Speaker 1: The scum Kings created and written by Mike Daltrey, Episode twelve,
The mugging.
Speaker 2: My Nod was all stig And needed. The leash was
off with a roar that was part rage, part pure joy.
The big Northman burst from the tree line. He moved
like an avalanche, his massive frame eating up the ground
to the small shrine. He didn't bother with the doorway.
He simply lowered his shoulder and hit the stone wall
next to it. The dry, stacked rocks groaned and burst
inward in a shower of dust and crumbling mortar. The
old Priest watched his one good eye wide, gripping his
cane like a sword, as if waiting for the perfect
moment to strike. He was tough, I'll give him that.
As Stiggin charged through the newly made hole, the priest
swung his cane with surprising speed, cracking it hard against
the side of Stiggins's head. The blow would have felt
a lesser man on stiggand it had all the effect
of a thrown pebble. It only made him angrier. He
roared again, grabbed the priest by his frayed robes, and
hurled him into the hut. The old man slammed into
the far wall and crumpled to the floor in a heap.
The rest of us poured in after him, a pack
of wolves descending on a cornered rat. The clean, quiet
plan was a forgotten dream. All that was left was
the hot, wet work of brute force the box. I yelled,
my voice raw with the humiliation the priest had dealt us.
Tear it out of the floor. The scene devolved into
a frenzy of pathetic destruction. While also and I pinned
the priest down, Stiggan went to work on the iron chain,
kicking and stomping at the bolt until the stone around
it fractured and he could rip the entire thing free.
Gicks cackling started smashing the shrine's meager contents. He kicked
over the small cot, tore down the shelves, and ground
the priest's herbs into the dirt with his heel. I
let them. I wanted this place unmade. I wanted every
trace of our shame obliterated. The priest fought back with
a fanatic strength, spitting and clawing his good eye, burning
with a hate so pure it was almost holy. Or
so ever, the pragmatist silenced him with a sharp blow
from a sword pommel. The old man went limp, a
low groan, escaping his lips. Finally, Stigan wrenched the box
free with a triumphant roar, holding it aloft like a
champion's trophy. The rampage subsided, leaving us all panting in
the ruined, dusty hovel. Selaine stepped forward, pushing Stiggins's jubilant
hands away. This was her domain. She took the box,
laid it on the flore, and with the claw end
of a hammer we'd taken from the farm, she went
to work on the lock. With a final sharp crack,
the lid popped open. Silence fell. All eyes were on her.
The entire reason for this ugly, shameful affair was in
that box. Slowly Celaine reached inside. She turned her hand over,
opening her palm for us to see six coppers, spokes,
and a small, crudely stamped wood and tin icon of
the stern visage. That was it, That was everything. The
air went out of us, all that planning, all that risk,
all this rage and violence for six coppers enough to
buy a single loaf of stale bread. A sound from
the floor cut through our stunned silence, A weak, wet,
gurgling noise. The priest was stirring. He pushed himself up
on one elbow, his face a mask of blood and bruises,
his milky eye swollen shut. He looked at the pathetic
treasure in Selaine's hand, then at my face, then at
the ruin of his life's work around him, and he
began to laugh. It started as a pained chuckle, then
grew into a full throated, defiant cackle, bubbling through the
blood in his mouth. He was beaten, broken, and had
lost everything, and he was laughing at us, laughing at
our grand victory, laughing at the scum kings who had
conquered his little patch of dirt for the price of
a beggar's meal.