Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey. Chapter sixty one, The Madman's Map.
Speaker 2: The adrenaline was of filth in my mouth, tasting of
copper and cold iron. The fight was over. The mountain.
Silence rushed back in, broken only by the wet sounds
of our victory. Stigand was roaring a true Northern battle laugh,
though it ended in a wet cough. The sea Bastard's
sword was still buried in his shoulder, the hilt sticking
out like an ornament. He didn't care. He'd found a
full wine skin on one of the bodies, and had
already wrenched the stopper out with his teeth, pouring the
dark red stream over his tongue and into his beard.
Wine dray, he bellowed, thrusting it at me. By the Gods,
it's not swill. Cob was on his knees, openly weeping.
He wasn't looking at the bodies or the blood. His
hands were buried in an open supply pack. He held
up a small cloth bag in one trembling hand, and
a brick of dried meat in the other. Salt he
whispered his voice, cracking, dra they have salt and heart attack, real,
real food. Brynn was already at the horses, three decent animals,
running their hands over their legs, calming them with low hisses.
DICKX was humming some discordant tune, nudging one of the
sea soldiers with his boot. Shame, He chirped, this swan's
vest is quite nice, but it's ruined, just soaked. I
let the wine burn a path down my throat and
handed the skin back to Stigan. My eyes were on Orso.
He wasn't celebrating. He hadn't touched the food. He was
crouched by the cartographer. He was systematically pragmatically going through
the man's belongings, his movements as clean as a butcher's.
He tossed aside a prayer book, a compass, a half
eaten apple. Then he found it, a heavy tube of
oiled black leather, capped at both ends with bronze stamped
into the side. Was the sea's blazing sun. But this
one was severe, judgmental. The stern visage more paper to
light the fire. I grunted, walking over, or So didn't
look up. His hands stained with the cartographer's blood worked
at the bronze cap. This isn't paper, Dre. He slid
a heavy roll of vellum from the tube. He spread
it on a flat gore slicked rock, weighing the corners
with stones. My breath caught. This wasn't some shit smeared
sketch from a flop house drunk. This was a military map, clean,
perfect lines, showing every ridge, every stream, every patrol route
for fifty miles. This was the sea's own view of
the world, a map made by the masters. This thing,
this was worth more than the horses, more than the food.
Or So's usual cynical calm was gone. His eyes were wide, hungry.
His finger, still dripping, traced the lines of the stone
fence mountains, the precision. He muttered, Look at this. They've
mapped the goat tracks, the springs. They his finger stopped,
It just froze. Resting on the vellum, he stared. I
saw his throat work as he swallowed. What is it,
I said, my voice sharp, Another patrol, a garrison. He
didn't answer. He just tapped the map one twice, Dre.
His voice was tight, unfamiliar. I leaned over his shoulder,
my shadow falling across the map, I followed his finger.
It was resting on a high altitude valley, boxed in
on all sides by impassable jagged peaks, a place you
would never find unless you knew to look, a perfect
kill box or a perfect fortress. There, drawn with arrogant
technical precision, was a symbol. Not a village cross, not
a watch tower. It was a compound, high walls, a
central keep gate, a fortress. And beneath it, in the
sea's clean flowing script was a name. A name I'd
heard screamed in a stinking flophouse, a name i'd dismissed
as a fever dream. The abbey of the Stern Visage.
The madman's words slammed into me, knocking the wind from
my lungs. A fortress of gold disguised as a house
of prayer. It wasn't a ghost story, it wasn't a rumor.
It was real, and now we knew exactly where it was.