Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey. Chapter forty one A quart of filth.
The smell is sweet, cloying, the smell of things that
shouldn't be liquid turning liquid. We stopped using the latrines
a week ago. They were overflowing and you couldn't use
them even if you wanted to. So we use the corner,
or a bucket, or just where we sit. I am
sitting on the throne. My armor hasn't been off in weeks.
Speaker 2: I can feel sores opening on my hips, my shoulders.
My own sweat is corrosive, but I don't take it off.
What if they attack? What if I don't even have
the strength to put it back? On the fleet, I
say to the room. My tongue feels thick. We need
to coordinate the fleet. The crew is scattered around the
room like piles of rags. Stigand is dragging a heavy
oak bench across the floor Scrape scrape. Dix is tearing
a velvet curtain into strips. Dust and moths fly into
the air. Or So is lashing an empty ale barrel
to the bench. His knots are tight professional the river strategy.
I continue, I wave my hand, displacing a cloud of flies.
When we break out, we sail down to the delta.
We take the coast towns. We regroup. No one answers
stiggand I say, you'll lead the vanguard to the docks.
You'll command the lead ship. Scrape jicks, you secure the supplies,
heart attack, water rip or so. You cover the rear.
We can't let them flank the armada. Or So stops
tying the knot. He turns slowly. He looks at me.
He looks at the shit drying on my boots. He
looks at the sword lying across my lap. Good he
sees that I'm ready to fight. There is no armada
dra he says. We are building it. I see it.
I point to the mess of furniture and barrels in
the center of the room, the flagship. It's a raft,
or So says. It's a table tied to some barrels
with rope and curtains. It will hold us. We are kings.
The water obeys us. Stand up. I sway dizzy. I
grab the armrest to steady myself. My hand comes away sticky.
We will take the river, and then we will take
the coast. And then the crew is watching me. Now
they aren't looking at a leader. They're looking at a
madman covered in his own waist, shouting at a pile
of garbage. Sit down, Drey, or so says, not an
order a mercy. I am standing, I am commanding. You're
covered in shit, Drey, Sit down. I look down at myself,
at the brown streaks on my greaves, at the black
grime under my nails, smell myself. The illusion wavers, just
for a second. I see the flagship for what it is,
a desperate, pathetic assemblage of driftwood and trash. But I
can't let it break. If it breaks, I break. It
is war paint, I whisper, it is the dust of battle.
Sit down. The flies settle back onto my face. I
don't even swat them away. We launch at dawn. I
say to the empty air, scrape, grape rip. No one
says anything. I look at them, pathetic, weak, but working together,
working as a unit without me. I stand up again.
I can help, I say. No one replies to me.
I can help, I say. Everyone turns to me. I
take a few steps forward, sid gand looks at me,
and I see pity in his eyes. Fucking pity. I
can help. Stay out of the way, Dre. That's how
you can help. Or So turns his back to me.
I look at stiggant Let me help, I say. He
turns away and drags the bench out of the room.
I look at Gigs. I want to help. He turns away.
Wa