Speaker 1: The scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey. Chapter thirty, The Ghost.
Speaker 2: I hear the screaming from the Mayor's hall, not the
screaming of victims. I know that sound. This is different.
This is the sound of something breaking inside a man's skull.
By the time I get to the brewery, it's over.
Stiggin is on the ground, wrapped in chains thick enough
to anchor a ship, because that's exactly what they are.
Someone found the chains, and the harbormasters shed the ones
they used for the river barges. It took all of
them to hold him down long enough to get the
lynks around his arms. Three bodies are cooling on the
stone floor townsfolk by the look of them. A man
with his skull caved in, a woman with her throat opened.
A boy maybe fifteen with his chest crushed where Stiggins's
boot came down or so, is leaning against the wall,
pressing a rag to his face. Blood is seeping through
the cloth. He looks at me when I enter, and
there's something in his eyes I haven't seen before. Pury,
pure and clean, and aimed directly at me. Stiggins's mind
is broken. What happened? Or So pulls the rag away.
There's a gash running from his eyebrow to his cheekbone.
An inch lower and he'd be missing an eye. His
love of drink is what happened. He spits blood onto
the floor. The big bastard ran out of Ale three
days ago, started seeing things, ghosts. He said, men. He killed, men,
we all killed. Orso's voice is flat, tired. He was
talking to the wall when these three walked past. I
don't know what he saw. Maybe he thought they were
sea soldiers. Maybe he thought they were demons. Doesn't matter.
He killed them before I could get the chains on.
He spits again, And the only reason I could do
that is how weak he is now. I look at Stiggant.
He's shaking. Not the controlled tremor of cold or fear.
This is something deeper. His whole body is vibrating like
a plucked string. Sweat pours down his face despite the chill.
His eyes are open but seeing something none of us
can see. Dray, he whispers. His voice is small wrong.
Stiggins's voice should boom and rumble, Not this, Dray. They
won't stop looking at me. I kneel beside him. Up close,
he smells like sour, sweat and piss. The mighty Stigant
King of the Keg reduced to a shivering wreck and
chains his hands. Hands that have crushed skulls and torn
men apart, are trembling so badly he can't keep them still.
Who's looking at you, Stig? All of them? His eyes
dart around the room, tracking things that aren't there, the
ones from the road, the ones from the abbey, the dogs.
He focuses on me suddenly, and for a moment he's there,
the old stigand the one who laughed when we burned
the convoy. They're angry, Dray, They're so angry. They want
to know why, why, what? Why we did it? His
eyes fill with tears, Stiggant crying, I don't remember why
we did it. I don't know what to say to that.
Tob appears in the doorway. Face pale is he he's alive.
I stand up. Find me a bottle, anything, wine, Ale,
I don't care. Something with a kick. Cob stares at me.
We don't have find one. My voice is harder than
I intend. There's a bottle somewhere in this town that
someone's been hiding, find it goes, or So is watching me.
The fury has faded to something else, confusion. Maybe you're
going to give him more, There is no more. He
hasn't had a drink in days. It will calm him down.
Stiggin's been drinking since before I met him, twenty years
of ale flowing through his veins. The least I can
do is provide the one comfort as life has had.
He killed three people dre and he'll kill three more
if the shakes don't stop. I look down at my
oldest soldier, my oldest friend. If I'm being honest with myself,
a little bit, just enough to stop the shaking and
get him to sleep. Or So shakes his head but
doesn't argue. Cob returns with a bottle. It's cloudy and
the label is torn. But when I pull the cork,
the smell of rough brand he fills the room, someone's
private stash, probably hidden for months. I kneel beside Stiggan again.
Stig look at me. His eyes find mine. There's fear
in them, fear and shame and something that might be gratitude.
I'm going to give you a drink, just one enough
to quiet the ghosts. His hands are shaking too badly
to hold the bottle, so I hold it for him.
I tip it to his lips like I'm feeding the child.
He drinks one, swallow two and I pull it back.
That's enough for a moment. Nothing changes. Then slowly the
shaking starts to ease, not gone, but manageable. His breathing slows,
his eyes lose that wild, hunted look. Thank you, he whispers.
Sit down beside him, My back against the cold brewery wall.
The chains clink as he shifts trying to get comfortable.
We don't talk about gold. We don't talk about the kingdom.
We don't talk about the rotting walls, or the empty
treasury or the woman who rode away this morning. We
just sit there, two old killers in a dark room,
waiting for the ghosts to get quieter. Somewhere outside, the
town is dying, someone further away is coming. Everything we
built is crumbling. But right now, none of that matters.
Right now, I'm just trying to keep my friend alive.