Speaker 1: The scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey.
Speaker 2: Chapter five.
Speaker 1: The mud and the wheel.
Speaker 2: Skies were as angry as the sea. It wasn't rain.
It was a solid curtain of gray water that turned
the tangle into a drowning pool. The ancient dirt road,
packed hard by centuries of use, dissolved in minutes. It
became a slurry, a soup, a mouth, and the wagon
was a heavy golden tooth that the earth wanted to swallow.
Happened fast. We were pushing for a higher ground when
the front left wheel hit a soft patch. The crust broke.
The wheel dropped two feet with a sickening thunk, dragging
the axle down to the muck. The momentum died instantly.
The wagon slipped sideways, the rear swinging out toward the
drop off on our right, a steep, jagged ravine leading
down to a frothing creek. Push, I roared, spitting mud.
Put your backs into it. We were in the shit. Literally.
The mud smelled of ancient rot and sulfur. For six
hours we fought the earth stigand was a mud gullum.
His shoulder rammed against the tailgate, roaring with effort. I
was at the wheel, slim up to my waist, trying
to lever it up with a tree branch. Dix and
Cob were slipping and falling, useless in the chaos. The
rain was freezing. It turned our hands to claws and
our skin to ice. But the sweat was pouring off me.
It's not moving, or so shouted, wiping sludge from his eyes.
It's settling. The vibration is shaking the bank loose.
Speaker 1: He was right.
Speaker 2: The edge of the road, five feet from the rear
wheel was crumbling. Chunks of earth were sloughing off into
the ravine. The wagon groaned, tilting further. The center of
gravity was shifting. The gold was pulling us into the void.
The horses, the two massive drays we'd stolen from the abbey,
were screaming. It's a terrible sound, a horse screaming, high,
human and full of terror. They were scrabbling for purchase,
their hoofs churning the mud into a froth, their eyes
rolling white. The weight of the wagon was dragging them
backward toward the edge. They're going over. Brin yelled. She
was at the heads of the horses, trying to calm them,
but she was sliding too. Dre, the bank is going,
They're going to fall. Cut the traces, or So commanded,
reaching for his knife. Cut them loose. We lose the wagon,
but we say of the transport, we can come back
for the gold. It was the logical choice, the humane choice.
Without the horses, we were stranded anyway. If they went
over the edge, they'd drag the wagon with them and
we'd lose everything. If we cut them, the wagon might slide,
but the animals, our engine would live. I looked at
the wagon. It was tilting precariously. If we cut the tension. Now,
if we released the horses, the wagon wouldn't just sit
there without the counterpull of the team, gravity would take it.
It would slide backward, tip and spill the abbey's hoard
into the ravine. We'd never get it back. I looked
at the horses, panic stricken, exhausted, foam dripping from their mouths,
mixed with blood where the bits cut them. No, I roared.
I lunged out of the mud, knocking Orso's hand away
before he could slash the leather traces. Dre fool, or
So screamed over the thunder. If they go over, we
lose it all. Cut them. We don't cut, I snarled.
I snatched the long leather whip from the driver's seat. Dray, don't,
Brynn shouted, stepping between me and the animals. They can't
do it. Look at them, they're broken. Shoved her into
the mud. I didn't have time for mercy. I didn't
have time for logic. I had will stiggind. I bellowed,
Lift now. Stigan didn't question. He jammed his shoulder under
the rear corner of the wagon. He roared, the veins
in his neck bulging like cables. I turned to the horses.
They were scrambling backward, hind legs slipping over the crumbling edge.
I raised the whip. Didn't use it to guide them.
I used it to hurt them. I brought the lash
down with every everything I had across the flank of
the near horse.
Speaker 1: Crack.
Speaker 2: The animal shrieked, a sound of pure agony. It didn't
think about the weight anymore. It didn't think about the mud.
It thought about the pain. It lunged forward. Crack. I
hit the other one. Crack again, Crack. Pull. I screamed,
my voice shredding my throat. Pull, you bastards. Pull. It
was brutal, it was ugly. I was flaying the skin
from their backs. I was driving them past panic, past exhaustion,
into the realm of biological failure. They lunged their hooves
found a patch of stone beneath the mud. Muscles tore,
tendons popped audibly. Stiging roared as he lifted the back
end an inch. The wagon groaned, It shuddered for a second.
We hung in the balance, gold against flesh, and with
a sucking schluck sound, the wheel broke free of the vacuum.
The horses, driven by the absolute terror of the lash,
threw their weight forward. They dragged the wagon five feet
ten feet onto the solid rock of the upper track.
We were safe. The horses didn't stop because I told
them to. They stopped because they died. Near horse simply collapsed.
Its front legs buckled, and it hit the ground with
a heavy, wet thud. It shivered once, foam and blood
bubbling from its nostrils, and then went still. Its heart
had burst. The other horse stood trembling, its head hanging low,
blowing bloody froth. Its left hind leg was hanging at
a sickening angle. Ruined stood there in the rain, the
whips still in my hand, my chest heaving. The gold
was safe. The wagon was on solid ground. I dropped
the whip. Silence was heavy, even the rain seemed to
quiet down. Bren was on her knees by the dead horse,
her hand on its neck. She looked up at me.
I've seen hate and eyes before, but this was different.
This was revulsion. Or So walked over. He looked at
the dead animal. He looked at the crippled one that
would have to be put down. He looked at the wagon.
He turned his eyes to me. There was no anger,
just a cold, profound disgust. We are footsloggers now, he
said quietly. We have a two ton wagon and no horses.
Was it worth it, dre to torture them to death
for metal? I walked past him. I put my hand
on the side of the wagon. I felt the gold inside,
heavy and eternal. I looked at the dead horse. It
was just meat. It was just a tool that had
served its purpose until it broke. We can steal more horses,
I said, wiping the rein and mud from my face.
I patted the wood of the wagon. We can't steal
this glory again.