Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 59: The Pinnacle

Cole's hammering came from outside the stone wall, each strike muffled and solid, carrying a steady rhythm that would never falter once it found its beat.

Otto leaned against the stone wall, the hardened callus throbbing dully in the cold air. He had grown accustomed to the feeling, like a silent tenant inside him, quiet but always there.

On the stone table lay a sheet of rough parchment, blank side up, with a charcoal stick beside it. Three days ago, he had drawn three dots in the snow, then turned the paper over and drew some lines on it. But those lines hadn't been completed, so the charcoal stick remained there, waiting.

The door was pushed open.

Edric entered in the same way he always had – without knocking. He carried the folded piece of paper, walked to the stone table, put it down, and flattened it with his palm. The creases had completely altered the paper's texture, but the three dots remained. Around them were lines Edric had drawn over the past three days, intersecting with Otto's lines, some overlapping, some separating, like two people entering the same room from different directions.

He sat down opposite him, placing his hands on the edge of the table, the stump of his half-ring finger resting against the edge of the wood.

Then he didn't speak immediately.

Otto didn't urge him either.

The sound of Cole's hammer still echoed outside, each strike a low, resonant vibration that traveled through the stone wall, like the room breathing on its own.

"Back in the Trident River era," Edric finally spoke, his voice lower than usual, the kind of tone you get when pulling something out from deep within, "we were once driven into an abandoned canal."

His eyes weren't on Otto, but on the paper on the table, but not on the lines on the paper.

"That canal was incredibly narrow; it was so narrow that two people could barely walk side by side, and if you stretched out your arms, you could touch the walls on either side. We entered from the south end, and after walking about twenty steps, we heard people coming in from the north end as well."

He paused, running his thumb along the wood grain of the table edge.

"There were no lights. You couldn't see anything, only hear. You could hear the sound of those people's boots hitting the muddy bottom of the ditch, and their breathing. But you couldn't judge the distance just by sound; sound bounces in that narrow space, from the left wall to the right wall and back. You might think someone was three steps ahead of you, but they might only be one and a half steps away."

As he said this, the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

"I wanted to blow my bone whistle. The old captain was to my right, and I wanted to tell him I was going left and he should go right, but a bone whistle in that kind of place just produces a muddled mess of sounds. The people on the other side could hear me, but our own people couldn't hear us clearly. Shouting was even worse. The people on the other side went in first; they knew the canal's course better than we did. They would know where I was as soon as I spoke."

He paused again, this time for even longer.

"I was thinking I was doomed and it was all down to luck, when the old captain nudged me."

He lifted his right index finger off the edge of the table and pushed it half an inch to the left. The movement was tiny, but incredibly precise; it was like retrieving something from his memory and placing it exactly as it was on the table.

"Elbow. Just this once. To the left. He wasn't looking at me, it was so dark in the ditch I couldn't see anything, but he knew I was on his right, he knew where my shoulder was. He touched me with his elbow, and then pushed me."

"I went left, he went right. The person was right between us."

When he said "right among us," his tone was as flat as if he were talking about the weather, but Otto noticed that the hand he was resting on the edge of the table tightened for a moment and then relaxed.

"I thought about that for a long time afterward." Edric looked up at Otto. "Not about how that guy died, but about what the old captain's action really was. It wasn't a signal—signals are pre-arranged, like two people sitting down and saying, 'I'll give you a push, that means left.' That wasn't it. That action was him deciding the direction, and then his elbow moved before his mouth."

He pulled his hands back from the edge of the table and placed them crossed on his knees.

"Touch. Not sound, but touch. Sound gets muddled in narrow spaces, swallowed up in noisy places, and in crowded places, it's hard to tell who it's meant for. But touch doesn't. You put your hand on someone's shoulder and give them a push; the direction is in that one push. They don't need to think about what it means; their body knows immediately."

Otto did not speak immediately after he finished speaking.

The person at the top places both hands on the shoulders and backs of the two shield bearers simultaneously. Push the left shoulder and turn to the left. Push the right shoulder and turn to the right. Push both shoulders simultaneously and take a half step back.

Three signals, three directions. Each signal is the direction itself. No translation is needed; the muscles receive it and execute it.

Then he took a step forward—the bone whistle tube array controls when it moves. The tactile whistle tube node controls where it moves. Two sets of signals, two levels, different types, different channels, will not overlap even on the noisiest battlefield.

"It wasn't a sound, it was a touch," he said.

"Yes." Edric nodded. "The bone whistle controls the larger units, determining when the whole formation moves together. The hand whistles control the smaller ones, instructing which direction each of the three units turns. The two sets operate independently and won't interfere with each other."

Otto turned the paper around and pointed to the apex of the triangle with his right index finger.

"vertex."

"Um."

"The strongest person stands in the most dangerous position."

Edric didn't reply immediately. He thought for a moment.

"Within the formation," he began, his tone shifting slightly, no longer the murmur of reminiscence, but the calm composure one possesses when speaking of something truly understood, "the strongest are usually placed in the safest spot. The reason is simple: that person is meant to deliver the final blow, they can't afford to be worn down in peacetime, so that when the crucial moment arrives, they can smash the situation open. This is the logic of most formations; all the battles I've fought have basically followed this approach."

He leaned forward slightly.

"But yours is different. You've put the most capable person in the most vulnerable position, not to smash people, but to withstand the blows. While withstanding the blows, they also have to judge—where the threat is coming from, which way to turn next, and which of the two people next to them is still stable and who is starting to waver. Just withstanding the blows isn't enough, just being able to fight isn't enough either; they have to be able to think while taking hits."

He placed both hands on the table, and this time the half of his ring finger lay completely flat, pressing down on the paper along with the other fingers.

"And there's something else—his hands. He places both hands on the shield bearer's shoulders; that touch isn't just a signal, it's a state. If the apex panics, his hands will tremble, his strength will change, and the shield bearer will immediately sense it. Sensing it, the shield bearer will panic, and then the whole triangle will crumble. So that person not only needs to be able to withstand pressure and think strategically, but his hands also need to be steady, steady enough that those around him feel that as long as that hand is still on the shoulder, things haven't deteriorated beyond repair."

After he finished speaking, he looked at Otto.

Otto pushed the paper toward Edric.

"This set is yours from today onwards."

Edric looked at the paper.

He didn't reach out immediately. He paused there for about three breaths.

Then he picked up the paper, folded it along the original crease, and put it inside his shirt pocket.

He stood up and walked towards the door. He paused at the door, his back to Otto. In the lamplight, the back of his old leather armor was barely visible, just a dark color that had settled over a long period of time.

"That batch of Apex armor," he said, "needs to be thicker than the others. It also needs to cover a larger area, and the neck protection needs to be so good that even after being hit hard, the shield bearer can still turn their head to look to both sides. Also, the shoulders need to be padded with leather, the soft kind, otherwise the iron armor will be too hard, and the force applied by the hand will be off-target, and what the shield bearer feels will be different from what the Apex armor emits."

He didn't wait for Otto's reply and walked out.

Half an hour later, Otto arrived at the training field.

He walked to the center of the field, squatted down, and drew three sets of triangles in the snow, forming a triangular shape. Then he stood up, brushed the snow off his knees, and spoke to those who had stopped to look at him.

"Three people per group. The two at the bottom hold shields and face outwards. The one at the top holds a hook and sickle and stands in the middle behind."

He pointed to the picture on the ground.

"There's no fixed front. Whichever side is approaching, the entire triangle turns in that direction. The turning isn't done by shouting or using a bone whistle; it's done by the person at the top pushing the shield bearer's shoulder—a push on the left shoulder means a left turn, a push on the right shoulder means a right turn, and a push on both sides means a half-step back. The bone whistle controls the bigger picture, determining when the whole formation stops and moves together. The hand gesture controls the smaller details, instructing how each of the three of you turns."

After he finished speaking, he scanned the faces. Several of them were survivors of the Trident River, and their eyes changed when he said "by hand."

"Three people came out."

No one moved.

Toren stepped forward and pointed to three people. The three people walked to the center of the field and stood at the three points drawn by Otto.

Otto walked up to the veteran who had been pointed to the top.

"Put your hands on their shoulders."

The veteran placed his hands on the shoulders and backs of the two shield bearers at the bottom, his left hand a little heavier and his right hand a little lighter. It wasn't intentional; it was just that the strength of his two hands was naturally different.

A bone whistle blew, a long note. It was Torun blowing it.

"Left," Otto said.

The peak pressed down on his left shoulder.

The shield bearer on the left moved first, while the one on the right was half a breath slower. That half-breath difference caused the rotation to twist—it wasn't a complete rotation, but rather the left pulling the right, and the right chasing the left.

After the three people stood still, the new front was facing left.

They went astray. But they turned around.

That was the first time the backless formation truly came to life. It wasn't just three dots on paper, or three real people spinning in the cold air.

Edric walked over from the wooden shed and squatted down to look at the six boot prints on the ground.

"The right side is slower," he said, his voice low, directed at the boot prints. "When pressing down on the shoulders at the top, the force is the same, but the left shoulder is thicker and feels less sensitive, while the right shoulder bone is shallower and more sensitive. With the same force, the right side receives a stronger signal than the left, so the reaction is faster. To make both sides move simultaneously, press down on the left shoulder a little harder than on the right."

No one spoke on the training field. The wind blew from the north, swirling up some of the snow powder on the ground before letting it fall back down.

"One more time," Otto said.

The bone whistle blew again.

This time, the veteran pressed down a little harder on the left shoulder, though only slightly, but the reaction time difference between the two shield bearers at the bottom was shortened, and the twisting became smaller.

There's still a difference. But it's smaller now.

Otto watched for a while, then spoke to Toren.

"Starting tomorrow, the last hour of each day will be dedicated to practicing this. We'll work in groups of three, rotating the top position, and everyone must stand in it."

"Yes, sir."

He turned and left without looking back.

That evening, Otto spoke a few words to Polyver at the bottom of the stone tower.

Pollifer picked up the charcoal stick and wrote down each item in the ledger:

Top-tier armor. 20% heavier than standard armor. Increased coverage area on the chest and shoulders. A two-finger-width gap in the neck guard allows the user to turn their head even after a heavy blow. Soft leather lining added to the inside of the shoulders; the thick lining prevents the impact force from being abraded by the metal parts.

"Before the ice melts," Otto said.

Pollifer paused at the doorway, as if he wanted to ask something, but then left without asking.

The stone chamber fell silent.

The wind whistled softly outside the window. The training ground was silent; today was over. But those six boot prints remained in the snow, in the cold wind, waiting to be covered by new prints tomorrow, waiting for that half-breath difference to be shortened even a little bit more.

Otto leaned against the stone wall and closed his eyes.

Cole's hammering continued, coming in from outside the wall, one strike after another, without stopping.