Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey. Chapter sixty four, The Hammer of Faith.
Speaker 2: We slid back into the camp like ghosts, but there
was no life to greet us, just a huddle of misery.
The sun was dying, dragging its bloody guts across the
western peaks. The cold was setting in, a cold with teeth.
Cob was shivering so hard as bones rattled. Dix was
just staring at his knives, his face a gray mask.
They all looked up. Their eyes were hollow, desperate. They
were waiting for me to give them a reason, a
reason to get up, or a reason to lie down
and die. I let the silence stretch. I let them
feel the cold. I let them remember the hunger. I've
seen it, I said. My voice was a rasp. Or
So looked up, his sharp face, all angles in the gloom.
The abbey. Aye, I crouched by the dead fire pit.
It's a fortress, white walls, bell towers that are really
arrow slits, a gate thirty feet high. A sound, half grown,
half sob came from Cob. Then we're done, he whispered,
We're done. The guards, I continued my voice, flat wear
armor of black and gold. They're fat. I watched one
polish his own helmet for ten minutes. The monks walking
gardens gardens. I looked around at my crew, these starved, filthy,
half broken animals. The plan is simple, I said, striking
a piece of flint. The spark was a tiny, angry
star in the dusk. We hit the front gate hard fast,
no sneaking. We charge it, we break it, We kill
everyone inside, and we take the gold. Or So was
on his feet in an instant. He didn't shout. He
never shouts. He spoke in a low, furious hiss, a
sound more dangerous than any roar. That's not a plan,
dre that's a suicide note. He jabbed a finger toward
the valley, now invisible in the dark. That is a fortress.
Those bell towers will rain death on us. That thirty
foot gait will have a bar on it as thick
as Stiggins's chest. Those fat guards still have spears. We'll
be pincushions before we get within fifty yards. It's a
kill box. It's stupid, it's a lie. I cut him off,
my voice a snarl. I stood up to meet his
gaze jabbing a finger into his chest. That's what you
don't see. You see walls and wood. I see a lie.
It's a vault dressed as a church. It's a coward's
treasure chest, and they've painted a mean face on it,
hoping no one would ever call their bluff. I turned
to the others. Dix was watching us, a flicker of
something amusement in his dead eyes. Selaine was just watching me, calculating.
They expect you, or so I said, pointing back at him.
They expect a shadow, a sneak, brinn over the wall,
a little poison in the well. That's the smart play,
and they're ready for it. What they don't expect, what
their soft, fat, praying minds cannot even imagine, is us.
They don't expect seven starved, half mad animals to charge
out of the dark. They don't expect a norseman with
an axe. They don't expect the scum kings. My gaze
settled on Stiggin. He was sitting apart, his massive back
against the rock. He'd been quiet, his head down, nursing
his bad shoulder. His axe was on the ground beside him.
The whole camp was quiet, waiting the wind the hiss
of Orso's breathing Stigand he looked up. His eyes were
dull with pain. But I saw the coal glowing in
there that gait, I said, my voice quiet now, but
hard as the rock he was leaning on, that carved
up face, Can you break it? The crew held its breath.
Orso stared at me, his face a mask of cold fury.
This was it, the pivot, the moment Orso's logic shattered
against the pure, simple fact of violence. Stigan looked down
at his axe. He flexed his good hand. He glanced
at his wounded shoulder, and a little grimace of pain
crossed face. He looked back at me. He grunted it's wood.
He reached down, his knuckles white and his fingers wrapped
around the haft of his axe. He used it to
pull himself to his feet. A mountain of a man
rising in the dark. Wood breaks.
Speaker 1: That was it.
Speaker 2: I saw the shift. I saw the doubt and Gigx's
eyes burn away, replaced by that hungry, vicious gleam. I
saw Cobs stop shivering. I saw Selaine, a woman who
prized logic above all, do a new calculation and nod
just once her mind made up. They were starved, they
were desperate. They were standing at the door of paradise.
They didn't want or so slick, careful plan that might
take days. They wanted this over, They wanted a final plan.
They were with me. Or So saw it. He saw
the madness I had lit in their eyes. He saw
that he'd lost must. He was a pragmatist. He knew
he couldn't stop this train. He could only steer it.
He let out a long, slow breath, a puff of
white in the cold. He shook his head, and then
he drew his blade. The shing of it was the
only sound. Then by all the gods dray. He hissed,
his voice like gravel. If we do this, we do
it now. He pointed at the black, resinous sap weeping
from a nearby tree. No dawn, We go while their
bellies are full of dinner and their minds are on
their pillows. We use the chaos of the dark. His
eyes met mine, cold and sharp, and we use fire.