Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey.
Speaker 2: 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 and they are
happy because they are winning, and they didn't even have
to draw a 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 chase
them off age years ago. He says, it is fact,
not as an accusation. Or maybe it's an accusation and
I'm too numb to feel it be can us lumber
Get 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. Gick 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 Gicks,
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 too loud. They don't hear me.