Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production, created and
written by Mike Daltrey. Chapter thirty four, The Horizon. I'm
sitting on the wall. My legs dangle over the edge,
thirty feet above the mud. It's a stupid place to sit.
A stray arrow could take me, a slip would end me.
But no one tells me to get down. The towers
are empty, the sentries are gone, or so is somewhere else.
And truth be told, it's a damn good wall. The
gate is shit, but the wall it's solid, probably the
only thing in this god forsaken place I can rely on.
I'm eating an apple. It's soft and bruised, but it's sweet.
I found it in the gutter. A week ago I
would have killed a man for dropping garbage in my street. Today,
I'm just grateful for the taste. I watch the tree line.
They come out of the woods like oil, slow, thick,
relentless burst. The scouts men in gray cloaks, moving low.
They don't look at the walls. They look at the ground,
checking for traps. There are no traps. We didn't have
the time, We didn't have the wood dot. Then we
didn't have the people. Then the vanguard pikes a forest
of lowered steel. They march in perfect step, no shouting,
no drums, just the rhythmic crunch crunch, crunch of boots
on hard dirt. Then the horses, and finally the banners,
the hounds. I've heard stories about them, everyone has. They
aren't the Sea's regular army. They aren't the glorified town
guards we butchered at the abbey. The professionals. They don't
fight for faith. They fight for a paycheck, and they
always earn it. I take another bite of the bruised apple.
I should be running, I should be screaming for Orso.
I should be rallying the men, dragging stigand out of
the brewery, putting a sword in every hand that can
hold one. But I just sit there, chewing. They stop
just out of bowshot formation, ripples and settles. They don't charge,
they don't scream challenges. They don't send a rider forward
to demand surrender. They just unpack. I watch as they
set up camp. It's mesmerizing. It's not the chaotic sprawl
of our camps. It's geometry. Pants go up in straight lines,
Fires are dug in orderly pits. Trenches are cut with
surveyor's precision. They aren't here for a battle, here for
a job, and they're going to take their time to
do it right. Finish the apple. I toss the core
over the edge. It falls for a long time before
it hits the mud. Why the question floats in my head.
Not fear, just confusion. Why are they here for the gold,
the gold that buys nothing, the gold that sits in
a pile in the square, ignored by washerwomen. For the town,
this rotting carcass of a city with broken gates and
empty silos, and people who look through you for me,
They really think I'm worth this. I look down at
my hands. They're dirty, my fingernails are black, my knuckles
are scabbed. I'm the king of nothing. I'm the lord
of a mud pit, and they brought an army to
take it from me. I almost laugh. Down below, a
rider's separates from the group. He's wearing polished plate, a commander.
He takes off his helmet. He looks up at the wall.
He's too far away to see my face clearly with
the sun behind, but I can see his. He looks bored.
He looks like a man who just clocked in for
a Tuesday shift. He turns his horse and rides back
to the tents. They start cooking dinner. The smell of
roasting meat drifts up the wall. Pork, rosemary, real food.
My stomach growls. I lie back. I look up at
the gray sky. Let them come, let them take the gold,
let them take the mud. I close my eyes. Chapter
thirty five, The cook fires. It starts with the wind.
The wind has always been our enemy. Here it blows
in from the river, carrying the damp rod of dead
f weeds. But today the wind brings something else. I
am sitting on the steps of the Mayor's hall. I
haven't slept in two days, or maybe three. The days
blur together when you're hungry. I lift my head bacon, thick, fatty,
wood smoked bacon. My stomach cramps so hard I almost
double over. It's a physical pain, sharp and immediate. I
stumble to my feet. I'm not the only one. The
townsfolk are coming out of their hovels. They look like ghosts,
face's gray eyes sunken. They lift their noses to the air,
sniffing like dogs. Then comes the garlic, the roasting chicken,
the yeasty, warm smell of baking bread. I walk to
the wall. I have to see the hounds are cooking.
I dug long pits just outside the range of our bows,
not that we have anyone manning the bows. They've filled
the pits with charcoal, and on top of the pits
they're roasting pigs, whole pigs, dozens of them. Giant cauldrons
of stew are bubbling over open fires. Baskets of fresh
bread are stacked on tables. Casks of ale are being
tapped with mallets that sound like thunderclaps in the quiet morning.
It's a feast, a feast for an army of giants.
They're doing it on purpose. They've set up huge fans,
canvas stretched over wooden frames. Soldiers are working the fans,
waving them rhythmically, pushing the smoke, the smell, the impossible
promise of food directly toward our walls. It's brilliant, it's cruel.
It's the most violent thing I've ever seen. Bastards. I whisper.
My mouth is watering so much I have to swallow
every two seconds. Clever bastards. I look down at the town.
It's not a town anymore. It's an animal. People are
pressing against the gate. They're scratching at the wood. They
aren't trying to fight the invaders. They're trying to get
to the food. Open it, someone screams, let us out.
They're so delirious they don't realize the gate is held
together with riverboat rope that they could remove with a
kitchen knife and enough effort. I can smell it. A
woman sobs. She's clawing at her own face. Please just
let me smell it closer. I see a man, a
tanner I recognize, climb up the bracing of the wall.
He gets to the top. He stands there for a second,
looking down at the roasting pits. Then he jumps. He
doesn't jump to fight, he doesn't have a weapon. He
jumps because he's delirious. He hits the ground thirty feet below.
He doesn't get up. The hounds don't even look up
from their cook They just keep turning the spits, turn
away from the wall. I can't watch. I find Orso
in the courtyard. He's sharpening his knife again, always the knife.
You smell it, I ask? He nods, without looking up.
Rosemary and pork. They're breaking us without firing a shot.
Or So stops sharpening. He holds the blade up to
the light. We're already broken, dre They're just ringing the
dinner bell. We can't let them do this. We have
to we have to sally out. We have to destroy
the food. Or So laughs, sally out with what army?
Look at them? He points to the gate. The mob
is growing. They aren't whispering anymore. They're moaning a low,
collective sound of hunger. If you open that gate, or
So says softly, they won't follow you into battle. They'll
trample you to get to the scraps. He shrugs, Hell,
open the gate. The people will distract the hounds more
than our swords will. He goes back to sharpening. I
walk back to the Mayor's hall. I shut the heavy doors,
I bar them, but I can't shut out the smell.
It seeps through the cracks, It creeps under the door.
It fills the room, mocking me, reminding me of everything
I'm not. I sit on the throne. My stomach screams.
Chapter thirty six. The prison they're leaving starts as a trickle.
A family with hand carts moving toward the gate. A
couple carrying blankets toward the river. The facade of the
gate being closed was exposed when a man simply threw
his body against it and fled through the opening. Then
more pushed through, and the the gate was open. And
now families are just walking through, and the hounds they
just watch. The citizens aren't even running, They're just walking.
Stand on the balcony of the Mayor's hall. I watch them.
They're walking toward the cookfires, toward the smell of pork
and rosemary, toward the hounds. Where are they going? I ask?
Or So is behind me. He doesn't look out the window.
He knows they're surrendering dre They're trading their freedom for
a hot meal. They live here, they can't just leave.
Or So just laughs. I want to turn and punch him,
but instead I grip the railing bah. Let them leave.
As soon as I say the words, I realize the
catastrophic problem such a thing would create if they leave.
Who works the forge or cooks the food? I say
the words to myself, but or So answers no one.
I don't say anything, and or So adds, and there
is no food. I watch a woman drag a cart
with one broken wheel towards the gate. The rage starts
in my stomach. It's colder than the hunger. Stop them,
I say, how close the gates. Pray close the gates.
I spin around. Or So is looking at me. His
face is unreadable. If we close the gates, he says slowly.
We aren't keeping them out, We're locking them in. Do it.
We march to the main gate, me or So and gets.
The crowd is thick here, pushing toward the exit. Get back,
I scream, drawing my sword, this gate is closed. They
ignore me. They push past, step forward. I roar. It's
a hollow sound, but it's loud enough. I swing my sword,
it passing within inches of a young girl. Her mother screams.
The crowd flinches. They step back. Bush it shut. I
order or So and gigs put their shoulders to broken gate.
Or So hesitates, but only for a moment. The groan.
The doors swing inward. It close, not with a boom,
but a pathetic creak. Grab some timber, I say, or
So and I pull in large partially hewn trunks of
trees and bar the gate. We add more and more
thick pieces of lumber. It won't stop an army, but
it will stop hungry citizens. I walk back through the crowd.
They're looking at me hatred, pure distilled hatred. I stop
in the middle of the square. I look up at
the Mayor's I wanted a kingdom. I wanted walls. I
wanted subjects. I have them. I have walls that keep
people in. I have subjects who can't leave. I have
a throne. I can't vacate. I'm not a king, I'm
a jailer, and I've just locked myself in the prison
with the animals. I starved. I look at Orso. He's
standing by the gate, hand on his crossbow. He's looking
at me, and for the first time in months, I
see something in his eyes. It's not respect, it's not
even friendship. It's pity. Welcome to the castle, your majesty,
he says. He shakes his head and wanders off. I
turn away. I walk to the pile of gold in
the center of the square. I sit down on it.
A bar digs into my hip. It's cold and hard
and uncomfortable. Sit there anyway. The sun sets. The smell
of the hounds cookfires drifts over the wall, taunting us.
The vault is lock. Chapter thirty seven apor rain. The
siege begins, not with fire, but with fluttering. I am
standing in the courtyard watching the sky. The catapults thump
in the distance, a heavy wet sound. Thump, thump, thump.
I flinch, waiting for the crash, waiting for rocks to
shatter the roofs, or fire to rain down to burn
the granaries, not that we have any grain left to burn.
But there is no crash. Instead, the air above the
town fills with white moats, like snow or ash. It
takes a long time for them to fall. They drift
on the wind, swirling over the walls, catching in the updrafts,
catch one before it hits the mud. It's paper, expensive paper,
thick and creamy. I look at it. There are words
at the bottom, squiggles in black ink. I don't know
what they say. I never learned words, swords don't need
to read. But I know what the picture says. It's
a drawing, crude but clear, a fortress with an open gate,
people streaming out of it, and an arrow pointing to
a campfire. I'm a fire is a pig, a whole
pig roasting on a spit, or so I say. My
voice is tight. He's standing next to me. He's always
standing near me, as if to protect me or protect
others from me. I don't care which is true, if
I'm honest with myself. He catches a paper out of
the air. He glances at it. What do the words say?
I ask? Are they mocking us? No? Or so says
it says the same thing as the picture. Leave and
join us for food and safety. I crush the paper
in my fist. I look around. They are falling everywhere,
hundreds of them, covering the mud, the roofs, the empty
market stalls, the townsfolk are coming out it. Don't run
from this bombardment, They run toward it. A man grabs
a paper from the air. He stares at the picture
of the pig. He runs his thumb over the ink.
Then he folds it carefully and shoves it into his boot.
A few people start wandering toward the gate we blocked
with heavy wooden beams. Don't touch them, I roar. I
draw my sword. They are lies, poisoned words. I grab
a woman who is reading one. I snatch it from her.
Burn them. I scream at Stiggand, who has recovered from
his ale sickness, and has been mostly quiet. I figure
this would be a good mission to return him to
good spirits. Burn them all, gather them up, and burn them.
Stigging looks at the paper snow covering the street. He
looks at the hundreds of people scrambling to collect them,
stuffing them into shirts, into pockets, into mouths. You can't
burn snow dre he says quietly. I'm shocked at the
quiet wisdom coming from the hulking mass of violence. But
he's right, there are too many. I watch a child
chase a drifting paper down an alley. He catches it,
stares at the picture of the pig, and then looks
toward the gate. He smiles. It is the most terrifying
thing I have ever seen. The hounds haven't fired a
single arrow, they haven't breached a single wall, but they
just killed us. I look down at the crumpled ball
in my hand. I can't read the words, but I
can read the promise. Drop the paper in them, mud.
I stomp on it, but I know it doesn't matter.
The offer has been made, and everyone Chapter thirty eight.
The rats we are eating in the dark. The candles
ran out days ago, or so says We need to
save the oil for the torches on the wall in
case they attack. But they don't attack. They just cook.
So we sit in the dark of the Mayor's hall,
listening to the silence. The door opens. Stigan walks in.
He isn't stumbling, he isn't shaking. For the first time
in long time, he looks like the man I remember,
he's holding a sack. It's moving enter, he says. His
voice is deep, resonant, he sounds pleased. He dumps the
sack onto the table rats, a dozen of them. They scramble, squealing.
Stiging moves fast than I've seen him move in years.
His big hands dart out, snapping necks with terrifying precision.
Crack crack, crack. In ten seconds, they are all dead.
Bob Stiggin says, boil them. Bob takes the pile of
gray fur to the hearth. I watch Stiggant. He wipes
his hands on his tunic. He looks proud. He looks
like he just dragged a bear back to the cave.
I found a nest, Stigen says, behind the old granary.
They were fat. Good Jobstick, I say, but my stomach
turns not from the rats from him. This is the
man who shocked the gutters. This is the man who
broke the abby gate with nothing more than swinging his axe.
Now he's swelling with pride because he snapped the necks
of rodents. A sound from the stairs, soft, deliberate foot
steps Saligne. She hasn't left her quarters in a week,
not since the treason letter. She looks like a ghost.
Her dress hangs off her frame like wet laundry. Her
eyes are huge in her hollow face. She walks to
the table. She looks at the pile of dead rats.
She looks at stiggind room for one more, she asks,
her voice as dry as dust. Stigin pauses. He creates
a space on the bench. Sit Tob brings the platter back.
The rats are skinned and boiled. They look like little
naked men. Stiggin takes the biggest one. He tears into it.
Gix joins him, biting into the rat meat with a
manic energy eat. Stiggan commands the room. The hounds have pork.
We have this, but this makes us strong, This makes
us hard. Slane picks up a rat, beholds it by
the tail. She examines it with the same cold calculation
she used to use on the ledger. You know what
this means, don't you, she says, Stigging stops chewing. It
means dinner. It means we've eaten the cleaners, she says.
She takes a small, precise bite. She chews swallows. The
rats eat the garbage, they eat the rot. When the
rats are gone, the filth piles up. She looks at me.
First the cats went, she says, now the rats. Next
comes the flies, and after the flies shut up, Selaine
stig Into growls the plague. She finishes. We aren't eating dinner, stig,
We're eating the only thing keeping the sickness away. But
then again, we'll be dead by starvation by then, so
maybe it danced matter. She takes another bite. It needs salt,
she says stigand glares at her. But his pride is punctured.
He looks at the bone in his hand. It's not
a trophy anymore. It's a sign of the end. Eat
your share, dre, Stiggin says, his voice flat. Before the
play gets you. I look at the rat on the
silver platter. I pick it up. It's limp and wet.
I take a bite stigand watches me, but the joy
is gone from his eyes. He was expecting gratitude, and
he's getting discussed. Selaine eats quietly next to him, dissecting
her meal like an autopsy. He is the provider, she
is the prophet, and I am just the mouth to
feed n