The armoured caterpillar was assembled and waiting to cross the river. On its back it carried the food and hopes of all the people of King's Landing. The last teamsters were hurrying to their wagons. A sheep tried to dart away from the column to the meadows far away and had to be herded back by three shepherds to rejoin the rest of its flock. The air was silent and cold, making every armoured footfall, every dropped spear clatter and every whispered prayer and grumbled curse sound loud and clear to Loren as he led his horse up the length of the column. His feet were compressing the mud and grass of the fields. The wagons, three abreast, took up the entire width of the road, leaving his men to walk on the grass. There was a break every twenty wagons, enough for him to move soldiers from one side to the other as needed. Gods this was going to go wrong. Even three abreast, the head of his column was almost a day away from the rear, and he would be right in the middle. About the centre of the line he pulled up to a halt. "We're nearly ready to depart," he said, running his armoured fingers along his moustache. "Ser Gerold, Ser Garth, take your positions."
Ser Garth Hightower, the Greysteel, nodded, mounting his horse. "Remember, if anyone disobeys you, give me their names, I'll see to them.
"As you command, Lord Marshall," Ser Garth said, kicking his horse into a trot down to the rear of the column where he held his command. He didn't know the man well, but having provided so many men, he had to give the Hightowers a command of some sort. From their few interactions, Garth was a capable soldier, so he had command of the rear of the column.
Gerold stroked the armoured caparison of his horse, running his fingers over the crossed halberds of House Yarwyk on the white coat. "I should be at your side, my lord," he said.
"I have enough shields this time," he assured his sworn sword, placing his hand on Gerold's shoulder. "I need someone I trust completely to command the head of the column. There's no one I trust more."
Gerold nodded, taking Loren's arm tightly. "I won't let you down, my lord."
"I know it."
Gerold swung himself up on his horse and set off for his command post. He'd spoken to every lord in his army, everyone of rank. Gerold and Garth spoke with his voice in their positions, to disobey them was death. It was harsh, perhaps too much so, but obedience, total obedience, would be their best chance of getting out of this alive. Or he'd die a tyrant. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes before turning to his final companion. "I thank you again, lord Willas, I appreciate what you're sacrificing for this."
"Not nearly as much as you're risking," Willas said, leaning on his cane, "just save my family and any debt you think you owe me is repaid."
"I'll do my best," he closed his eyes again, rubbing his temples.
"When you've gotten to King's Landing and won the war for us, we can return to the discussions of my wedding to your daughter."
Loren felt warmth spread through him, the kind of warmth that came from affirmation. Perhaps it was hollow, perhaps it was empty, but it was definitely what he needed. When he won. "Yes," he replied, forcing a smile. "When."
"Not again you piece of fucking-" He heard the repeated crunch of metal on wood and spun. One of his soldiers was kicking away at a wagon, sending splinters flying as a barrel rolled off the road and came to rest on the grass. "Can't you just-"
"Soldier!" Loren marched over and seized the soldier, spinning him head on. Others were looking on, some grimly, others saw what was happening and looked away, uninterested. "What are you doing?"
The soldier was breathing hard. "I've put that barrel on that wagon four times, my lord," he snapped. "But it keeps falling off!"
Loren shoved him against the wagon. "Soldier. I am your commanding officer, do you understand?" He kept his tone cool and stared at the soldier.
The soldier held his gaze for a few seconds, then dropped it to the ground. "Yes, my lord, I'm sorry."
Loren nodded and glanced over the wagon. It was loaded high with barrels, bushels and crates, it wasn't surprising that this barrel was falling out. He hoisted himself up on the wagon, looking for room. "There's room back here," he said, "pass it up."
"But my lord-"
"Pass it up," he repeated. The soldier retrieved the barrel and hauled it back to the wagon. He passed it up. Gods it was heavy. Loren strained, his fingers nearly slipping on the wood. He lifted it up and over, setting it down at the very front, rearranging some sacks around it. "There, that should work," he said, dropping onto the road with a crunch. "If it falls on the march, see if we can find a different wagon for it," he told the soldier.
"Yes my lord."
Loren took his shoulder. "It will all be fine, when we get to King's Landing, imagine cracking that barrel open and enjoying what's inside."
The soldier's face brightened a little. "Yes, my lord."
"Very good, now, get ready, we're marching soon."
As the soldier busied himself, Loren walked back to Willas, concern etched on his features. "Are you sure this is the right idea?" He asked quietly.
Loren nodded. "It's the only chance we have," he insisted. He looked up and down the line. They were nearly ready, it was time to assemble. "You should return to Highgarden now, lord Willas."
"You're going?"
"As soon as we hear from Gerold and Garth."
Willas nodded. "Very well, I'll return. I wish you speed and fortune."
"I'll need plenty of both." Willas walked away to where a wheelhouse was prepared for him and a small escort of Tyrell men at arms to escort him back to the castle.
Loren turned to his retinue. "Have the drummers beat assembly."
The drummers beat out their thrumming beats and the entire line swirled with activity. Teamsters mounted the wagons and shepherds and cowherds ringed the sheep and cattle firmly. Infantry pulled on helmets and gathered shields and spears, forming blocks of infantry to the left flank of the marching column, each block was assembled into three lines, two of men with spears, swords, axes and whatever other weapons they'd gathered, the third clasped bows and crossbows. Here in the centre, where Loren held direct command, he had half of the Lannister men and the nine hundred ironman recruits. He also commanded the survivors from the Battle of Bayonne that had broken through to Highgarden. The other half of the Lannister men were under the command of ser Gerold, along with the reacher veterans from the ironman campaign and forces from the Shield Islands under Talbert Serry. The rear, commanded by ser Garth comprised the large Hightower host and the other reacher forces. The cavalry was grouped around each of the three commanders, ready to react to any danger that could threaten their part of the line. The drums fell silent as the formation was completed, standing to attention, ready to march. Silence. Too much silence. He looked over the men. His veterans were ready, standing tall and strong, he could rely on them. Curiously the ironmen, equipped with Lannister steel and led by ser Eldon Drox, ser Raynald Westerling and ser Rolph Spicer seemed ready and eager, he saw one of them jumping up and down to loosen himself, another rolled his neck to crack the bones there. The survivors of Bayonne he was less certain about, but he saw their faces, weathered, worn. Having seen battle, they would be less likely to freeze when they saw it again.
Hoofbeats made him turn. A rider was coming down the line. "Lord Marshall!" He reined up next to Loren's retinue. "Lord Marshall, ser Gerold reports he is ready to march."
"Very good, return to him." The rider wheeled his horse and cantered back up the line.
It took longer for Ser Garth's rider to come, but he did come, and when he did, Loren sent him back again and closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths. "We're ready, my lord." He turned to see Tyland, mounted on his courser, smiling at him. He looked at the rest of his retinue, who nodded at him, certain, determined. "Thank you," he told them all. Then he stood tall in his saddle. "Signal the march!" He bellowed.
The trumpets sent a thrumming tune into the still and silent air and, with the trump of boots, the rattle of wheels and the pounding of hoofs, the column set off on their march.
Even as the first ten days passed without incident, Loren did not allow himself to hope. The march was steady, progress was made, every night the men lay down to sleep in marching formation, the horse lines were tied along the wagons to be easily taken down. The shepherds and cowherds let their charges onto the expansive meadows to eat a little and rest. When morning came they would be gathered up and returned to the column. Unlike a normal marching column, where the cattle would be kept at the rear, Loren couldn't afford the risk of them lingering, so they were kept between ser Garth's forces and his own.
There was no sight of their enemies either. His scouts ranged to the north, looking for a hint that Robb Stark was nearby, but they all returned and none saw anything. Their right flank was guarded by the deeply flowing Mander river, so long as the roseroad ran in tandem with it, they were safe from that direction. Every time they approached a crossing, Gerold sent men to secure it, be it a ford, a bridge or a village. But the people were questioned, and if any of them had seen Stannis Baratheon's host, it was days and weeks ago.
It was impossible that they hadn't been seen, it had to be. "We stick out like a hard cock in tight hose," ser Rolph had muttered one night as they surrounded a pewter cauldron of stewed vegetables and hard meat with a hunk of bread each.
"And we're just as vulnerable to a good kicking," Eldron added, to the chuckles of the men.
He had to agree, so many wagons and cattle had to have drawn notice, especially in these meadows and fields of the southern Reach, where a small hill could give you twenty leagues of vision.
As they marched onwards, constantly glancing over their shoulders, they came across the first warning post. A small stone bridge over the mander, broken in the middle, the stones scattered across the water. Those still hanging over the water were blackened with soot and smoke. So, the war had reached this bridge then. The next day they reached a village that had suffered worse. If it had a name, no one knew it, and there was nothing left to guess by. The houses were gutted, the local mill only had one blade left on its axle, even the sept had a gaping hole in the side, the pews broken and the altars ripped up. Just beyond it there was a broken piece of wood jammed into some recently turned earth. One word was written on it, roughly carved in with a blade. Wolves. A mass grave. So, Stannis and Robb Stark had been clashing. Few slept well that night amidst the smell of smoke and the spectre of enemy forces.
They made it to the hanging tree next. A lone willow, standing over a pond. One of his men ran to fill up some waterskins, but leapt back with a cry. Hanging amidst the draping leaves were bodies. Four of them, dressed in the gold of House Baratheon, their flesh rotting from their faces, hands and feet, a crow was pecking into the empty eye socket of the one closest to Loren. "Keep moving." The land they marched into started rolling with larger hills as they entered the greater valley of the mander. His scouts hugged closer to the army. The march slowed. All of Robb Stark's host could be in those hills, ready to sweep down on them and drive them into the river.
As they moved along the road, the hills slanted up on either side of the river, guiding them, leading them, funneling them. Their scouts came back. Nothing. Where were the enemy?
Another fretful night awaited them. Loren stretched out, his limbs and shoulders feeling the effects of days on end in his armour. He took it off long enough to deficate, once in the evening, once in the morning, then the steel shell was back on for a day in the saddle. He laced himself back up on the banks of the Mander, marching back to the column. He fed his horse an apple, stroking his mane softly. He looked to the hills, dark shadows looming over them, ready to crush them. "Hello father," he muttered. When his horse was finished he tossed the apple core aside and was about to make for his bedroll when he saw one of the teamsters sat against the wheel of his wagon, his roll not even unfurled, his head on his knees. Making sure no one else was looking, he made his way over and sat down next to him. "Are you alright?"
The teamster looked up, his eyes were wide and his face was pale, and they only got wider and paler when he saw who was talking to him. "Yes, my lord, very alright."
His voice was quivering, he was afraid. "What are you afraid of?"
"I'm not afraid." He said that too quickly. Loren only had to raise an eyebrow and the man knew he was made. "We're coming up to it," he whispered.
"Coming up to what?" He asked.
The teamster replied, his voice barely a whisper. "The corpseroad."
"I see," Loren said softly. He knew they would come to it eventually, part of him was curious about what it could possibly be. It couldn't be the spectre haunted desolation of the stories could it? Maybe. "Have you seen it?"
The man nodded vigorously. "Just from a distance, I was part of the first convoy that saw it and turned back. They were hanging, dripping and wet, and the screams… I still hear them. The rot, the darkness, the whispers. The dead were there, my lord, the dead were there, and they were not silent."
He placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "Hey, calm down, wait here." He got up and fetched his ale ration, returning to the man. "Here, have this." The man took the skin with shaking hands and drained it, half of it going down his front. "Now you listen here, okay," he waited for the man to look him in the eye, and his gaze to stop flickering away. "I will be right here, and so will the army, we won't be letting anyone get you, alive or dead. All you have to do is focus on your wagon, keep it moving, don't look, don't listen to anyone but me. Okay?" He waited until the men nodded with some surety before giving him a smile. "Now unfurl your bed and get some sleep, the dead can't haunt you here."
The next day the road parted from the Mander.
Gerold's men held a small hamlet at the river crossing but the road bent sharply at a right angle, pushing northwards through the hills that began to fade back down to flat meadow. It took them two days to get through the hamlet, trying to negotiate the road and the houses with the wagons was a task and a half, a scuffle among teamsters and soldiers led to weapons being pulled, thankfully ser Talbert Serry was nearby and able to restore order, but Loren had to order the twenty three individuals flogged in the square and pay reparations to the local cobbler for damage done to his shop. That night two of his men, one from House Westerling and one from House Florent had gotten into a fight over the size of drink rations given to each other. Again it had been broken up and Loren had had to force the leader of House Florent's men and Ser Raynald Westerling to kiss and swear that there were no grievances held between them.
Possibly even worse was the news that the hamlet brought. Only two days before Loren and his column had arrived, they had played host to outriders from Stannis Baratheon's army. A few more coins later, and they revealed that the outriders had been specifically asking for his army. He cursed. Hopefully they had swallowed the fact that he hadn't and Stannis was marching back along the Mander looking for them. But he'd be a fool not to come back here very quickly, and he wasn't about to part with more silver in a fruitless attempt to get the people of the hamlet to deny his passing. They owed him nothing in the first place and his men had caused commotion and damage to the hamlet. They'd just take his silver and tell Stannis' men anyway. They had to move and move fast.
Outside the hamlet they had to rearrange their marching formation. Now that they'd lose the protection of the river, he had to protect both sides against possible attack. The lines of soldiers were thinned, only two deep on each side now, one of men at arms, one of archers, and he divided his riders to keep half on each side, positioning himself closer to one of the breaks in the wagon train, so that he could ride to whichever side was under threat. He used this opportunity to put House Florent and House Westerling soldiers on opposite sides of the column.
The next evening an outrider returned, with a spare horse. They had clashed with Robb Stark's outriders, barely escaping. He thanked the survivor and swore him and his retinue to silence. That only lasted a day. A larger group of six outriders met Stark men in the crisp light of morning. They drove the wolves away, but lost two of their own. By the time Loren heard their report they'd already told a group of wide eyed infantrymen. He couldn't swear them all to silence, so he issued a bulletin to the army, telling them that their scouts had encountered Robb Stark, but reiterating his faith in his men and that as long as they held to their focus, they would get through this.
Nevertheless, the march was subdued, even gallows humour was now dry in the throat. Loren knew he wasn't the only one struggling to grasp more than a few hours of sleep a night now. Robb Stark had won his greatest victories with night attacks. He had to put out more sentries to be sure of safety.
"How many lost?" He asked.
"There were only three of them," he was assured by ser Baldwin Serret.
Three. Three sentries deserting in the night. What was he supposed to do? He couldn't very well hunt them down and punish them directly, and if word of desertion got out, he'd lose more men. "Send a rider out after them, a trusted rider," he told ser Baldwin. "In fact, you go yourself, go and look for them, and be very loud to the men that you are looking for missing soldiers. Go out of sight for a bit, then come back and say you found what was left of them. Be loud about that, but don't be specific or people will find truths in it, just be clear that the Starks got to them first."
Ser Baldwin left that morning and did not return. He wouldn't have deserted. He prayed for Baldwin's soul that night.
Just past noon the next day, the column halted. They'd been found, they had to have done, Robb Stark was straddling the road, daring him to battle. Ordering his men to be ready to deploy, Loren galloped for the head of the column to see what was happening.
Robb Stark hadn't come. It was worse.
The smell of it made their horses rear and he had to fight to bring his steed back under control. The sight of it made him want to vomit and he would hear the rattling of bones, the buzzing of flies and soft squelch of rotting flesh until the end of his days. The corpseroad.
The road was lined with posts, and on each post was a body. What little flesh remained was pink raw. Carrion birds had picked at the flesh and innards, the faces screamed in agony, even the skulls seemed in eternal pain. "By the gods," he rode up to it with ser Gerold. There was another pillar every foot and a half, just long enough to see each body as a distinct separate man. They stretched onwards and onwards, bending with the road. Macabre sentries to guide their way, to judge them. He looked at the bloody flesh still visible on the third man. Pink. Flayed. "They flayed them," he whispered, "they flayed them and strapped them to the posts to die." He'd heard of the work of House Bolton, but seeing it up close... He clapped his hand to his mouth. It wasn't enough, the vomit spewed around his fingers and spotted his saddle.
"My lord," Gerold whispered, lost for words.
"Bury them."
"My lord?"
"We bury them. Whoever they are, they deserve better, no one deserves this." There had to be thousands of them. They couldn't all have been killed in battle and- He fought to keep the vomit down, but failed. That one was only three feet tall, if that. And that one… the hips were wide, the shoulders slim. Were they mother and child? How many mothers, how many children. How many villages had been emptied of their people to put the fear of gods into the men and horses that had to march the roseroad. It had worked as well. He remembered the teamster. The sounds, he had said. Had he been here when these people were still alive?
Burying them was a foolish idea. It would slow them down no end, and Robb Stark had found them. But no one objected. Not the hardened lords, not the fearful who wanted to be through as soon as possible, not even the ironmen. As they advanced, graves were dug. Axemen sheared down the posts, discarding the bloody, gore smeared parts for firewood, and used what was clean for grave markers for those they had held in death. Loren carved the first message himself, the same message that would be on every gravemarker. Murdered by Wolves.
Perhaps it was horror that kept away Robb Stark's men, but his scouts found none of them that evening, or the next evening.
But news did come, a rider from ser Garth. His scouts to the south, back along the path they had come, were catching sight of the outriders from Lord Stannis' host.
Still they crawled up the road. Graves were no longer an option, not with two enemies in the area. The bodies were gathered into piles, their posts used as kindling for great pyres. The host slept in the warmth of burning bone and the stench of cooking, human meat.
The following morning he rode to the head of the column again. "Gerold, I need you to pick two riders, your fastest," he said with a whisper. "Send them ahead, as fast as they can. They are to cross the Mander at Bitterbridge and find any help they can. Ser Garlan's host might have reformed, or they go all the way to the capital if they can't find anyone else. Ask them to send aid to meet us at Bitterbridge."
Gerold nodded, glancing over as another pillar was brought low, another body added to a pile that the rearguard would set alight when they passed it that evening.
That evening was the last that pyres would be lit. For that evening, the rains started.
