Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey. Chapter thirty nine, The Machine or So
stop talking to me yesterday. He didn't announce it, he
didn't make a scene. He just stopped. He still talks
to Gix, he still gives orders to Stiggant. But when
I ask him a question, he looks through me. He
answers with a nod or a grunt, or nothing at all.
He has become a machine, a mechanism of survival. Watch
him from a distance. He's in the corner with Gis.
Gix is whispering, or So is not, but he's far
enough away that I can't make out what he's saying.
He's drawing something in the dust on the floor. What
are you doing? I call out, My voice is weak, raspy.
A stop. Orso looks up. He doesn't answer. He just
wipes the dust away with his boot. I asked what
you are doing or So nothing, Gick says, quickly, too quickly,
just games. We're playing games, dre or So or So
stands up. He walks over to the water barrel. He
feels a ladle halfway exactly halfway, and drinks it. He
doesn't offer me any The hierarchy is flipped, the power
is shifted, and the leader of the kings, but ors
is the man keeping us alive. You have a plan,
I say, I know you. You never do anything without
a plan. Tell me. He turns to look at me.
His eyes are cold, dispassionate, like he's looking at a
broken tool that he can't quite bring himself to throw away.
Yet he doesn't speak. He just taps the hilt of
his knife, tap, tap. Then he turns back to Dix.
Check the lumber again, or so, I shout. It takes
every ounce of energy I have. He ignores me. He
walks out the door to check the perimeter, or the
townsfolk or something else. I sink back into the chair.
I should be furious. I should follow him, I should
put a sword to his throat and demand obedience. But
I'm so tired. In the silence of the room, a
thought settles on me like dust. He has a plan
and I am not part of it. Maybe the plan
is to leave. Maybe the plan is to surrender hell.
Maybe the plan is to offer me up in exchange
for their freedom. Or maybe the plan is to wait
until the food runs out completely. And then lighten the load.
I look at the door where he left. If he
comes back with his knife drawn, well I even fight back.
I close my eyes. I don't think I can, But
even if I Chapter forty the song, the worst part
isn't the hunger. It isn't the smell. It's the noise,
not the noise of war, the noise of joy. It's night.
I'm lying on the floor of the Mayor's hall. Outside,
over the wall, the hounds are singing. It's a drinking song,
the parson's daughter. It's a song about ale and breasts
and doing profane things to righteous women. They're singing it
in four part harmony. Dozens of men, maybe hundreds. They
are happy. They are camped in the mud, besieging a
rotting town, and they are happy because they are winning,
and they didn't even have to draw us sword to
do it. Inside, the silence is dead or so in
Stigand are sitting by the empty hearth. They aren't whispering.
They don't care if I hear I can't swim. Stiganda says,
then we'll make the boat strong enough that you won't
have to, or so sounds frustrated, not as frustrated as
he sounds when he talks to me. But frustrated then what,
Stigand asks. His voice is deep, calm. The river is
fast right now, half melt, it's freezing. We float, We float.
Stiggin shakes his head. We just sit in the river
and float. We need a boat with oars. Kick says
he's shining his crown with a dirty rag, but he's listening.
There are no boats with oars, or so says Dray
chased them off ages ago. He says it as fact,
not as an accusation. Or maybe it's an accusation and
I'm too numb to feel it be can us lumber?
Dick suggests a raft with boards and oars, with what wood?
Or so asks, and with what tools? Jaron's hands are meat.
The other smiths are dead or hiding. Listen to them.
They are planning the end of my kingdom. They are
planning how to scuttle away like rats in a sewer.
You don't need a boat, I say from the floor.
We fight, We sally out. We they don't even look
at me. Maybe the table, Stiggins says, tapping the heavy
oak dining table. It's solid, too heavy, or so says,
it'll sink like a stone barrels. We have empty ale
barrels if we lash them together, or so nods. We
have rope. We also have curtains. We have betting. Gik says,
we can tear them into strips. He nods to the window,
and we can rip the shutter slats into wars. They'd
be small, but they'd be something. I'm shocked that Dicks,
the crazy, sadistic bastard, is actually contributing ideas. Or So nods.
It's a shit plan, but it's the only one we have.
Or so, I shout, I'm talking to you. He finally
looks at me. We hear you, Dre, he says, we
just don't care what you have to say. Outside, the
hounds hit the chorus. Their voices boom like thunder, laughing,
roaring alive. Inside, my crew starts tearing down the shutters
of my castle. I watch them. I hate them, but
I know they're right. Save me a slat, I whisper.
But the singing is 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.
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. Stigging 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. 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. I 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, dre 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 grien eaves,
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 or paint. I whisper, it is
the dust of battle. I 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,
scrape 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 stigant. Let me help, I say.
He turns away and drags the bench out of the room.
Look at gigs. I want to Chapter forty two. They ignored.
They won't let me build it. But I have a
better idea. This is a port town. There is a
shipwright or citizens who repair boats. They can make us
a stable raft. I will show them all that I
can still lead. I don't need a raft made of barrels.
I don't need driftwood. I need a keel. I need ribs.
I need a vessel that can cut the current of
the water. I march out of the Mayor's hall. My
sword is on my hip. My armor is strapped tight,
holding me together. Blacksmith. I scream into the empty market. Carpenter.
I need a man who knows wood. A woman walks
past me. She's carrying a bundle of clothes. She doesn't
look up you. I grab her arm. Do you know
a carpenter? She pulls away. She doesn't scream, she doesn't
beg she just keeps walking. I am speaking to you.
I draw my sword. The sound usually stops hearts. Today
it doesn't even stop footsteps. A man pushes a hand
cart past me. He actually bumps my hip. Watch yourself,
I snarl. I will take your head grunts and keeps pushing.
They aren't ignoring me. It's worse. They're flowing around me.
I am a stone in the stream, something they can
just flow right past. I run after them. Where are
you going? Hounds are out there. They will kill you.
They don't answer. They just move. A river of gray bodies,
all flowing in one direction toward the gate. I follow them.
The crowd at the gate is thick. They aren't screaming.
They are working. Men are pulling at the timbers or so,
and I wedged against the doors. Women are dragging debris away.
And there directing them is Jarrin. His hands are wrapped
in dirty bandages. He can't lift a finger, but he
guards the work like a captain. Heave, he croaks together. Stop,
I roar. I shove my way through the mob. That
is my gait, that is my barricade. They part for me,
not out of fear, but out of utility. I am
just another obstacle to be moved. I reach Jarn, I
point my sword at his chest. You'll let them in.
I spit. You'll let the hounds in, and they will
slaughter you. Jaron looks at me. His eyes are old tired,
they might, he says, but it's better than being locked
in here with you. The words hit me harder than
a fist. I don't know how to reply to that.
Ruling by force is all I've known. If you don't
like that, you end up in a pool of blood.
But these people, they prefer to be pools of blood
over my rule of force. I am your king, I whisper.
He doesn't object, he doesn't spit in my face. He
doesn't hurl insults at me. Worse, he just turns away
and ignores me. He turns back to the men. Pull.
I will kill you. I raise the sword. I will
do it. I will cut him in half. I will
make them see me. They'll understand that being a pool
of blood is worse. The mob turns fifty people, one hundred.
They stop working. They just look at me. They don't
have weapons, they have desperation, they have hate. Jaren doesn't flinch.
I grip the hilt, my hand is shaking. A hand
lands on my arm, heavy calloused. I spin around. It's
or so. I didn't hear him come up. I never
hear him. He looks at the mob, He looks at Jaren.
Then he looks at me. It's time to go, he
says softly. We can stop the more so we can. No,
we can't. He tightens his grip on my arm. He
pulls me back just an inch, but it breaks the spell.
The river, he says, look at the gate one last time.
The timber groans. It's giving way. I lower the sword
the river, I agree, return and run. Chapter forty three.
The gate opens. You walk to the river and the peer.
It's on the other side of the city, and the
walk is silent. Or So doesn't say anything. He keeps
his eyes straight and just marches ahead so fast I
struggle to keep up without Jogging's a loud crash from behind,
and I know that the gate is open. Or So
keeps a steady pace. I expect the shout of soldiers,
the screams of dying citizens, the clang of swords. I
hear nothing. Silence, then cheering, not the roar of a battle,
one the sound of relief. They aren't fighting, I whisper,
of course not. Or So finally says, they weren't escaping
or leaving to fight. He pauses, they were letting the
hounds in. I imagine it. The gate's opening the hounds
rushing in, not with swords drawn, but with wagons of bread. No,
some of them would have swords, the ones looking for
the scum kings. You pass the pile of dirty gold,
and I stop. Or So keeps walking for a bit,
but then stops and turns. Don't even think of it.
The boat will barely hold us, let alone a pile
of cursed gold. I walk over and grab a gold bar.
I show it to Orso. This, this priceless collection of gold,
enough to pay for one hundred hound armies. It's mine.
I think I'm screaming, but I may be whispering. Or
So walks back to me. I earned it, I'm taking it.
You're not dre He puts his hand on his shoulder
and squeezes. I should have forced you to make this
decision weeks ago. He nods toward the gold. It's the
gold or us, and without saying anything else, he lets
go of my shoulder, turns and walks toward the pier.
I look at the gold enough to pay a hundred
hound armies. Orso he stop, turns, looks. We can bribe
the hounds with the gold, give them enough to join
us and not fight us. That's not how it works, stray,
and with what appears to be a sad shake of
his head, he turns a final time and walks away.
I have an idea. I unbuckle my sword sheath. If
we're fleeing, we're not fighting, I strip out of my
filthy armor and let it fall to the ground. I
even take off my boots. I shed every bit of
weight and honor other than my undergarments. I'm now lighter
than I have been for as long as I can remember.
I catch up to Orso and match strides next to him.
He glances at me, and then glances again. He stares
at me and then laughs, loud and full. It's the
most joyful thing I'd heard in weeks. It's laughter aimed
at me, and I don't even mind. You look like
that beggar that tried to knife you in the back
and back and gate. Hopefully things will work out better
for me than him. It look good in rags, you
look good covered in women, and that's never happened before either.
We both laugh, and it feels like something has changed.
I don't know what it is, and it isn't quite natural,
but it feels good. We have the same goal, and
we're moving toward it. Perhaps that's what it is. Perhaps
we're just walking and that simplicity is allowing our friendship
to shine again. Or some nods toward the ingots in
my hand. You know, you could have kept the armor
and slid a few gold coins in your belt, and
no one would have been the wiser. That's the difference
between us. Or So you dream practical and ID dream big.
Or So. It turns away, and I can tell his
mood has soured. What did I say? Did I do something?
I desperately want our friendly banter to return, for things
to be back the way they were before. I stride
up closer to him and nudge his shoulder. Except with women,
you always dreamed big with women. A grin. But or
So just keeps walking