Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 31: Gray Stone Wall and Dry Well

Pollifer squatted by the ditch, wiping his sweat. As the back of his hand brushed against his forehead, a layer of grayish-white lime powder mixed with sweat and mud stuck to his eyebrows. Unaware, he stood up and looked at the dozen or so people kneeling on the other side of the ditch.

Outside the territory, in front of the isolation ditch, the smell of quicklime was pungent.

"My lord! Please have mercy on us! I can weave straw mats, and my wife can sew clothes! Even a sip of dirty water mixed with bran would be fine!"

A dozen or so refugees knelt in the mud across the ditch, kowtowing in despair. They had fled along the Lancha River, having heard that there was grain and salt upstream, and had gathered here. Their clothes were tattered, and some didn't even have shoes; their toes were sunk into the mud.

Pollifer stood on this side of the ditch, clutching the rolled-up sheepskin register tightly. Sweat soaked the scroll, and the pages were stuck together; he had to twist them with his thumb a couple of times to separate them.

"Drive them away. Head south, out of sight."

He spoke to the two constables beside him, his voice low, as if afraid the refugees might not hear him clearly and would kowtow a few more times.

"Four hundred and fifty names, nailed to the wall. If even one more mouth is opened, the sewer will collapse, and then it won't just be them dying from drinking sewage. Get them out of here."

The inspector brandished his spear.

The refugees walked weeping, moving slowly, their feet shuffling in the mud. One old woman glanced back, said nothing, turned, and continued on her way. She stepped into the heatwave, her shadow distorted, and then vanished.

Pollifer stood there for a moment, not turning around immediately. His boots sank into the mud, he pulled his feet out with a thud, and then he walked away.

The noise from the inner fortress was very loud.

"Beat it! Beat it as hard as you can! Anyone who dares to leave a gap won't get any salt in their porridge tonight!"

Old carpenter Kerrigan limped and roared at the foundation. He always stumbled as he walked, then straightened up, and his shouts followed that stumble, coming in fits and starts. Two hundred bare-backed laborers were hammering wooden rammers into the molds, chanting monotonous, dull work songs. To be honest, nobody cared what the words were anymore; it was just a rhythm, as long as there was sound and they were pushing.

The mold was filled with rammed earth and limestone. It was red clay mixed with gravel and quicklime, not granite, but something dug out from the riverbed—cheap, but effective.

"Splash water!"

The woman poured water into the mold; the lime reacted with the water, producing white smoke that scalded the strong men's legs, leaving red marks. Yet, no one stopped. The moisture evaporated quickly in the high temperature, and after a few days, the substance would harden into a grayish-white lump, impervious to knives, leaving only a white mark on warhorses that crashed into it.

This wall is three feet wide and six feet high, and it grows ten feet forward every day, enclosing the stone pagoda, the longhouse, and the salt kiln inside.

Otto stood in the shadows of the second floor of the stone tower, his left shoulder bandaged with an old wound, surrounded by a ring of prickly heat that occasionally itched, but he didn't scratch it. He looked at the people below, for a while, then for a while longer.

"Sir, Raymond Frey's fleet has finished unloading its cargo."

Pollifer climbed up, holding the notepad in his hands, his eyes shining. When he reached the last step, his foot slipped, but he grabbed the ladder post to steady himself, and once he was up, he took a couple of breaths before speaking.

"Forty thousand pounds of aged rye, fifteen barrels of rendered pork fat, twenty boxes of wrought iron, and over four hundred linen garments—"

He paused for a moment.

"Raymond's patrol boats circled upstream and downstream, and Tethos's spies didn't even dare approach the water. Not a penny was paid for escort, and not a single militiaman died."

Otto looked at the numbers on the whiteboard without saying a word.

After looking at it for a while, I pushed the memo board back.

"The grain won't store. The wooden sheds on the ground will make the wheat damp and moldy in the summer heat." He looked up at the high ground behind the inner fortress, where dozens of farmers were digging pits—four pits, each about two zhang deep. "Go and keep an eye on that area."

"yes"

"The well walls must be plastered with three inches of lime, without any cracks. Lay charcoal at the bottom to absorb moisture. Fill the wells with forty thousand pounds of wheat, and seal them with thick stone slabs and tung oilcloth." Otto paused. "If these four wells rot, the territory is truly finished."

Pollifer carved a few words on the board and walked toward the ladder. After taking two steps, he turned back.

"Sir, regarding that batch of wrought iron, Cole said he wants to strike first—"

"Iron nails. The door needs to be reinforced. Spearheads at the back."

"good."

He went down.

---

Training ground.

"Infantry, form ranks!"

Toren stood under the blazing sun, his upper body bare, his leather whip glistening with sweat. Twenty men in fish-scale half-body armor stepped forward. The armor was made by Cole; scrap farm tools and slag were melted down and forged into pieces the size of fingernails, then sewn layer by layer onto hemp cloth with cowhide rope. It weighed forty pounds, and in the long summer, wearing it was like wearing a red-hot furnace. Sweat streamed down the iron pieces, accumulating in small puddles in the mud, which no one bothered to wipe away.

Otto walked down the stone tower and picked up a white ash wood stick from beside the barrel.

"Once you've received your pay, you're no longer human." He bit down on the stick, swallowing his words.

Twenty people silently accepted it, stuffed it between their teeth, their cheeks bulging from the effort.

Ten crossbowmen stood nearby, carrying heavy crossbows, their foot pedals creaking and turning the winches, the grating sound echoing across the training ground. Five light cavalry scouts practiced sudden stops and turns on the outer perimeter, their horses' hooves pounding the mud, stopping with each stomp. One horse became restless, nibbling to the side as it circled; the scout squeezed his legs, and the horse came to a stop.

Thirty-five people, without any slogans.

"Beep—!"

The bone whistle produces a long tone.

thump.

Twenty shields slammed into the mud, shoulders braced against the shield edges, a black wall. Crossbowmen knelt, simulating winding a winch.

"Beep! Beep!"

Two short sounds. Twenty spears pierced through the gaps in the shield.

There was no shouting. Only the sound of metal clanging, panting, and the creaking of a taut bowstring.

This kind of training was repeated again and again, for one hour, two hours, until the legs were weak, the hands were numb, and the only things left in the mind were the whistling sound and the next movement.

Outside the training ground, two children, barely able to reach the spear shafts, squatted through a crack in the fence, peering inside. One reached for a fallen wooden stick, but the other grabbed him, and the two pulled back, continuing to watch. Martha walked by, clutching an unfinished leather armor pad in her hand. She glanced at it, said nothing, and walked away.

The fire in Cole's blacksmith shop never went out. Lunt was operating the bellows, sweat streaming down his neck. He listened to the bone whistles coming from the training ground, his hand movements maintaining a steady rhythm, each stroke roughly matching the intervals of the whistles. Cole tapped the anvil once, then said nothing. Lunt pulled the bellows even more steadily.

Later, when the charcoal in the stove was almost gone, Cole asked Lunt to move some more. Lunt went, and when he came back, he had some charcoal ash on his hands. He wiped it on his face without realizing it and continued working. A black mark was left on his face, and it wasn't until the end of the day that someone told him about it.

For the next two weeks, the territory continued to circulate like this.

The wall rose a foot higher each day, the well gained a bag of wheat each day, and the spears on the drill ground sped up a little faster each day, so fast that it was almost imperceptible. But Torun could see it. He said nothing, but simply blew the whistle again.

Cole hammered the remaining scrap metal into four-sided nails and added a layer of iron to the oak gate of the territory. The job required two people working together: Cole hammered, and Lunt held the nail. The first blow went astray, and the nail became crooked. Cole didn't say anything, just pulled it out, changed its position, and hammered it in again.

At dusk, Otto climbed to the top of the tower alone.

The log-lined road, drainage ditches, sheds, and four sealed dry wells. A gray stone and rammed earth wall encircled the outermost edge, sealing it off.

Looking down from here, what was once a chaotic mess of muddy ground now looks somewhat like something. Unlike the great lord's castle, which was merely a place where people could survive, nothing more, this was already quite an achievement.

Pollifer brought up a glass of warm ale, his face showing the kind of look that of someone who hadn't slept enough but had breathed a sigh of relief.

"The wall is closed, the grain is stored. Everyone can get a good night's sleep tonight."

Otto did not accept the glass of wine.

Pollifer stood there for a moment, then placed his glass on the edge of the parapet. The wine swayed slightly before settling down.

"This is just a shell that can breathe."

Otto held onto the parapet with both hands and looked towards the Blue Fork River.

"The peace we gained was bought with seventy percent of the salt. Those who didn't get any salt are now eyeing this wall."

Pollifer didn't say anything.

The wind blew the Black Eagle flag, causing it to flutter slightly. In the distance, the changing of the guard whistle sounded, one long, one short. A few women were talking over the well, their voices soft and fragmented, then fell silent.

The glass of wine sat on the parapet, its heat long since dissipated.

Otto stood there for a while, but still didn't drink. He turned around and walked down the stone tower, his boots landing on the ladder.