6kv Chapter 65 - Gathering
Chapter 65 - Gathering
Patrick's group merged into a larger column on the third day of their journey.
House Frey spearmen led the way, their twin towers bobbing in the dust. House Paiber riders lined the flanks, their hooves clattering on the dry, hard road. Behind them followed several smaller lords whose coats of arms Otto couldn't recognize; some wore chainmail, some leather, some no armor at all, carrying sharpened wooden poles, their foot bindings tucked inside out of their boots. The dust kicked up by thousands of men was as fine as flour, salty on the lips and choking when inhaled. The fields on either side of the road were battered and bruised by the grain-collecting convoys, and an old farmer squatted on a field ridge watching the procession pass.
On the evening of the fourth day, as they crossed the last low hill, a Frey spearman walking ahead of Otto cursed.
Tents stretched from the foot of the low hills all the way to the coastline. The greyish-white pointed tents stood side by side, seemingly endless. Between the tents were people, horses, carts, and flags—flags of all colors fluttering in the evening breeze, some he recognized, some not, there were just too many. Smoke rose from hundreds of fires, forming a grey blanket over the camp. In the distance, ships were anchored on the sea, the large masts as tall as trees, the smaller ones huddled together.
The sounds were even more outrageous. The clanging of hammers, the neighing of horses, shouts, cries, the clashing of metal, someone sawing wood somewhere—the sounds of tens of thousands of people living at the same time mingled together, forming a wall that slapped at your face from the top of the hill.
Otto stood there for a few moments. The things Blue Fork Valley had built over three years—more than six hundred people, stone towers, square formations, white salt—couldn't even fill a single corner of this camp.
"Let's go." Patrick turned around as he walked ahead.
"Yes, sir."
They were assigned to the riverside section of the camp in the northeast corner. Patrick's fifty-odd men occupied a spot near the stables, while Otto's eleven were assigned to the very edge—enough for two tents, separated from the stables by a drainage ditch trampled into mud.
When the wind wasn't blowing in the right direction, the smell of horse manure would fill the tents all night. Add to that the latrines—the latrines for tens of thousands of people were dug downwind of the camp, but the wind is unpredictable—and by the late hours the smell could wake a person from their dreams. One veteran rolled over and muttered, "It's not even as good as the cowshed at Lancha River," and someone nearby scoffed.
Otto didn't sleep the first night. He sat on a broken log outside his tent, listening. The camp of tens of thousands of people was still noisy at night—horses chewed hay, the footsteps of the changing of the guard could be heard, and in the distance, someone was playing a harp that was missing two strings and was completely out of tune, but the player didn't care. Further away, two groups of people were arguing, their heavy Western dialect mixed with the sound of metal clanging on the ground, probably fighting over tent locations.
Gareth crawled out of the tent and squatted down to watch the firelight in the camp.
"In my twenty-three years of life, I've never seen so many people in one place."
"I've never smelled anything this strong before."
He finished speaking himself, and without waiting for Otto to respond, added, "Where do you think these people will go after the war? Go home and farm?"
Otto did not respond.
He went to find Patrick early the next morning.
Patrick was munching on a piece of hard bread in front of the tent, the kind you have to smash with the back of a knife before putting it in your mouth. He put down the knife when he saw Oto coming over.
"What's up?"
"Sir, I need a flat area. Twenty paces square will suffice."
"What are you practicing?"
"yes."
Patrick chewed on some bread crumbs and thought for a moment. "There's a plot behind the stable; the hay pile there was moved the day before yesterday. Go see if it's suitable for you."
"Thank you, sir."
That's enough. It's about twenty paces square, muddy ground, but you can't slip if you step on it firmly. Three sides are wooden fences for tents and stables, and the fourth side faces a main passageway in the camp—a place bustling with all sorts of people.
Otto chose this piece of land.
He called ten people over. Gareth stood to one side—he hadn't practiced the backless formation and wasn't in the group, but he found a rock to sit on and watched, whittling some kind of wood in his hand.
"Three groups. Form a triangular formation. Listen for bone whistles."
When the first bone whistle rang out, a few Lannister infantrymen passing by in the passage turned to look. They glanced at it and continued on their way—there were people practicing everywhere in the camp.
The second bone whistle sounded. The three-man locking group rotated. The two shield bearers shifted their bottom edges, the apex simultaneously touching the shoulders and backs of the two men, pushing the left shoulder, and turning left. There were no shouts, no countdowns, no clash of metal. Only the sound of bone whistles and footsteps on wet mud.
More and more people stopped to watch in the passage. A knight in half-armor leaned against the wooden fence, tilting his head as he looked around several times. A group of Northern infantrymen squatted in the shadows of the tents across the passage, watching all afternoon.
On the third day, a knight from Highgarden rode by, glanced at the scene, and said something to the person next to him. The person next to him smiled. Gareth had sharp ears.
He said it looked like three crabs spinning in a pot.
Otto didn't look up. He was looking at the top—the one Edric had personally trained. When pushing the left shoulder signal, the elbow was half an inch higher than the standard. On the training field, this error was fatal. In the corridor, this error was equivalent to the right side of the gap being exposed for a breath longer.
He waited until the round ended, then walked over and patted the man's left elbow.
"Half an inch shorter."
The person nodded. The next round was shorter.
The morning of the fourth day.
When Otto was watching the second group practice their spin transitions from the sidelines, the people in the tunnel made way for him.
It wasn't opened by shouts. People walking along saw something and naturally moved to either side. The ways they moved were varied—some bowed their heads, some bent their knees, and some simply stood behind the tent ropes. A path wide enough for a horse to run through appeared in the middle.
A very large person walked over from the other end of the passage.
He wasn't just big. Broad shoulders and a thick chest, his arms were thicker than Otto's thighs, and his black leather armor bounced as he walked. He had black hair and a black beard, and his face was completely unmasked—his expression reflected whatever he saw; if he was unhappy, he was unhappy, and if he found something interesting, he would grin.
Several men followed behind him. One was a tall knight in a white cloak, his armor gleaming. Another was a middle-aged man with grey eyes, not very tall, but his back was ramrod straight as if filled with molten iron, and a wolf was embroidered on his grey cloak.
Robert Baratheon. The grey-eyed guy next to him is Ned Stark.
Otto's nine men were still spinning around. The sound of bone whistles was especially clear after the passageway parted.
Robert walked to the wooden fence. Without stopping—he placed one hand on the top of the fence, leaned half his body against it, and the fence creaked. His eyes followed the first group for a few breaths, then jumped to the second group, and then back again.
Otto walked over and knelt on one knee. "Your Majesty."
"Get up, get up." Robert waved his hand, his eyes never leaving the nine men. "What are those things?"
"A three-person corner-locking team, Your Majesty. For digging corridors."
"The one in the middle—he touched the other two's shoulders and they turned around?"
"Tactile signal. Push the left shoulder to turn left, push the right shoulder to turn right, push both shoulders simultaneously and take a half step back."
"No need to shout?" Robert turned and glanced at him.
"Shouting in the corridor will tell the other side when to move."
Robert stared at him for a moment, then suddenly laughed. The laughter was loud, coming from his belly, and people ten paces away turned their heads.
"Yeah! Fuck you right!" He slammed his hand on the fence, which creaked again. "I fought the Ironmen in the alley once in Stormy Lands—those bastards were huddled around corners, and they knew I was coming from whichever way I yelled!"
He turned back to look. The apex of the first group pushed his right shoulder, and the three of them turned to the right in unison, changing the orientation of their shields and the tips of their hook-and-sickle spears.
"Do it again," Robert said.
Otto blew a bone whistle.
The three groups moved simultaneously. They switched positions in a triangular formation, with the second group flanking from the side to fill the gap left by the retreating first group.
Robert looked around and pointed to the third group: "What are those three doing? Just standing there?"
"Third group to fill in. Someone fell in front, third group to take their place."
"Someone's fallen." Robert clicked his tongue. "You mean this thing isn't foolproof?"
"No, Your Majesty. Nothing in the corridor is foolproof."
Robert laughed again. This time, after laughing, he patted Otto on the shoulder—a pat that made Otto sink for a moment, but he didn't move. Robert's grip was so strong that it was as if he had forgotten how strong he was, or perhaps he simply didn't care.
"What's your name?"
"Otto Hohenzollern of the Blue Fork, Your Majesty. A vassal of the Earl of Melist."
"Hohenzollern." He chewed on the name. "Blue Fork River. How big is that?"
More than six hundred people.
"Over six hundred men," Robert repeated, grinning. "You fucking brought eleven men to fight?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"You've got guts." Robert slapped the fence, turned to leave, then stopped. "Those lousy corridors of Pyke City—I couldn't even swing my warhammer properly in there." He raised his right hand to demonstrate the arc of swinging the hammer. "You—how many of you?"
"In groups of three."
"You three fill up a corridor that's only wide enough for three people."
"yes."
"What if it's wide enough for five people?"
"The extra two people are their death trap, Your Majesty. The hook-and-sickle spear at the apex is within reach."
Robert laughed loudly, like a sneeze. "Good." He dusted off the sawdust from his hands. "You came out of that rotten corridor alive and came to me. I'll buy you a drink. My best wine."
He strode away. The white-cloaked knight followed silently.
Ned Stark didn't leave immediately. He stood outside the fence for a few more breaths. His gray eyes swept over the nine men, lingering on the one at the top for a moment before settling on Otto's face.
He didn't say anything. He nodded. And left.
The flow of people in the passageway converged again. A groom carrying hay walked past them, a few strands of hay falling from his shoulder into the mud.
Gareth emerged from the shadows of the nearby tent.
Your face turned pale when he patted your shoulder.
"Old wound."
"I know," Gareth said. "But he doesn't."
Otto glanced at him.
"Go check the water supply point at the south end of the passage. See if any of the people coming from the west have any information about Beauty Island."
Gareth went. He returned just before dark.
"There's no definitive answer. But a fishmonger from Lannesport said the fire had been burning for days and nights, and the flames were visible from the shore. Then he vomited—from seasickness, not from fright."
The news came that night.
A rider charged into the camp from the south, covered in dust, his horse foaming at the mouth. Less than half an hour after he entered the central tent, the news seeped out like water on sand. First, it spread among the knights and squires around the tent, then it grew in circles.
It was completely dark when Patrick came to tell Otto. He was standing at the tent entrance, still chewing the last bite of hard bread.
"Stannis intercepted the Ironborn fleet in the Isle of Beauties. Victory Greyjoy's flagship was burned; the Ironborn's naval power was annihilated."
He swallowed the bread.
"The sea route is open. We'll board the ship the day after tomorrow."
After Patrick left, the camp erupted in chaos. Some were drinking and blowing horns, others were dancing around a large bonfire in an open area, and dozens of people in the distance were singing a song with every line of the lyrics containing profanities. A drunken knight tripped over a tent rope as he ran across the path, cursing as he got up and continued running.
Otto sat on the broken log outside the tent.
The cheers from the camp came from all directions. He didn't join in. He was thinking about something else.
Robert had seen them. In a camp of tens of thousands, the king stopped to look at his eleven men. Not just a glance—he leaned against the fence and looked several times, asked questions, laughed, patted them on the shoulder, and tossed out a sentence as he left. That sentence might have been worth only a sip of wine to Robert. But if his men really did walk out of that corridor alive—the king had seen them practice and witnessed the result.
The prerequisite is that you get out alive.
Inside the tent, some of the ten people were already lying down, while others weren't. Gareth's breathing was the easiest to recognize—deep, settling down in a few breaths; he could fall asleep anywhere. The others weren't so quick. Some tossed and turned, some let out a long sigh in the darkness, and some got up to drink some water and sat for a while before lying back down.
He remembered the elbow at the peak. It was half an inch too high. Today it was lower. But when it was lower, his right heel tucked in a little—making up for the error above, but creating a new one below. There's still a whole day before boarding the ship tomorrow, enough for a few more rounds of practice. If he can't correct it, he can't stand in the first group. Move him to the second group, and let the one with the stronger left hand stand at the peak of the first group. The person with stronger left hand provides a more stable signal by pushing the left shoulder; the first group will encounter the ironmen first after entering the corridor, so the peak needs to be stable.
The apex of the first group is either the first or the last place to die, depending on whether the person standing there can still make a judgment when they are hit.
Otto recalculated the reversal in the dark.
The noise from the distant camp gradually subsided. One by one, the drunkards collapsed; the horns stopped, the singing ceased, and the fires grew lower. The sound of the waves drifted in from the edge of the camp, wave after wave, always present, only previously drowned out by the noise.
We'll board the ship the day after tomorrow. On the other side of that sea is Pike Island. On Pike Island, there's a castle built on a rocky pillar in the sea. Several corridors connect the bridge and the castle. Ironborn are waiting in the corridors with axes.
He closed his eyes.