Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey.
Speaker 2: Chapter sixty two, The Prophet of Gold. The fire snapped
and hissed, the sound of triumph. It was the first
real fire we dared to light in a week, and
the warmth was a drug. The smell of roasting meat,
real salted dried meat from the patrol's packs, was thick
in the air, a scent so good it was almost painful.
Cob was a mess. He was crouched by the fire,
rocking back and forth, grinning as he stirred a handful
of hardtack into a pot of melted snow. He kept
holding up the little bag of salt like it was
a holy relic. He had salt dre His laughter was maniacal.
The gods are good. He had salt stiggand was a
different kind of animal. He'd ripped a strip of cloth
from a sea cloak and packed it into the sword
wound in his shoulder. Now he was three quarters gone
on their wine, his face flushed and his beard glistening.
He held the wine skin aloft, his massive form swaying
the madman's wine. He roared, his voice cracking the mountain silence.
It's the best I've ever tasted. A toast, A toast
to the old mad bastard. He drained half of it,
the dark liquid spilling over his chin and staining the
crude bandage. The crew was electric. The starvation, the weeks
of being hunted, the festering despair, it was all gone,
burned away by a full belly, a gutful of wine,
and the certainty of gold. That map had changed everything.
The abbey wasn't a coast story anymore. It was a target. This,
this was the scum King's I knew this, hungry, half mad,
dangerous energy. This was a weapon only orso sat apart.
He had the map spread on his knees, his face
a mask of cold concentration in the firelight. He ignored
the food Cob offered him, ignored Stiggins's roar. He was
just tracing the lines on the vellum. I walked over,
tearing a piece of meat from the rack. What's wrong?
Or so you don't like winning? He finally looked up,
his eyes sharp. This is good, ray, he said, his
voice low. He tapped the map, But it confirms were
in the heart of their territory. These patrol routes. They're layered,
they're tight. We're not on the fringe anymore. We're a
mouse in a snake's den, I snorted, snatching the map
from his hands. I rolled it up the vellum, crackling
in protest, and shoved it deep into my belt. We're
not my sore, so I turned to face them all.
The firelight caught their eyes. Stiggined, drunk and bleeding dicks,
his filed teeth shining brin, watching me silent Selaine, her
gaze fixed on my belt, where the map was hidden.
They were looking for the next word. They were mine.
Were wolves, I said, my voice, cutting through the celebration
and the sea. Are fat sheep who've been sleeping in
a pen of gold. They left the gate open for us.
They drew us a map to the slaughter. I grabbed
the wine skin from Stiggin's hand and held it up,
the firelight shining against its metal top like a beacon rest.
I commanded, eat your fill, get your strength back, because
tomorrow we climb, and then we take what's ours. The
roar that answered me was pure savage age, and shook
the snow from the high branches.