Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey. Chapter twenty four, The Hammer and the Nail.
The town had turned from my castle into a cage.
I felt it every time I walked the walls. I
felt it in the way the people looked at me,
or rather didn't look at me. I felt it in
the incompetence of my army and the silence of the river.
I was a king, but I was pacing the cell
of my own making. I needed air, I needed blood,
I needed something. I walked to the stables, thinking I'd
take a horse and ride until the folly was a
speck behind me, maybe burn a farm, just to feel
the heat. I found Brinn there. She was saddling a mare,
a mean tempered roan that looked more interested in biting
off a finger than being ridden. She wasn't wearing her
usual scavenged armor. She was wearing a tunic of decent
wool and leggings that were clean. She looked travel ready, scouting,
I asked. Leaning against the stall door, he tightened the cinch,
not looking at me, no hunting in a way. He
adjusted the stirrup, then turned her green eyes were flat, unreadable.
As always. I need a good fuck, Dre, she said,
It's been too long. I blinked. I laughed. It was
the first honest thing I'd heard in three days. We
have twenty men in the barracks, I said, and the
town is full of I'm not going to get on
my knees for someone I may have to kill the
next day. And I don't want a soldier. I want
a farm boy with strong shoulders who doesn't know who
I am and isn't interested in proving anything to me
other than how loud he can make me scream. She
swung herself into the saddle. She looked down at me,
and for a second I saw something that looked like pity,
or maybe just amusement. I'll be back in two days,
she said. Where are you going? Wherever there's a strong
field hand with bulge in his breeches. She shrugged, or
maybe two. She kicked the horse and it clattered out
of the stable, through the open doors and toward the gate.
I watched her go. I watched the guards open the
gate for her. I watched her ride out into the
open country, into the wind, into a world that wasn't
Vance's folly. She was free. She could leave. She could
ride ten miles for a romp in the hay and
come back. I couldn't. If I left, the fear would evaporate,
the town would stop. I'd hired, would eat the sheep
rather than heard them. I was the king, which meant
I was the keystone. If I moved, the arch collapsed.
I spat into the straw and walked back to the hall.
That night, the heat was suffocating. Sat in the Mayor's bath,
soaking intepid water, drinking the last of the wine from
a bottle that I'd found under the bed, staring at
the ceiling. The door opened. I reached for the dagger
on the lip of the pool, relaxed, Dray, It's just me.
Delane walked in. She was carrying a ledger, because she
always carried a ledger, but she set it down on
a bench. Then she undid the clasp of her robe.
She had a nice body, lean, but with curves that
filled her hand. She wasn't looking at me with desire.
She looked at me the way she looked at a
column of numbers that needed balancing. I've been counting expenses,
she said, dropping the robe, she sped into the water,
naked and unashamed. Your dogs are fools and will ask
for more money soon. The food supply is critical and
we have zero income. She slid over to me. The
water lapped against her chest or bleeding out dre she murmured,
moving closer and not slowly either. I didn't ask for
a report. I grunted, though I didn't push her away.
I know, she said. She straddled me. Her skin was cool, wet,
her eyes were gray flint. I need to stop thinking
about numbers for an hour, and you She ran a
hand down my chest, her nails scraping lightly over a scar.
You look like you need to hit something I usually do.
I said, this is better than hitting. She whispered, She
kissed me. It wasn't soft. It was hungry, sharp and demanding.
It was a transaction. Was taking what she needed release, distraction, sensation,
and I I was the tool she was using to
get it. We had done this before, but it was
usually me pulling her into an alley and pushing her
hands against the wall, or bending her over a fallen tree.
I needed it, and I guess she didn't mind, and
now she clearly needed it. It coupled in the water,
hard and fast against the stone edge. It was the
friction of two stones grinding together, trying to create a
spark in the dark. Afterward, the silence returned. Selaine climbed
out of the pool. She dried herself with a towel,
efficient as ever. She picked up her robe. She picked
up her ledger. I stayed in the water, feeling drained
but not rested. You're a terrible king, Dre, she said,
tying the sash of her robe. I looked at her, careful, Selaine,
I'm serious, she said, turning to face me. You treat
the town like it's a prisoner or a slave. You
treat the economy like it's a lute pile. You treat
people like obstacles. It worked at the abbey, I said.
The abbey was a robbery. She said, this is a government.
She walked to the door, then paused. She looked back
at me, floating in the cooling water, surrounded by stone walls.
You know, Dre, she said, a small, cold smile, touching
her lips. There's a saying that when you're a hammer,
every problem looks like a nail. I glared at her.
I know this saying. The funny thing is, she continued,
sometimes you really do need a hammer. Her eyes wandered
down my body to the part that was underwater, and
with a rare laugh, she walked out of Chapter twenty five.
The rocked. The table was set for a banquet. We
had pulled the finest silk tapestries from the Mayor's private
collection and laid them out as tablecloths. We had golden
chalices encrusted with rubies, filigreed silver platters, and candles of
bees wax that smelled like honey. Now those silver platters
sat the only thing left in Vance's folly rot. I
sat at the head of the table, staring at my dinner.
It was a slab of salted pork that had turned
a sickly iridescent green at the edges. It smelled of
ammonia and old sweat. Next To it was a heel
of hard tack bread spotted with fuzzy blue mold. I
looked at my court Stigan was hacking at his pork
with a diamond hilted dagger, his face twisted in disgust.
Gicks was picking the mold off his bread with a long,
dirty fingernail. Humming a tune that sounded like a funeral dirge.
Selaine wasn't eating, She was just drinking water from a
crystal goblet. Staring at the wall. Stigan took a bite
of the pork. He chewed once twice, and then spat
a mouthful of gristle and gray meat onto the priceless
silk rug bare kings of a compost heap. He roared,
slamming his dagger into the table. The silence that followed
was heavy. It was the silence of men who were
rich enough to buy a kingdom, but too poor to
buy a sandwich. It's not my fault. Toob was standing
by the kitchen door, wringing his hands. His apron, usually
stained with grease and flour, was terrifyingly clean. I can't
cook gold dray, he whined. The stores are empty. The
rats got into the flower. The gardens have been picked
clean by by them. He gestured vaguely at the town outside.
I stood up. My chair scraped against the floor, a
harsh sound that made everyone flinch. You are the cook,
I said, walking toward him. Your job is to feed
the king. I am feeding you, Cob shrieked, backing away.
That pork is. It's just aged, it's perfectly. I grabbed
the platter from the table. The smell hit me, a
wave of rancid fat that made my stomach turn. Shoved
the platter into COB's chest. Eat it, I said. Bob froze.
He looked down at the green meat. He looked up
at me, his eyes wide with panic. Pray, please, it
will make me sick. If it's good enough for the king,
I whispered, leaning in, it's good enough for the cook,
Eat it. I hated myself as I said it. I
sounded like every petty bullying lord. I'd ever gut it,
but I couldn't stop. I needed to hurt someone. I
needed to force my will on the world, even if
it was just making a fat man eat rotten meat.
Bob's hands shook. He picked up the slab of pork.
He took a bite. Tears leaked from his eyes as
he chewed, gagging, he swallowed. He took another bite, sobbing quietly.
The room was dead silent. Gicks watched with a flat,
predatory interest. Selaine looked away, disgusted not by the food
but by me. Note I saw Gick slide his block
of hard tack, mold, and all into his pocket. I
saw Seline's hand drift to the small flask of oil
at her belt, checking it was still there. We weren't
a pack anymore. We were rats on a sinking ship,
hoarding crumbs. Enough, I said, turning away from the weeping cook.
Get out of my sight. Tob fled into the kitchen.
This is madness, Stiggin rumbled. We have gold, we have swords.
Why are we starving? Because the arms are hiding it?
I snapped. The peasants are burying their grain. They'd rather
starve than feed us, So we take it. Stigen said,
standing up. I'll take the boys. We'll hit the farmsteads
to the west. We'll shake them until the grain falls out. Go,
I said, pointing at the door. Bring me meat, stiggend,
or bring me the heads of the farmers who are
hiding it. I waited on the wall until sunset. My
stomach was a knot of hunger and shame. I saw
Stiggins's party returning. They were riding hard, kicking up dust.
I met them at the gate. There were no wagons
of grain, no herds of cattle, no sacks of flour
tied to their saddles. Stiggen slid off his horse. He
looked tired, confused. Well, I demanded, where is it. It's
not that they're hide it, Drey, Stigin said, wiping dust
from his beard. They refused to talk. There was no
one to talk to. Stiggin said. He looked back toward
the darkening hills. We had three farms, big ones. The
houses were empty, doors open, meals left on tables, rotten
the fields. The wheat is rotting on the stalk. The
cows are gone, and it's I asked, no bodies, Stigin said, No,
blood just gone. It's like the earth just swallowed them.
He looked at me, and for the first time I
saw genuine fear in the big man's eyes. There's no
food to steal, Drey, because there's no one left to
grow it. I looked out at the empty road, at
the silent fields beyond silence. Wasn't just in the town,
it was spreading. We had conquered a kingdom, but it
seemed kingdom had decided to die rather than be ruled
by us. Open the reserve wine, I said, quietly. If
we're going to chapter twenty six, Fool's Gold, payday. A
normal army payday is a ritual of order, a table,
a roster, a bag of silver coins. Men line up,
take their pay, salute, and go to the tavern to
drink it away. In Vance's folly, payday was a hostage
negotiation stood in the courtyard of the hall my dogs.
The fifteen thugs who hadn't run off or been beaten
into a coma by gigs were gathered in a loose,
sullen semicircle. They wanted their money. I looked at the
chest or so had dragged out. It wasn't full of
silver shillings or copper pennies. It was full of what
we had stolen from the abbey, five pound bars of
stamped holy bullion. I promised you gold, I said. I
reached into the chest and pulled out a bar. It
was heavy, cold, and worth more than every building in
this town combined. Here. I tossed it to the biggest
of them, a scarred brute named Vic, who had somehow
risen to the top of the dogpile. Vic caught it.
He grunted under the weight. He looked at the bar.
He bit it just to be sure, and he looked
at me he wasn't smiling. What am I supposed to
do with this, boss? You spend it? I said, that's
a lifetime of wages. You should be thanking me. I
can't drink a brick. Vic spat, hefting the bar. I
go to the tavern and slap this on the bar.
What happens? Innkeeper hasn't got changed for a house. He
hasn't got change for a lifetime of earnings. That's not
my problem. Work it out, share it, melt it down.
I don't care. I kicked the chest shut. You wanted gold,
you got gold. Now get out of my sight. Vic
glared at me, his knuckles white, around the bar. For
a second, I thought he was going to throw it
at my head. Instead, he shoved it into his belt,
which sagged comically under the weight, and turned to his
pack ale. He growled. Now, I watched from the balcony
of the Mayor's Hall as night fell. Should have felt powerful.
I had paid my troops. I had a fortune in
the vault. Down in the town. The screams had started.
It wasn't the scream of a raid, it was the
scream of frustration. Vic and his dogs were at the
Red Lantern, I could hear the crash of furniture from here.
I imagined the scene Vic slamming that five pound bar
onto the sticky wood of the counter, demanding ale. The innkeeper,
a terrified little man named Olan, stared it a fortune
he couldn't touch. I have no silver, Olin would be pleading,
I have no change. It's gold, Vic wid scream take
the damn gold, and then the crunch. I winced as
a particularly loud crash echoed up from the street. The
economy of Vance's folly wasn't just broken. I had crushed it.
I had flooded a market of turnips and tin spoons
with the wealth of an empire. I watched a loaf
of bread change hands in the street below. One of
the dogs tossed a golden ring, probably worth fifty solari
to a baker for a single stale loaf. The baker
looked at the ring like it was a curse. He
didn't want it, he couldn't eat it, and if he
tried to spend it, someone would cut his throat for it.
The gold was trash. It was too big, too heavy,
too valuable. Down the red lantern, the noise stopped abruptly.
A moment later, the door kicked open. Vic stumbled out,
wiping blood from his knuckles. He was carrying a keg
under one arm and clutching his gold brick in the other.
He kicked the dead body of Olin out of the
doorway as he left. He hadn't paid for the ale.
He had killed the man because the man couldn't give
him change. My enforcers were wrecking the town not to
keep order, not because there was an enemy, but because
they were bored, rich and unable to buy a simple drink.
Griped the cold stone of the balcony railing. I was
a king with a treasury that could buy the world,
and my kingdom was burning down over a pint of ale.
Or so, I whispered to the empty air. Or So
stepped out of the shadows behind me. Coinage implies civilization
dre We have neither melt it, I said, watching Vic
stumble down the street. Tell Selaine to get the shears.
We clip the bars, we make slugs, We make our
own damn money. It won't bring the innkeeper back, or
so said no, I said, turning back to the dark hall.
But chapter twenty seven, the strike the main gate was
a joke. It was a wall of heavy oak timber. Yes,
it looked impressive from a distance, but up close, the
upper hinge, a massive iron knuckle the size of a
man's head, had yet to be replaced. It was rusty
and not even the appropriate size for the newly manufactured
and formidable gait. As a result, the gate sagged. If
we tried to close it in a hurry, it would jam.
If a battering ram hit it once, it would sheer off,
and the whole gate would collapse inward like a drunk
falling downstairs. Stood there staring at the crack in the iron.
It needs the hinge, I said the new casing or
so nodded. Jaren said he'd have the mold ready today.
Then why, I asked, kicking the rotting wood of the
makeshift support post. Is the gate still hanging like a
broken jaw? I turned and marched toward the smithy. I
walked fast. My mood was black. The heat, the hunger,
the silence of the river. It was all piling up.
But this this was simple. Fix the hinge, fix the gate.
It was the one problem I could solve. I kicked
open the door to the smithy. Jarren I roared, where
is my goddamn hinge? Now the forge was cold, the
anvil was empty, but the shop wasn't an apprentice. A
scrawny kid named Tob with soot stained cheeks was cowering
behind them. Bellows, where is he? I demanded. Tob pointed
a shaking finger toward the old grain store we'd converted
into a barracks for the dogs. He the soldiers took him.
Tom squeaked, took him. I spun around and marched across
the square. Vic was sitting on a crate outside the barracks,
sharpening his sword with a whetstone. He looked up as
I approached, grinning. His gold bullioned bar was tucked into
his belt like a badge of office. Bas Vic grunted,
where's Jaron, the disrespectful little shit. We taught him a lesson.
Vic grinned, he's in there. He nodded over his shoulder
to the barracks. So you arrested him better, Vic said,
standing up, We taught him a lesson. You said you
wanted respect, right, We made sure he respects the kings.
My stomach dropped. It wasn't hunger this time. A push
pasted Vic and kicked open the door to the barracks.
In the rear was a sad attempt at a cell,
but for the wreck of a person inside, it was
good enough. Darren was huddled in the corner. He wasn't dead,
he was bruised and bloody and cradling his hands against
his chest. As I approached, the smith held up his
hands as if in offering. They were a ruin, purple swollen.
The fingers were twisted at impossible angles. The knuckles were
mashed pulp. They hadn't just beaten him, they had smashed
his hands with a hammer. He won't be waving that
fist at us again, Vic said from the doorway, sounding proud,
stared at the ruined hands. These were the hands that
knew the heat of the forge, the hands that could
shape iron into hinges, into swords, into the only thing
keeping the world from eating us. I turned slowly to Vic.
You broke his hands, I said, yeah, Vic, grinned told
you respect, broke the hands, I screamed, grabbing Vic by
his throat and slamming him against the door frame that
fixed the gate, that fix our armor, You stupid, useless
piece of shit. Nick's eyes went wide. He gurgled, clawing
at my arm. He can't work, I shouted, tightening my
grip until Vic's face turned purple. He can't hold a hammer,
he can't cast the hinge. You didn't teach him respect.
You just opened the front door to the enemy. I
threw Vic into the dust. He scrambled back, coughing, looking
at me like I was the crazy one. Fix it.
I roared at him, at the dogs at the sky,
Fix the damn geit yourselves. I stormed back to the
smithy Toob. The apprentice was still hiding. I dragged him
out past the hinge. I ordered, I can't my lord,
Tob wept. I don't know the mix. Jaron does the alloy.
I just pumped the bellows cast the pin. I spent
four hours watching the boy fail. He poured the iron
too cold, it cracked. He poured it too hot, it blistered.
Finally he produced a hinge. It was ugly, pitted, misshapen,
but it was iron. We dragged it to the gate, stiggined,
and orso lifted the heavy timber. I hammered the old
pin into the hinge, which reminded me that we also
needed a new pin. By the gods. It slid in.
The gate groaned. We let the weight settle crack. The
rusted pin sheared in half. The gate slammed back down
into the mud, sagging worse than before. But that wasn't
the worst part. The hinge itself bent. It didn't hold
The apprentices temper was wrong. Stood there, looking at the
broken metal. I looked at the gate. It was open,
not wide, but enough, a gap, a weakness. I looked
at the barracks, where Vic and his boys were drinking,
nursing their bruised egos and their gold bars. I'd paid
a fortune for protection, and my protectors had just crippled
the only man who could lock the door. Leave it,
I said, walking away. Prop it with a log. A
log won't stop a ram, or so said Chapter twenty eight,
The Heist. The moon is a sickle, the kind of
moon that cuts. I'm wandering the Mayor's hall, restless. Sleep
has become a stranger. I pull open cap after cabinet,
searching for wine. I've already searched these cabinets three times tonight.
The good bottles are gone, the mediocre bottles are gone.
There's nothing left but the vinegar dregs. That cob uses
for pickling. I find a clay jug pushed to the
back of some shelf I missed. I pull the cork,
sniff apple sider turned. I drink it anyway from somewhere outside.
There's a crash metal on stone, then a muffled curse.
Set down the jug. I don't reach for my sword.
I'm too tired for violence. Instead, I moved to the
window and look down into the courtyard. The dogs are
robbing my treasury. It's immediately clear that this is not
a professional operation. Vic is gesturing frantically. Two of his
men are trying to lift one of the abbey chests.
These chests were built to hold the wealth of saints,
their oak and iron, and heavier than coffins. Two dogs
get the chest about three inches off the ground before
one of them loses his grip. The chest crashes down
and the lid pops open, spilling gold bars into the mud. Quiet,
you fucking idiots, Vic kisses. One of the dogs, drops
to his knees and starts shoveling gold into a burlap sack.
The sack tears under the weight almost immediately. Gold bars
tumble out, sinking into the muck. Another dog tries to
pick up a single bar. He fumbles it. The bar
lands on his companion's foot. The companions screams, shut up.
I lean against the window frame, watching. I take another
sip of the turned cider. Should be angry, I should
be drawing my sword, storming down there, making examples, but
I can't stop watching. It's too perfect, too pathetic. I'm
watching a comedy, and I'm curious how it ends. Pretty
soon I find out from somewhere in the town. The
door bangs open. Stiggan emerges from an alley, swaying. He's
been sleeping in the brewery again, or what passes for sleeping.
When the ale is gone and the shakes have set in.
His eyes are bloodshot, his beard matted with something that
might be vomit. He squints at the commotion in the courtyard.
When the fucking gods, he mutters, lumbering forward, the dogs
freeze vixies Stiggin first. The big man is silhouetted against
the moonlight, axe already in his hand. Not because he
planned violence, Stiggan just sleeps with the axe. It's the
only thing that keeps the shakes at bay easy. Big
guy Vic says, holding up his hands. We're just you're
robbing the treasury. We're just moving it to a more
secure location. Drey knows about this, He approved it. I
almost laugh almost. Stiggins's head tilts a dog considering a rat.
Did he now, Yes, he did. Then Vic makes his
first and final mistake with Stiggand, you should be careful.
I have Drey's ear, you know. Stigin takes a step
and swings his axe. There's a spray of blood, and
Vic's head is rolling off to Stiggins's left while his
body is falling to his right. I finished the cider.
I set the jug on the windowsill, and I walk downstairs.
The rest of the dogs are not dumb. Actually they
are dumb, but they're scared, so they don't make any
dumb mistakes. They just stand there. Stigand isn't quite sure
what to do when I walk over. I killed that one.
He points to the head lying near his feet, not
sure what to do with the rest of them. He
points to the crowd of dogs that are slowly distancing
themselves from the gold. I look at the cowering group.
They're armed. A few of them look downright intimidating. I
look Stiggand, and you take care of this mess. Stiggins's
lips peel back from his teeth. It's not a smile,
it's something older, something hungrier. Gladly, I turn and walk
back toward the Mayor's Hall. Behind me, thunk, a scream, thunk,
another scream, cut short thunk, then a crash, then more screams,
and then silence. Morning comes gray and cold. I walk
through the town at dawn, following the route I used
to walk as a king, past the market square where
I once held court, past the brewery where Stigand claimed
his domain, Past the smithy where Jaren's hands now hang
useless at his sides. The bodies of the dogs are
still in the courtyard. Stigging left them where they fell.
Crows are already gathering. The townsfolk are watching from their windows.
They don't hide anymore, they don't bow, They just watch.
I see it in their eyes. They know the invaders
are killing each other. The gold is sinking into the mud.
The gates are broken, and the walls are unmanned. And
somewhere out there, beyond the tree line, the real wolves
are gathering. I walk back to the Mayor's Hall and
sit on my throne. The cushion is rotting, the silk
is stained. The gold leaf on the armrests is peeling.
I sit there anyway. There's nothing else to do, no