Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey. Chapter ten, The Open Hand.
Speaker 2: The night was thinning. The deep indigo of the sky
was darkening to black over the eastern hills below us.
Vance's folly was a smudge of shadow and dying cookfires,
silent and asleep. He waited in the tree line, just
out of sight of the gate watch or So, was
on his knees, sketching in the dirt with his dagger.
He looked tired, he looked sane. The drainage ditch, he whispered,
tapping the jagged line he'd drawn. It runs under the
palisade on the south side. Brinn checked it. It's tight,
but we can fit. We go in now, while the
moon is down. We slit the throats of the gate
guards quietly and opened the main doors from the inside.
We bring the wagon in before anyone wakes up. We
take the garrison in their barracks. He looked up at me,
his eyes pleading. It's clean, dre it's safe. By the
time the sun comes up, we'll be sitting in the
Mayor's chair and they won't even know they've been conquered.
It was a perfect plan. It was surgical. It was
the plan of a master thief. I kicked dirt over
his drawing or so, stared at his dirty map, then
up at me. He didn't say a word, He just
closed his eyes for a second, a look of profound
exhaustion crossing his face. We aren't thieves, or so, I said,
my voice loud enough to startle a bird in the
branches above. We aren't rats crawling through a sewer to
steal a piece of cheese. I turned to the wagon,
yet dressed. We had stripped the bodies of the stern
guard at the abbey. Had piles of black lacquered steel
and gold trimmed velvet in the back of the wagon,
mixed in with the bullion. Dray Celaine said, armor clanks,
Armor reflects light. If we wear that, they'll see us
coming a mile away. Exactly, I said. I picked up
a breastplate. It was heavy, polished to a mirrorchine, emblazoned
with the sunburst of the sea. I strapped it on
over my filthy tunic. It was cold and tight, a
steel skin that made me feel invincible. Put it on,
I ordered, stiging, grunted and grabbed a breastplate meant for
a large man. He forced it onto his massive frame,
the leather straps groaning, the steel plates barely covering his chest.
He looked like a black iron golum bursting out of
its shell. He donned a helmet with a golden plume.
The visor torn off so his scarred, bearded face glared out.
Dicks found a suit of light skins Armare's plate. It
fit him perfectly. He looked like a polished, deadly insect.
He strapped his knives to the outside of the greaves,
grinning as he caught his reflection in a shield laying
on the pile. He threw the helmet aside and put
on his crown. Even Cob was forced into a male
hauberk that hung to his knees. When we were done,
we didn't look like scum. We looked like a nightmare,
a ragged, terrifying parody of an elite guard unit, stained
with mud and blood, wearing the skins of our betters.
The sun began to crest the horizon. The first ray
of light hit the gold trim on Stigin's shoulder and
flared like a beacon. Hitched the team I said, he
had no horses. So we took our places at the yoke,
Stiggin and I at the front, or so in gecks
at the wheels. This is the plan, I said, looking
down at the sleepy town. We walked down the center
of the road. We let the sun hit this armor.
We let the gold rattle in the bed. We make
as much noise as we want. And when they close
the gate, or So asked, adjusting his gauntlets. They won't,
I said. People are sheep, or so. They see black
armor and gold, they see power. They hesitate, climbed onto
the wagon tongue looking at my crew, my army. We
give them the open hand, I said. We roll up
to the gate. We offer them a choice. They can
open the door and kneel and accept their new lords.
I drew my sword. It caught the dawn light, burning orange.
Or I snarled. I close the hand, and we burn
every stick of timber in that mud hole until there
is nothing left but ash. I looked at stiggand he
was grinning. He smashed his axe against his breastplate, a
ringing clang that sounded like a bell. Well, I hope
they choose fire, he rumbled to the gate, I commanded, snapped,
the makeshift reins of the yoke, stigging, leaned into the leather.
The wagon groaned, a deep, heavy sound of wood and gold.
The wheels turned. He rolled down the open road. The
sun hit us full force. We must have looked like
gods descending from the mountain. The black armor shone, The
gold in the wagon bed glittered with the blinding light.
The sound of our approach, the grinding wheels, the clanking armor,
the heavy tramp of boots rolled down the hill like thunder.
Down below, a sleepy guard on the palisade rubbed his eyes.
He looked up. He saw a golden wagon, driven by
giants in the armor of the sea, marching straight for
his throat. I saw him freeze, I saw him panic.
I didn't stop, I didn't hide. I marched straight into
the sunrise, bringing the weight of my kingdom down on
their heads. The scumb kings had arrived.