nownovels Chapter 62: The Ice Melts
Chapter 62: The Ice Melts
The ice cracked that morning.
The sound came from the direction of the Blue Fork River, low and muffled, like someone slowly hammering a huge stone slab at the bottom of the river with a blunt hammer. It wasn't in a hurry, but it wouldn't stop.
The first to hear it was old Jack in the lookout tree on the north slope. He was huddled in a fork in the thick branches, gnawing on a frozen piece of dark bread—an old habit of his on night watch, keeping the bread warm in his pocket all night and taking it out to eat just before dawn. A thin layer of ice had formed on the outside of the bread; it was hard at first, then cold after breaking through the ice, and only after a few more chews did the wheat flavor emerge, with a slightly sour, stale taste. But it was edible; in the winter of the Blue Fork Valley, anything edible was good, and he wasn't picky.
He was chewing his second bite when he suddenly stopped.
He hadn't heard anything amiss—he could distinguish unusual sounds: birdsong was off, horses' hooves were coming from the wrong direction, branches snapping too crisply—he'd experienced all of these before and knew what to do. This time was different. This time, the sound didn't seem like something making noise, but rather like something moving. On the river surface a dozen feet below him, something that had been weighed down all winter had loosened.
He stuffed the bread into his arms, slid down the tree, and ran towards the longhouse.
Most of the people in the estate were still asleep in the longhouse. The fire in the hearth had just started from the embers, and someone was adding firewood to the iron pot. The firewood was still damp, and white smoke rose up carrying a musty, acrid smell of wood. A child was whimpering in the corner, but quieted down after being hugged by the woman next to him. An old man turned over, and a hand with bulging veins emerged from under the straw mat. He touched the water bowl beside his pillow; the water inside was frozen with a thin layer of ice. He touched it and then withdrew it, probably finding it too cold to drink.
Old Jack stood in the doorway, took a couple of breaths, and then shouted, "The river has thawed!"
Two words. Everyone in the longhouse sat up.
Some people immediately started putting on their boots, while others, still not fully awake, stood there stunned. Someone next to one of them nudged him and said, "Are you deaf? The river has thawed!" Only then did the man realize what was happening and also started looking for his boots. The old man in the corner didn't move. He leaned against the straw mat, heard those two words, then reached out again, scooped a small piece of thin ice from the water bowl, and put it in his mouth, as if to confirm that it was real.
When Otto stepped out of the side gate of the stone tower, cracks were already visible on the river.
Thin, irregular cracks extend outwards from certain points on the ice. In some places, the cracks have widened to reveal a deeper, more vibrant color beneath—the river water, the river that has flowed all winter, never stopping, only suppressed beneath the ice. Now that the ice has loosened, the water is beginning to find its way out.
The wind came from upstream, a little wetter than yesterday. It wasn't the true warmth of spring, just something more than pure dry cold, something indescribable. In Westeros, the thawing of ice was never a date on the calendar; it was a sound, a change in the air, and everyone who had spent a full winter in the Riverlands knew what that change meant—not that spring had arrived, spring was still far off, but that winter was beginning to loosen its grip.
He stood by the river for a while, watching the cracks slowly spread outwards, then turned and walked into the territory.
He wants to walk around.
He didn't tell anyone about this, nor did he need to. He was leaving today, and before setting off, he wanted to walk around and see if the things he'd built over the past three years were still in their proper places. This wasn't a sentimental farewell—he wasn't that kind of person.
The log path stretched from the dock all the way to the inner gate of the fortress, and he started walking from the dock.
This road was built the first year. Back then, before and after the flood season, the ground was all mud. He led a few hunters and refugees to drag logs from the forest to lay on the softest sections of the road, filling the gaps with gravel. It was the simplest kind of engineering, requiring no special skills, just people and time.
On the evening the road was repaired, Matt and his men returned from the fields. His boots thumped firmly on the logs. Matt paused in the middle of the road, glanced down at the logs beneath his feet, said nothing, and continued walking.
This road has been trodden on for almost three years now. The logs have wear marks of varying depths, and there are several dents from being pressed down by carts. The color is much darker than it was three years ago. As he walks on it, the sound of his boots has changed. It's heavier than it was three years ago, the kind of heaviness that comes from the wood being pressed down by countless feet.
He didn't go into the training field. He glanced at it from the side; Toren was giving his men a final check-up before departure. The bone whistle blew over, the rhythm was right. He left.
The blacksmith's shop door was open, the furnace was burning, Cole wasn't there, but his apprentice was, turning a piece of iron. The young man saw him, put down his tongs, stood up straight, looking nervous. Otto glanced at the fire in the furnace, then at the grain of the iron, and said, "Turn your wrist outwards slightly when you turn it," before leaving. The young man paused, looked down at his wrist, muttered something—probably repeating the technique—then picked up the tongs again and tried adjusting the angle.
There was no one near the sewage ditch.
Pollifer postponed the routine ditch cleaning by a day today. It was his own decision; Otto didn't ask, and Pollifer didn't explain.
Otto squatted down by the canal.
These canals were the first things built in the territory. They predated the stone walls, the blacksmith's shop, the watermill, and all other decent buildings. When he first arrived in this wasteland with fourteen men, before they even had a proper shelter, the first thing he did was dig drainage ditches. The reasoning was simple—without sewage, these men would start dying of dysentery within a month, and all other construction would be meaningless.
He had calculated a number back then: if the sewage system were built, what were the chances that these fourteen people could survive the first winter? He never told anyone that number, and he never would, but he always remembered it. That was the first arithmetic problem he had solved on this wasteland, earlier than all the arithmetic problems he would later solve concerning silver mines, salt, military expenses, and rations.
There is a faint white mark on the canal wall, left from when the lime was first laid. Three years of wind and rain have worn it away to the point of being almost invisible. Only when the morning light shines from a certain angle can you see a line of color in the stone texture that is slightly lighter than the surrounding area.
He touched the spot with his finger. The stone was cool. His finger lingered there for a moment, then he withdrew it, stood up, and brushed the dirt off his knees.
He mentally recalculated the numbers: 575 people, 37 infantrymen, nearly 20,000 pounds of grain from four dry wells, a silver mine that was recovering its production, and a set of rules that could operate without relying on any one person.
He walked quickly towards the outer boundary marker.
Standing beside the boundary marker, he looked around in the direction of the territory.
Stone towers, stone walls, longhouses, blacksmith shops, watermills, and earthen kilns. A double-headed black eagle flag hung atop the stone tower; a gust of wind blew, and each head looked in its own direction.
Three years ago when he came, there was nothing here. Not even a dry place to stand; mud and water would seep into your boots as soon as you stepped on it. Now all of that is here, and it continues to function without his presence—Polliver keeps the accounts, Torun trains his troops, Cole forges the blacksmith, and Ilion sends out ravens. He's gone, but the territory continues to function.
He stood there for a while. Soon after.
Then he turned around and walked back.
Maria handed him his robe in the longhouse corridor. A button on the collar was loose; it had been mended with tight stitches. He put it on and went out.
The ten men waited in the open space outside the workshop, fully equipped. One of them was shaking his spearhead to check if it was securely tied; after a couple of shakes, he thought it was fine and straightened the spear. Another was retiecing his boot laces, doing it twice. The first time, he thought they were loose and undid them; the second time, he stomped his foot to finish, saying it was perfect. Yet another was whispering something to the person next to him, and after they finished, they both smiled—the kind of casual smile you exchange before heading out.
Pollifer stopped at the entrance to the longhouse. He stood there, not going any further. It wasn't that anyone told him he could only go this far; he simply felt that this was enough. He had known Otto for almost three years, from a lowly accountant hired for two coppers at the docks to now managing the accounts for the entire estate.
As Otto passed by, neither of them spoke. Polliver nodded.
Before setting off, William handed a letter to a hunter, asking him to deliver it. It wasn't for his father; the recipient's address was written on the outside. Pollifer, standing nearby, saw the address, but he didn't memorize it—it wasn't his business.
However, a thought flashed through his mind: When did this kid start having communication partners outside his territory? Then the thought passed, and he turned and walked back to his tent.
The group headed towards the official road.
Those who remained in the territory spontaneously followed to the boundary marker. No one organized it, no one shouted "See them off!" or anything like that; they just followed. Some people were still carrying the tools they had been using, and one woman held a bundle of unfinished hemp cloth in her arms, simply carrying it until she stopped at the boundary marker. Two children ran behind the adults, unaware of what was happening, simply following because everyone was going in the same direction.
They stood on this side of the boundary marker, watching the eleven figures walk into the woods on both sides of the official road.
The official road turned south after leaving the valley, flanked by sparse winter forests. The bare branches, against the backdrop of thin snow, resembled lines drawn with charcoal on white paper. The eleven figures grew smaller and smaller among those lines, until the tip of the last man's spear flashed briefly at the corner before disappearing from sight.
Quiet. Nothing had changed; the wind was still the same, the cracking of the ice on the river continued, and the hammering of the blacksmith in the distance still echoed. Only the road was deserted, the official road empty, and beyond the corner lay unseen.
Old Jack—the hunter who first heard the ice thawing this morning—stood beside the boundary marker, looking at the empty corner, and muttered under his breath, "The river thaws, and people leave. That's a soldier's fate; once the river thaws, you have to go."
An old woman next to him glared at him: "Pah! What discouraging talk, so early in the morning!"
Old Jack shrank back and said nothing. But he was still chewing the half-eaten piece of bread, chewing very slowly, as if he was thinking about something.
The woman who was holding the burlap sack switched it to her other arm and rubbed her frostbitten nose with her other hand. The two children were pulled away by their respective mothers. One of them glanced back, but saw nothing before being dragged away.
Everyone started to disperse, returning to their respective positions to do what they were doing. This day wouldn't be much different from yesterday; apart from eleven fewer people eating, everything else still had to be done as usual.
The thin snow began to melt at the base of the sunlit stone wall, forming a narrow stream that trickled down the cracks in the stone and into the drainage ditch. The ditch was still there, dug three years ago; the white lime mark on the ditch wall was still there, only a little faded.
Otto walked at the front of the group without looking back.
The official road stretched ahead, towards Haijiang City, towards a place he hadn't yet traversed. The sparse woods on both sides transformed into denser pine forests, and the snow on the ground, still lingering in the shade, made a sound completely different from that in his territory—softer, more unfamiliar, as if the road was telling him he was no longer in his own land.
The wind carried the faint scent of pine resin, coming and going in gusts.
He knew the double-headed eagle flag behind him was still there, in a place he could no longer see, in the wind. The two heads each looked in their own direction, just as they had on the day he had hung it up himself three years ago.