Speaker 1: The scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey.
Speaker 2: Chapter two, The bleeding Trail. The wagon didn't roll, it screamed.
Every rotation of the iron rimmed wheels was a shriek
of tortured wood and metal grinding against the loose stone
of the mountain road. The sound echoed off the canyon walls,
a deafening announcement of our presence that traveled for miles
in the thin air. We were slow, painfully, terrifyingly slow.
The two dray horses we'd stolen were strong, but they
were pulling the weight of an empire. Their flanks were
slick with white foam, their heads bobbing with the strain.
We moved at the pace of a funeral procession, dragging
our golden corpse behind us. Dre Orso walked up beside me,
his face pale beneath the grime. He had to shout
over the groaning axles. We have to lighten the load,
the copper the statuary, dump it over the side. No,
I grunted. I was walking beside the lead horse, my
hand resting on the sweaty leather of the harness. A
necessity and rocky terrain with horses that were already skittish.
We are at target dre We're moving at a crawl.
If they catch us on an incline, then they catch us,
I snapped, not looking at him. We didn't bleed for this,
just to throw it into a ditch because the horses
are tired. Climb up there and whip them harder. I
looked back at the wagon. Stigan was perched on top
of the pile, his axe across his knees, looking like
a gargoyle on a cathedral of gold. GX was hanging
off the back, watching our trail, his legs swinging idly.
Then Brinn appeared. She didn't come from the road. She
dropped from a rocky outcrop above us, ending lightly in
the dust. Her chest was heaving, her eyes wide and
sharp dust. She gasped three miles back fast riders. The
blood went cold in my veins, followed instantly by a
flush of heat. How many, I asked? Twelve light cavalry vanguard.
They aren't tracking anymore, they're galloping. They hear the wagon
food or so spun on me, his eyes wild with vindication.
You hear that the vanguard, the heavy lancers won't be
far behind. We have to hide. He pointed to a
jagged ravine splitting off to the left, choked with scrub,
brush and shadow. We run the wagon into the cut,
we cover it with brush. We take position on the
ridge and ambush them when they pass. It's the only way.
It was a sensible plan, it was a smart plan.
It was the plan of a man who was used
to surviving. I looked at the ravine. It was a dark,
narrow hole, a place for rats to scurry into when
the hawk screamed. Then I looked at the road. It
was wide, here, cutting through a flat shelf of rock
before dipping down into the next valley. It was open, exposed, arrogant.
I looked at the wagon, my gold, my throne, no,
I said, or So stared at me, his mouth falling open.
Dra Are you mad? Twelve riders against seven of us
on foot. If we stand here, if we hide, we
tell them we're afraid, I interrupted, my voice, low and dangerous.
If we hide, were thieves running with stolen goods. I'm
done being a thief. Or So I drew my sword.
The steel sang in the cold air. We don't hide,
I roared, addressing the crew. We stop right here in
the middle of the road. We unhitched the horses. You
want to fight them in the open, Selaine shrieked from
the back of the wagon. I want to invite them
to dinner, I snarled. I pointed to the wagon. That
isn't a burden, it's bait. They're chasing a panic. Let's
show them a wall. We worked fast. We unhitched the
dray horses and slapped their rumps, sending them trotting off
into the scrub. We turned the wagon sideways, blocking half
the road. It looked like a breakdown, a disaster, a
prize waiting to be claimed. Stiggined, I said, under the
tarp with the gold. The big Northman grinned his teeth
red with wine stains. He slipped under the heavy canvas
covering the hoard, disappearing into the mound of treasure. Brin
gicks under the wheels. Make yourselves small. Selaine crouched behind
the wagon, ready to leap into the action, while Cob
crouched beside her, ready to flee or beg for his life.
I stood in the middle of the road, directly in
front of the wagon. I leaned on my sword, casual,
like a man waiting for a friend, or so cursing
under his breath, took his place beside me. He hated it,
but he stood. Ten minutes later the thunder came. They
rounded the bend in a cloud of dust and gravel,
twelve of them, sea out riders. They wore light chain
mail and yellow taverns, their horses sleeking fast. They saw
the wagon, They saw the two men standing alone in
the road. They didn't slow down, they didn't scout, they
didn't form a tactical line. They saw prey. They saw
a broken down cart and two fools, and they spurred
their horses, leveling their spears, screaming their war cries. They
thought we were terrified, They thought we were panicked. They
were wrong. They closed the distance two hundred yards one
hundred fifty. I could see the whites of their eyes.
I could see the greed on their faces. Now I roared.
The canvas on the wagon exploded upward. Stiggin rose from
the gold like a demon from hell. He didn't just stand,
He roared a sound that shook the stones. He had
a heavy gold chalice in one hand and his axe
in the other. He hurled the chalice. It caught the
lead riders square in the face with a wet crunch,
knocking him backward out of the saddle. At the same instant,
Dickson Bryn rolled out from under the wagon. Thwip, thwip.
Two arrows loosed at point blank range. Two horses went down, screaming,
tumbling into the dirt and creating a wall of thrashing
limbs and metal. The charge shattered the riders behind slammed
into the fallen, their momentum turning against them, swallowed them,
and then we fed. I stepped forward, ducking under a
wild spear thrust. I hamstrung the horse as it passed,
and as the rider fell, I finished him before he
hit the ground. Or so was a surgeon stepping into
the mess, his blade finding the gaps in their armor
with cold precision. But it was Stiggand who owned the day.
He leaped from the wagon bed on to a mounted
soldier tackling him off the horse. He didn't use his axe,
He used his head, his fists, his teeth. He was
a force of nature, a landslide of violence that could
not be stopped. It wasn't a battle. It was blood
and chaos. The surviving horses bolted. The surviving men there
were none. We cut them down in the dust, the
gold and the wagon, rattling with the vibrations of the fight.
When the dust settled, twelve bodies lay twisted on the road.
The silence returned, heavy and sweet. I wiped my blade
on the tavern of a dead man. I looked at Orso.
He was breathing hard, a splash of blood across his
scarred cheek. He looked at the carnage, then at me.
He didn't say I was right, He didn't have to
strip them. I ordered weapons, food, boots, and the bodies.
Selene asked, her voice trembling slightly as she peered over
the edge of the wagon. Do we hide them? Drag
them to the ravine. I looked at the bloody mess
we had made. I looked at the road stretching out
behind us, back toward the abbey.
Speaker 1: No, I said.
Speaker 2: I grabbed the nearest corpse by the ankle. Stack them,
I commanded, in the middle of the road. Make a
wall stick. Their spears in the ground points up. Why,
Bryn asked, pulling an arrow from a dead horse. I
looked her in the eye, because The heavy lancers are coming,
I said, a cold smile spreading across my face. And
when they get here, I don't want them to think
we're running. I want them to know exactly what is
waiting for them. We built our monument of meat and
iron on the road, a warning, a dare. We rehitched
the horses, the wagon groaned, and we rolled on. We
weren't fleeing anymore. We were invading.