Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey. Chapter forty four. The river piers
solid and a reminder of a town that once was
busy with loading and unloading wagons and boats. The boat
is not. It's a reminder of a group that were
once rich beyond their wildest imaginations, but are now hopeful
they don't drown. Stigan drags the raft to the edge.
It scrapes along the warped wood, leaving a trail of splinters.
Thing is an abomination. Two oak benches lashed to four
ale barrels with rope and shredded curtains. Gix's contribution shutter
slats whittled into paddles. It looks like something a child
would build to cross a puddle, not a river swollen
with spring melt. That's not a boat, I say, it's
not supposed to be a boat, or so, replies. He's
already stepping out onto the first barrel, testing his weight.
The barrel dips, water lapping over the edge. It's supposed
to float. Before I can comment on his description that
it is supposed to float, stigand pushes the whole thing
into the water, it bobs, it lists, but it floats
for a long moment. We all just stare at it. Well.
Gigs is rocking on his heels, grinning. His filed teeth
catch the gray light. Who wants to die first? Delaye
nods at me. Drey's dressed for swimming. He should do it.
She stifles a laugh as she stares me standing in
my shit stained underwear. Or so steps on his weight,
pushes the raft down, but it holds. He settles into
a crouch in the center, distributing his mass carefully. I
forgot that he was a boatman's son before he was
a killer. Stigan goes next. The big Northman is hesitant,
his braided beard more tangled and unkempt than normal. Brushes
his chest as he looks down at the water. I
remember him saying he couldn't swim. The memory feels like
it belongs to another life. He steps on the raft, groans,
the lashings tighten. One of the benches cracks, but it holds.
I go third. The raft dips further. I feel the
cold of the river seeping through my thin undergarments. My
bare feet slip on the wet wood. We all look
at Gicks he's standing on the pier. He's wearing his crown,
and he's grinning. He's always been thin, unnervingly so, all
limbs and sinew, but now, after weeks of starvation, he's skeletal,
a specter in a madman's paint. He steps onto the raft,
the whole contraption to the right. Water rushes over the rim.
Stiggin yelps a sound I've never heard from him, and
grabs at a barrel or So throws his weight the
other way. I scramble for balance, my hands splashing in
the freezing water. Dix laughs, high and bright, like a
child at a fair careful GX, I snarl careful. He
cocks his head. I'm the lightest one here. If I'm
the one that tips us, you've all gotten very, very fat.
He settles down cross legged on the bow. The raft steadies.
It's still listing, still taking on water, but it's stable.
It holds. Stiggin lets out a long, shaky breath. His
massive hands are white knuckled around the barrel's rim. He
looks at Orso. Push off, or So, says. Stigen uses
one of Gis's paddles to shove us away from the
pier the planks for seed. The current catches us, gentle
at first, then stronger. We drift. The town shrinks behind us.
Smoke is rising from the chimneys, now not the smoke
of war, but of fires. They're already cooking. The hounds
are feeding them. Look at my hands, they're still holding
two gold bars in the tangle. We would have given
anthing for a few silver coins. Two gold bars is
unfathomable wealth. And yet I can't help but be disappointed.
I had it all. We had it all. Now what
stigand interrupts my reverie. He's found a paddle and is
holding it like a weapon, unsure of what to do
with it or so takes the other He dips it
into the water, testing the drag. We row, We stay
in the center of the current. We put as much
distance between us and that place as we can and
the hounds, I ask. We're in the center of the
river now. The current is strong here, pushing us downstream.
The town is already small, a toy fortress, and there
on the bank a line of figures in gray cloaks.
The hounds. They're not running, they're not mounting horses, They're
just standing there watching. Why aren't they following? I ask?
Or So doesn't look up from his paddling. They are.
I watch them for a long moment. More figures appear
from the trees, A dozen, two dozen. They're walking along
the bank, matching our pace, not rushing, not shouting. Patient,
Why aren't they shooting arrows at us? With this current,
we'll soon have distance between us and them. Or So
finally looks at me. His eyes are older than I've
ever seen them. I'm sure there are for us is
much greater alive than dead. Stiggan looks back at the
pursuing figures. So they're just going to follow us the
whole way until we reach a bridge or a ford,
or until we're stupid enough to beach the raft on
the side of the river. Then we stay on the raft,
I say, until we starve or freeze, or the raft
falls apart. Or So dips his paddle again. His strokes
are smooth, practiced. We're not escaping dre We're just buying time.
Time for what. He doesn't answer. Look at stigand he's
staring at the water, his paddle forgotten. His face is gray.
I try to remember the last time I heard him laugh,
that booming, joyful sound that used to fill the campfire.
I can't. He's not the champion of the fighting pits anymore.
He's not the wall. He's just a tired, hungry man
who can't swim, floating on a pile of trash. Dix
is singing. It's a low, tuneless hum, the melody unrecognizable.
He's staring at the sky, his filed teeth bared in
a perpetual empty grin. The madness that made him terrifying
now just makes him sad. He's a gesture in a
court that no longer exists. And or So Orso is
still Orso, still calculating, still efficient, still paddling us downstream
with the cold precision of a man who has already
accepted the outcome and is simply working to delay it.
He's the only one of us who looks alive, and
even he looks like he's operating on borrowed time. The
line sits next to Orso and scans the river, upstream
and down. Her head moves with the same attention it
always had, looking for threats, looking for opportunities. I think
about Bryn, about Cobb, Where's Cob, I can't believe I
just simply forgot about him. Where's Cob, I finally ask.
He left through the gate. I'm thinking he's probably cooking
for the hounds. Now. Orso's voice is flat, without a
tinge of anger. He abandoned us. I feel a flash
of rage. This is worse than Brynn, who left for
her own path. Cob left for the enemy. There was
nothing to abandon. Or So says. The words, and his
tone one I'm familiar with. It's a tone that says,
change the subject. I don't want to talk about it.
You don't want to talk about it. I don't reply.
I look around the raft again. We are what's left
of the scum Kings, Five filthy kings on a sinking raft,
clutching two gold bars and fleeing from an army that
isn't even bothering to run. The current pushes us around
a bend. The town disappears behind a line of trees
for a moment. Can pretend it never happened, that we
never took it, that we were never richer than any
city in the Concorde, that we were ever kings. The
hounds are still there, walking along the bank slowly falling
behind but not giving up. Follow we float.