pollyver, who was standing to the side, turned pale after just one glance.

"It's dysentery!"

The steward took a step back in alarm.

"Sir, once this stuff gets wet, just one sip will cause you to have bloody diarrhea and become dehydrated within half a day! If it's poisoned in the well..."

Pollifer shivered.

"They destroyed the irrigation canals, forcing everyone to drink well water; then they poisoned the wells."

Otto gently touched the scabs with the charcoal stick in his hand, the cold firelight reflected in his gray-blue eyes.

"A vicious cycle. He won't fight me; he wants these five hundred-plus people to rot to death inside the wall."

"My lord, I will immediately seal off all the wells! And send men to search for spring water nearby!"

"Polliver said urgently."

"Need not."

Otto threw away the charcoal stick.

He raised his head, his gaze passing over Pollive, and looked at the map of the territory.

"Since Tethos has given such a generous return gift, if we only defend ourselves, we'll be at a disadvantage."

Otto stood up and traced his finger across the birch forest to the south.

"William did a great job; this box is our capital."

Otto turned around and looked at Pollif.

"Go to the cellar, fetch two barrels of ale, and load a cart with moldy oat rations. Dissolve all the crusts in this lead box into the ale and rations."

Pollifer froze, and cold sweat began to break out on his palms.

"Sir, what do you want to do?"

"Have Rosso lead the captured swift horse, and select three of the strongest farmers from the refugee camp, giving them the best spears and leather armor. Have them push this cart loaded with wine and meat to the southern watchtower to deliver 'emergency rations'."

Otto spoke very softly, as if he were talking about tomorrow's weather.

"Tell Rosso that if he encounters the Blackwood Rangers in the woods, he should forget everything, cut the harness, and ride away for his life."

Pollifer's breath caught in his throat. He frantically did some mental calculations.

"Sir... what about the three farmers? Didn't they know there was poison in the carriage? Didn't they know Rosso would escape?"

Pollifer's voice was dry.

"If they knew they wouldn't fight to the death when they encountered the Black Rangers."

Otto looked at the steward, his grey-blue eyes devoid of any human emotion.

"Tetos's men are seasoned hunting dogs. They'd definitely be suspicious of a cartload of meat and wine left lying around by the roadside."

"Only if those three farmers shed their blood for this cart of grain, and were hacked to death by the rangers to protect this meat and wine, would the people of Tethos eat this spoils of war, stained with hot human blood, without any suspicion."

The study was deathly silent.

"Go and do it."

Otto sat back down in his chair.

"Tethos wants to see dead men. Then we'll help him by sending the dead men directly to his central command tent."

Spring thunder rumbled in the distance.

The waters of the Blue Fork River remained murky, but a dilapidated cart, dripping with rainwater, was already carrying three farmers, oblivious to their fate, toward the muddy path of death.