Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 5: The Cry of Iron and Firewood

The water that had accumulated on the tarpaulin had all leaked out before dawn.

The last few drops hit the muddy ground, the sound going from heavy to sparse, until only one or two scattered sounds remained—as if something had finally finished saying what it needed to say and then fell silent.

Otto listened intently, confirmed it wasn't his imagination, and got up to leave the shed.

My feet sank into the mud. Not the kind of mushy mud that would flood the soles of my boots with water, but a clay that had become heavy and compacted after absorbing the rain. Each step produced a slight sucking sound, layer upon layer sticking to the soles, adding half a pound to my weight after just a few steps. The pine trees on the north slope were still black in the pre-dawn gray light, a ring of lime slag accumulated around their roots—spread yesterday, washed away by the rain, leaving a faint white mark, as if something had been forcibly fixed there, but not truly secured.

He walked to the pile of tools and pulled the broad-bladed logging axe out from under the tarpaulin.

The blade edge has developed a thin layer of rust, which is reddish-brown and has a fine grainy texture.

After three days of dampness, the oilcloth was not completely able to block it.

This was not unexpected, but it meant he had to resolve the issue today—not just to remove the rust, but to address the root cause of why the rust kept coming back.

The cart from the Twin Rivers arrived at dusk on the fourth day.

They agreed to deliver it before sunset the next day, but it took three whole days longer than expected. The two Frey soldiers driving the cart stopped in front of the boundary marker, looking flustered. They glanced at the white circle on the ground covered with lime, and then refused to go any further. The white circle was even darker after the heavy rain, like an indelible mark.

After unloading the goods, they didn't ask for water and turned around and left.

Otto did not call them back.

He squatted down in front of the burlap sacks, drew his short knife from his waist, and made a slit in the outermost sack. Wheat grains flowed out along the slit, a golden hue mixed with a dark gray. He crushed a grain with his thumb, broke it open, and brought it close to his nose to smell. It had a sour, stale smell, mixed with quite a few dried-out husks, but no mold.

He threw the handful of wheat on the ground, stood up, and nodded to Pollifer.

"They carried the bags into the supply shed, lining them with double layers of tarpaulin. Anyone who tears a bag while moving it will have to eat river mud for the rest of the month."

Pollifer stared at the sacks, jotted down a few lines on the ledger board, and offered no comment.

Ten bushels of aged wheat, plus the previous stock, should last for another ten days. After ten days, the same problem will still exist.

But that's not something Otto is thinking about right now.

He pulled the broad-bladed axe from the pile of tools and examined the rust under the last rays of the setting sun. The rust was on the thinner parts of the blade; he could scrape it off and it would still be usable. The problem was the whetstone and the axe—if both were worn out, how would he repair them? He had iron in his territory, but no blacksmith, no furnace—it was like having flour but no pot.

The axe got old, the pickaxe became dull, the iron edge of the shield cracked, and the tip of the spear wore down—one of these things broke, and they were thrown away, until one day they were all broken, leaving only the wooden stick.

He put the axe back in the pile of tools and went to find Polliff.

"Prepare the horses, follow me to Haijiang City."

"Buying weapons, sir? Ironware is incredibly expensive in Haijiang City."

"We're not buying weapons." Otto mounted his horse. "Weapons will eventually break down. We're going to buy someone who can keep making weapons."

The lower district of Haijiang City is always a disgusting scene of decay.

There were no stone towers or knights in the upper town, only the perpetual stench of rotting fish, cheap ale, and clogged drains. Otto, wearing an inconspicuous, tattered gray cloak that concealed his chainmail and longsword, led Polliver through ankle-deep sewage, past shivering vagrants huddled in corners, and into a dead-end alley called Broken Hand Alley.

At the deepest part of the alley, there is a blacksmith shop that is almost collapsing.

The fire in the furnace had been out for a long time, and rainwater leaking from the dilapidated roof had accumulated a thick layer of coal ash and mud on the anvil. A burly man with a black eye patch over his left eye sat slumped on a broken wooden stool, clutching half an empty wine bottle in his hand, and reeking of the sour stench of not having bathed for three days.

"Cole?" Pollifer asked tentatively.

The single eye slowly rose, its veins bloodshot, and glanced at them murky, letting out an impatient gurgle.

"Get out of my way. I don't have a single scrap of iron left. If Dark sent you to collect a debt, just attack. I can't pay you back."

"How much do you owe?" Otto stepped across the threshold, his boots making a cold sound as they hit the puddle.

"Thirty silver deer of principal, and the interest has ballooned to eighty." Cole gave a self-deprecating laugh, revealing a mouthful of jagged, rotten teeth. "Those debt collectors are saying they're coming tomorrow to chop off my blacksmith's right hand. Sir, if you're looking for a bloody spectacle, you've come too early."

Otto ignored his grumbling.

He walked to the heavy, solid anvil, extended his gloved right hand, and struck the cold iron surface heavily.

"Ding—hum..."

The long, resonant sound of high-quality wrought iron echoed through the cramped shed, vibrating the damp coal ash and dust that hung from the edge of the anvil, forming a thin line in the dim light.

The anvil was not wasted.

Otto turned around, pulled a heavy little lambskin bag from inside his cloak, and threw it directly onto Cole's lap.

"Bang!"

The dull, solid sound of gold is unlike the crisp sound of copper coins; it has a weight that can stop a person from breathing.

Cole's hand trembled violently. He suspiciously untied the leather rope, and the dazzling light almost instantly drained the remaining drunkenness from his veins.

Three gold dragons in extremely good condition.

"Take a golden dragon to pay off your debt. Polliver will accompany you with the deputy seal of the Seafront City Sheriff. If anyone dares to take an extra bronze star from you, their name will be recorded, and the gallows will settle their score."

Otto leaned down, his emotionless eyes fixed on Cole's only remaining eye, making the burly blacksmith almost unable to breathe.

"The other two golden dragons are for your life, for your anvil, for your absolute loyalty to the Hohenzollern family. From this day forward, your hammer will only swing for me. The price is two bowls of thick porridge, a piece of smoked fish, and a stove that will never leak and will always have burning coals."

"What if I don't play well?" Cole asked, his voice trembling as he grabbed the three gold coins, his tone filled with the disbelief of someone about to drown grasping at a plank.

"As long as you're not crippled, you can practice your skills. But if you dare to run away with my iron materials, or if you ruin my people with junk because of your drunkenness, I'll personally gouge out your remaining eyeball to fill the hole."

Otto straightened up and glanced at the soot on the anvil.

"Grab your belongings and come with me."

Cole sat there, clutching three gold coins in his hand, not immediately standing up. He looked down at the three coins gleaming in his palm, then up at Otto, and then at the anvil—the last thing in his crumbling shop that hadn't rotted away.

He stood up, placed the half-empty bottle on the wooden stool, and did not take it with him.

On the return journey, Otto instructed Pollive to draft a report that evening, clearly outlining the reasons for hiring the blacksmith, the purpose of the equipment, and its regulations. This report was to be sent to the main tower of the Sea Frontier City for filing the next day. Under feudal law, establishing weapon-forging capabilities privately required the lord's permission; the sooner the document was submitted, the sooner the matter would become legal.

The oxcart, laden with pig iron blocks, coal, and a 400-pound solid anvil, moved slowly along the road. The weight of the anvil caused the axle to groan continuously. The ox lowered its head and moved slowly, step by step, without stopping.

Cole sat silently beside the anvil, clutching the leather pouch containing the three golden dragons, his palms already warming it. He glanced back at the anvil every now and then, his expression less one of relief and more like that of someone long imprisoned, stepping out of the cell and unsure if the outside air was real.

By the time the oxcart returned to the Blue Fork Valley, night had fallen.

The fourteen people in the longhouse did not sleep.

Hearing the sound of wheels sinking into the mud, they pushed open the wooden door to greet them. No one asked what had happened; they simply saw the vehicle and its contents, then looked at Otto and waited. Otto didn't speak, but instead kicked the widest corner of the longhouse with his boot to make sure the foundation was solid, then nodded to Cole.

They began silently and methodically moving bricks and building the furnace. Refractory bricks formed the furnace body, iron pipes were used to circulate gas, and a leather blower hung on one side of the furnace opening. No one spoke; only the sounds of moving bricks and the occasional clanging of bricks could be heard.

Cole took off his smelly, tattered shirt, revealing his scarred chest. He stood before the still-unlit stove, put the leather bag inside the lining of his shirt, and stopped looking at it. Instead, he bent down to examine the joints of the stove—every brick seam, every vent, running his fingertips along each one.

This is something he hasn't done in many years.

Once the furnace was built, he took the tinder handed to him by someone, squatted down, and lit a fire in front of the vent.

"Whoosh! Whoosh!"

The leather blower was pulled, and the dark red charcoal fire began to breathe, gradually turning bright white. Heat billowed out of the furnace, forcing the farmers who had gathered around to watch to take a half step back.

Cole used tongs to pick up a piece of iron and put it into the furnace.

A moment later, the iron material emerged with a reddish-orange hue and was placed on the anvil.

Cole picked up the twenty-pound armor-piercing hammer without ceremony or pause.

"Ding! Dong! Ding! Dong!"

The first hammer blow was louder than Otto had anticipated.

The sound pierced through the mud walls, through the post-rain dampness, and spread along the valley to both sides, dispersing into the darkness, growing farther and farther until it was absorbed by the distant woods. But before it disappeared, it lingered in the air long enough to make the reeds on the riverbank tremble slightly, long enough to make the person in the shed who was just about to fall asleep open their eyes.

Otto stood in the shadows outside the longhouse, watching the firelight seep through the crack in the door, casting a shimmering orange glow on the ground.

The wind blew from the upper reaches of the Blue Fork River, damp and cool, but no longer the deathly air of the rain. Instead, it carried the unique, indescribable scent of the river at the end of a long summer, a mixture of fishy and clean aromas, as if something was just beginning to sprout on this wasteland, uncertain and unstable, but already there.

Pollifer stood behind him and closed the wooden board covered in engravings.

The account book for this day: Fifteen people, one anvil, and one hearth.