OBS Chapter 24: The Deterrence of the Dock
Chapter 24: The Deterrence of the Dock
The water level of the Lancha River dropped slightly in the heat of the long summer, revealing the dark red, slippery clay on the riverbank.
Raymond Frey stood on the deck of the patrol ship, the "Pride of the Twin Towers," clutching a beautifully patterned silk fan tightly in his hand, fanning himself incessantly. Sweat clung to his expensive, pale purple robe embroidered with the twin towers' crest, making him feel sticky and uncomfortable.
"Aren't we there yet?" Raymond asked the first mate beside him anxiously.
"Sir, just past that grove of dead trees struck by lightning, and you'll reach Sir Hohenzollern's docks," the first mate pointed ahead.
Raymond squinted at the distant stretch of river that the lords jokingly called "the swamp wasteland." Two months ago, it was just a chaotic refugee camp, with haphazardly erected, dilapidated tents and stinking garbage heaps everywhere. He had expected to see the same scene of refugees' lamentations and Otto Hohenzollern's utter devastation upon his arrival.
However, as the bow of the boat cut through the thick river fog, the sight before him froze Raymond's hand, which was fanning himself.
It was no longer a muddy tidal flat.
The dock had been reinforced with thick oak piles, each one driven deep into the riverbed. What shocked him even more was the "road" that extended inland from the dock—not the muddy road that was common in riverine areas and turned into a trap when it rained, but a "log road" made of countless logs of uniform thickness laid horizontally, with the gaps filled with gravel and quicklime.
This road, like a gray-white spine, runs straight through the once muddy grassland, connecting to the distant stone tower that has now risen to a height of two stories.
"What...what does that smell like?" Raymond wrinkled his nose.
Contrary to expectations, it didn't have a putrid smell; instead, it had a dry, even somewhat pungent, spicy odor.
"It's quicklime, sir," the first mate replied in a low voice, a hint of awe in his tone. "They've covered it in all the drains and public areas. I've heard Hohenzollern has an ironclad rule: anyone who urinates or defecates in public must be hanged. Look at those ditches..."
Raymond followed the first mate's gesture and saw drainage ditches three feet deep dug on both sides of the dock, their bottoms lined with thick layers of white lime, neatly channeling the murky water downstream. This layout, which even possessed a kind of "morbid neatness," seemed so out of place in the dirty and chaotic Westeros territory, even exuding a chilling sense of order.
"Thump—thump—thump—"
Before Raymond could recover from the shock of the infrastructure, a dull, mechanical, hammer-like thud came from the shore.
The patrol boat docked and the gangplank was lowered.
As Raymond stepped out of the cabin, the first thing he saw was not Otto, but a black and white double-headed eagle flag hanging in the blazing sun.
Below the flag, thirty-seven fully armed soldiers stood in a tight square formation, blocking the exit of the dock.
Raymond instinctively took a half-step back. He had seen the Marquis Walder's elite guard in the Twins, and the Knights of Riverrun. Those men, though imposing, were still flesh and blood, capable of laughter and action.
But these thirty-seven people in front of me are not human.
They are a cold machine.
Twelve veterans clad in the chainmail of the Sea Frontier City stood in the front row, while twenty-five militiamen in thick leather armor filled the flanks and rear. Each held aloft an oak round shield with iron edges, the edges of the shields overlapping to form a seamless wall.
What chilled Raymond to the bone was the rhythm.
"Thump—"
The Northern veteran Toren stood on one side of the formation, holding a dripping water clock. Each time a drop of water struck the metal plate, the thirty-seven men would take a step forward in perfect unison.
The size of his stride, the sound of his iron boots hitting the ground, and even the frequency of his breathing all seemed to have been measured with a ruler.
"Shield up and die!" Toren's voice was hoarse and cold.
"drink!"
The thirty-seven people simultaneously let out a short, low growl.
"Countdown—ten!"
Under Raymond's horrified gaze, the thirty-seven men remained frozen in place, shields raised, like thirty-seven cast-iron statues. They made no unnecessary movements, barely even moving their eyes.
The oppressive feeling brought about by this "ten-second rhythm" even surpassed that of actual combat. It meant that these soldiers had completely abandoned their personal will and had become slaves to this rhythm.
"Lord Raymond, welcome to the territory of Hohenzollern."
Otto's voice came from behind the phalanx. The phalanx split open in an instant, its speed and coordination reminding Raymond of the roar of the Twins' sluice gates opening.
Otto walked slowly forward, his left shoulder still slinged with cloth, but his faded coarse linen clothes, set against the backdrop of these steel soldiers, exuded a kingly aura of solemnity.
"Holy... Otto, my friend..." Raymond finally found his voice, awkwardly closing his silk fan. "This...this setup, are you preparing for war?"
"This is just routine training to ensure your silver isn't stolen by those blind crows," Otto said calmly, his eyes scanning the two ships Raymond had brought.
Raymond swallowed hard and pointed to the crates on the ship behind him: "The security tax you asked for... oh no, this month's silver dividend, I've already brought the Sea Frontier City's share, and while I'm at it, I've also settled the amount that Twin Rivers City is entitled to."
"Polliver, settle the accounts," Otto ordered without turning his head.
The clerk, Pollifer, stepped forward carrying the beeswax-coated record board. He didn't look at Raymond, nor did he even bow to the nobleman's son as usual. He simply turned the pages of the accounts coldly and began in a tone that, while charming to the actuary, was offensive to the nobleman:
"Lord Raymond. This month's silver production totaled 312 pounds. According to the contract, Earl Jason of Seafront City should receive 187 pounds; the Frey family should receive 31 pounds as 'security tax'; and we will retain 94 pounds. Given that your patrol ships were absent twice last week due to 'weather reasons,' causing our miners to delay their work, according to Article 3 of the security agreement, a late payment penalty of three silver deer should be deducted. Please sign."
Raymond was stunned. He had been a tyrant in the Riverlands for thirty years, and no one had ever dared to challenge him to such a deadly level.
"What? Deduct money? I'm..."
Raymond was about to lash out, but his gaze inadvertently fell on the square formation behind Toren.
The thirty-seven spears remained held horizontally, their tips gleaming coldly in the blazing sun, the mechanical "ten-second rhythm" continuing unabated. He remembered Ge Gen's screams in the cellar, and how the assassins sent by Tethos had been torn to shreds by these iron nets and hidden stakes.
"Sign...I'll sign." Raymond gritted his teeth and pressed his stamp on the record board.
"Furthermore, Lord Raymond," Otto said, walking up to Raymond and lowering his voice, but this did not ease Raymond's mind. "The scorching summer heat is drying up my people. Sweat is draining their strength, and the land needs salt, lots of coarse salt."
"Salt? That stuff isn't cheap these days..."
“I don’t need a cheap excuse. I need two thousand pounds of salt.” Otto interrupted him, his tone carrying an unquestionable sense of contract. “You can quote me the market price plus thirty percent, and that will be deducted from your extra ‘benefits’ next month. But I demand that the salt be delivered to my dock by next Tuesday.”
Raymond's heart skipped a beat. An extra 30%? That was a considerable sum. Otto, though ruthless, was indeed far more generous in distributing profits than those nobles who only knew how to solicit bribes.
"Two thousand pounds...no problem. The Redwin family's caravan is just about to unload its cargo in the Twins." Raymond regained his sense of superiority in business negotiations. "But Otto, what are you trying to do with all this lime, this strange road, and all this salt? What are you planning?"
Otto looked toward the stone tower rising from the ground in the distance, where people were projecting flag signals into the sky to warn of the movements of the Tethos strongholds on the land.
"I just want them to live."
Otto turned around and made a gesture to Toren.
"Fall back! Heading north! Twenty seconds countdown, march in step!"
"drink!"
Thirty-seven soldiers turned around simultaneously in an instant. Raymond looked at their remarkably orderly backs, at the heavy rumble of their footsteps on the log path, and suddenly felt a chill he had never felt before.
He had initially thought Otto was just a hunting dog that old Wald kept to help bite people, but now, looking at the black and white eagle flag that remained motionless in the sweltering air, looking at this fortress of quicklime that had been forcibly built in the swamp...
He realized that what the Twins had released was probably not a tamable falcon, but a steel mill that would never stop once it was started.
"Sir, shall we turn back?" the first mate asked in a low voice.
"Back." Raymond jumped hastily onto the deck, as if he would be suffocated by the smell of quicklime if he stayed any longer. "Get back quickly. Also, tell the logistics officer to prepare the finest coarse salt. That madman... as long as he's still paying you, keep him satisfied."
Raymond's boat disappeared around the bend in the Blue Fork River.
Otto stood by the dock, looking down at the log path beneath his feet. Sewage in the drainage ditch flowed smoothly downstream, while quicklime suppressed the lurking epidemic deep in the soil.
"Polliver."
"Yes, sir."
"Once the salt arrives, it will be distributed to each labor group, and they will be required to add it to their dinner. Also, tell Cole that the crossbow strings for the second 'Scorpion' must be completed before autumn."
Otto looked toward the land route, toward Tytos Blackwood's wooden palisade outpost.
"Paying the first security tax means the Twin Towers have become our bodyguards. Now, we need to think about how to get out of this fence."
The scorching summer sun remained harsh, but in the Hohenzollern Territory, a chilling force known as "order" was spreading wildly from every crack in the logs.