Speaker 1: The Scum Kings created and written by Mike Daltrey, Episode thirteen,
A New Road. The Priest's Laughter followed us all the
way back to camp. It was a wet, bloody sound,
but it was stronger than any fortress wall. It was
the sound of our own pathetic failure, and it echoed
in the dead quiet of the woods.
Speaker 2: No one spoke on the walk back. What was there
to say. Stiggins's rage was spent, leaving him looking confused
and sullen. Dix's smile was gone for once even he
could find no humor in this. We had descended to
the absolute bottom, and we had been mocked for it.
Selaine still clutched the six copper spokes in her fist,
as if the worthless metal might turn to gold if
she squeezed it hard enough. It was the sum total
of our victory, the price of our dignity. We reached
the hollow, our miserable home, and the sight of it,
the smell of our old fires and stale fear, was
suddenly unbearable. This was the kingdom of the Priest's laughter.
We couldn't stay. We were drowning in our own shame.
Pack your things, I said, my voice, a low rasp
that cut through the silence. Or So looked up his
face a mask of weary pragmatism, and go where dre
We are ghosts in a forest that wants to bury
us anywhere but here, I snarled, kicking at the dirt.
I won't listen to that old bastard's laughter in my sleep.
We're done with this place. It's cursed. Or So nodded,
but then rooted around his pack and brought out the map.
It was a sad, fragile thing, a piece of cracked
leather with faded lines inked by a long, dead hand.
Much of it was blank, marked only with crude drawings
of beasts or cymbals for swamp land. We huddled around
the map, a congregation of the damned, for those of
you who can't think past your next meal. Or So
began tapping a nameless spot surround a desolation. We are
here in this God's forsaken rock pile called the Gray Tangle.
Now let's explore our magnificent options. His finger jabbed north.
North is the Muddy Fork River. Beyond that the towns
in the city that put a price on our heads.
After our last bit of business there. So we are
not going north unless you'd like to see your face
on a wanted poster. His finger slid west west, he said,
tapping a series of sharp, jagged lines. Are the Stone
Fence Mountains an impassable wall of solid rock. Unless one
of you has sprouted wings since breakfast, We are not
going west. He paused and looked directly at Stiggand now,
before you get an idea, I know what you're thinking.
There are not just mountains to the west. There is
the Brown Way. His finger traced a faint line running
parallel to the mountains far to the west. Yes, it's
out there. It is also the main artery of the
Radiant Sea. That means sea patrols. It means caravans with
professional guards who, unlike us, win their fights. It means
anyone who might remember our faces from the first caravan disaster.
Marching directly for the Brownway is the quickest way to
get a crossbow bolt in your throat. Do you understand?
Stiggin just grunted so or so, continued, his voice dripping
with condescension. Not north, not west, not straight at the enemy.
What does that leave His finger dragged down into the
great empty looking expanse at the bottom of the map,
it leaves this. He tapped, a barely visible dotted line.
This map shows an old road, forgotten by anyone with sense.
It was used to haul flint from the quarries in
these hills. It runs east and west, eventually connecting to
the Brown Way, far to the southwest of here. To
reach it, we don't go west. We go south. We
march away from everyone through this desolation until we hit
this pathetic track at its most isolated point. It is
the long way. It is the hard way. It is
the only way on this entire map that is not
explicitly suicidal. He looked up from the map, his sharp
eyes pinning each of us in place. He had laid
our pathetic lives bare on a piece of leather. Those
are our options, he finished, his voice, flat and fine.
A rope in the north, a wall in the west,
a bolt in the neck if we're stupid, or a long,
miserable walk south. I stared at the map, at the inescapable,
brutal logic of it.
Speaker 1: He was right.
Speaker 2: We were rats in a box, and he had just
shown us the only crack to squeeze through. But do
we go east or west. After we reached the road,
it was the squeaky voice of Rat. Everyone looked at him.
We have to reach the road first, I finally said,
my comment, a tacit agreement that reaching it would be
our next move. No one argued what was there to
argue about. In sullen silence, we gathered our things, We
kicked dirt over the last of our fires, and abandoned
the hollow without a backwards glance. The march south began,
a silent procession defined by the cold, hard lines of
Orso's map W