Speaker 1: The scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey. Episode forty seven, The ash Stained Dawn.
We didn't stop running until the flames were just a
bitter orange memory, and our lungs were raw from smoke.
We crawled from the filthy river, seven half drowned rats,
and collapsed on a cold, silent hill. The wilderness we
had tried to escape now our only sanctuary. The adrenaline
was gone. It had burned away with the city, leaving
behind a cold, deep and throbbing pain. The night was still.
The only sounds were the drip of river water from
our clothes and the quiet, ragged gasps of our own breathing.
We were alive, but we had nothing else. No silver,
no food, two men dead, and a city of soldiers
and bounty hunters who would be hunting us by sunrise.
I looked at my hands. They were slick with.
Speaker 2: A mixture of mud, river water, and another man's blood.
My victory over Silas felt like a lifetime ago. It
was a hollow, worthless thing. I looked at Stigant. The
big Northman was sitting apart, his back to us, staring
at his own hands, They were covered in angry, weeping burns,
the skin raw and peeling from where he had hurled
the lantern. He was silent his rage. The thing that
had cost us everything had finally burned itself out, leaving
only the quiet pain. And then there was Cob. He
was weeping, but it wasn't his usual pathetic sniveling. This
was a different sound, a low, hopeless, gulping sob that
came from the very bottom of his soul. It was
the sound of a man who had truly finally broken.
I can't, he whispered, his voice trembling. I can't do
this anymore. Shut your mouth, Cob, I grunted my voice. Horse,
I didn't have the strength for his whining. No, his
voice rose as he scrambled to his feet.
Speaker 1: I won't.
Speaker 2: I'm done. I'm not. I'm not like you. I'm not
a killer. I'm just a cook. I just want to
be warm. I'm leaving. I'll take my chances. I'll go
to a village. I'll I'll turn myself in. I don't care.
It's better than this. He was going to leave us,
leave us with one less king among the scum. My
first thought was practical, who will cook. My second thought
was a spike of pure cold fury. A rat leaving
the ship, a sign of weakness, an infection that would spread.
If he could walk away, then the pack was broken.
Then or could leave then Brynn. Then the scum kings
were just a bad memory. It was a catastrophic failure
of my leadership, and I would not allow it. I
was on my feet before he had taken two steps.
I grabbed him by the front of his tunic and
slammed him back against the trunk of a dead tree.
You're leaving, I hissed, my face inches from his where.
Back to the gutters. They'll hang you as one of us,
to a village. They'll turn you over to the watch
for a single copper coin. You are marked, you fool,
We are all marked. I tightened my grip, my knuckles
digging into his collarbone. You don't leave because you're tired.
You don't leave because you're scared. You leave when I
say you can leave, you die. When I say you
can die, you are mine. I threw him to the ground,
and he collapsed in a weeping heap. The fight gone
from him, The challenge was over. The rot was still there.
I could feel it in the silence of the others.
The long miserable wait for dawn ended. The first gray
light of morning crept over the horizon, revealing a greasy,
black pillar of smoke in the distance, the grave of
our ambition still smoldering. The full weight of our failure
settled on us. I looked at the six broken figures,
my kingdom of ashes. Get up, I snarled, my voice
a rasp. Or so looked at me, his face a
mask of grime. Where are we going? Dra away from here,
I said, just away. I forced them to their feet,
and we began to march, our backs to the burning city.
With no destination, no food, and no hope. Wou