Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey. Episode forty nine, The Blame Game. The
words hit the small cold camp like a hammer blow.
The land is dead. Brynn's words, a final bitter snarl
of defeat, extinguished that the last tiny ember of hope
I had been peddling. The lie I had told of
water and game over. The ridge was now exposed, leaving
me a fool and the crew with nothing. We sat
there in the deepening twilight, a collection of failures, huddled
among the gray rocks. The silence that followed was worse
than the wind. It was the sound of seven kings
giving up their pathetic crowns. It was Stigand who finally
broke it. He was on his feet, his massive frame shaking,
but not from the cold. He was a volcano of quiet,
simmering rage that had finally found its moment to erupt.
He wasn't looking at Bryn. He was staring at Orso,
who sat calmly inspecting the edge of his dagger. You,
Stigand growled his voice, a low, gravelly thing that promised murder.
Speaker 2: Or So didn't look up me. This, all of this
Stiggins's arm, his hands still wrapped in dirty, weeping bandages,
swept out to indicate the barren hills, our starving crew,
the whole of our pathetic failure. This is your doing.
Or So finally raised his head, his scarred face impassive
in the gloom. I'm listening your clever plan. Stigan spat
the word like it was a curse. Your whispers. We
make them fight each other. You said we burned the latter.
You said we're not kings, were just rats in a ditch,
and you let us here. He took a heavy, menacing
step toward Orso. My way, my way is simple, I fight,
I take. We would have died like men, or we
would have been rich. But this, that, this slow, smart death,
this is your gift to us. The accusation hung in
the cold air, thick and undeniable. Orso stood up slowly
and deliberately. He was a head shorter than stigand and
half his weight, but he didn't flinch. He met the
big Northman's gaze with a cold, dead certainty that was
more dangerous than any berserker's rage. My plan worked, or
So said, his voice a sharp cutting blade. We won,
We beat their enforcers. We killed their king, and we
had our hands on his entire treasury. My plan accounted
for everything. He paused, and his eyes flickered down to
Stiggins's burned, bandaged hands. Everything, Orso repeated, his voice dropping
to a hiss, except your colossal animal stupidity. My plan
was to take his throne. You were the one who
had to burn the whole kingdom down around us. The
truth of it, so cold and so precise, was more
than Stigand could bear. It was a truth he could
not argue with, only destroy. With a roar that was
more beast than man, Stiggan drew his axe. I'll kill
you for that, you scarred faced snake. In the same instant,
Orso's dagger was in his hand. He didn't raise it
in a challenge. He held it low, like a surgeon,
ready to gut the giant. The moment he stepped close
try the crew was on its feet. The fragile pack
instantly split in two. I saw Silain and Cob take
a half step back, their lot cast with Orso's cold logic.
Brenn and Gix stood apart, their eyes wild, drawn to
the promise of violence, like moths to a flame, the
scum king's. My entire world was about to tear itself
apart over a truth we couldn't swallow. I was done.
My leadership was a joke, my authority was ash. But
I would not let this be the end. I drew
my own sword, the sound of steel and leather screaming
in the quiet. I stepped between them, the tip of
my blade level, unwavering. The next man who moves, I snarled,
my voice raw with a fury that matched both of theirs.
Speaker 1: Dies