Speaker 1: The scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey. Chapter twenty nine, Treason. I find Selaine
in the stables. She's saddling a horse, the last horse,
actually a gray mare that survived this long because she's
too stringy to be worth eating. Selaine has packed saddlebags,
light ones, traveling weight. She's dressed for the road, not
the throne room. Good, I say, leaning against the doorframe
scouting distant farms for food is a good idea.
Speaker 2: Should have thought of it before. She doesn't turn around,
just keeps cinching the saddle. There's a lot of things
you should have thought of, Dre, I told you that.
I don't reply. Selaine is sileine, and she's not going
to keep me waiting long for what she means. Finally,
she sighs and says, I'm not scouting distant farms. Then
what are you doing with my horse? Now? She turns.
Her face is calm, tired, the same face she wore
when she climbed into the bath with me, back when
I still thought I was winning. I'm looking for a
way out that won't get me and the rest killed.
The words hang there, I wait for the punchline. It
doesn't come. You're leaving, Yes, you're abandoning the kings. I'm
abandoning you a man who can't tell the difference between
a throne and a grave. She pulls the cinch tight.
The mayor snorts, I've given up on you, Dre. I
should be angry, I should be reaching for my sword,
but I'm tired too, so tired. We had something here,
say we had gold, we had walls, we had we
had nothing. She faces me fully now, and there's something
in her eyes I haven't seen before, pity. You had nothing,
You just didn't know it. I built a kingdom. She
snorts and turns back to the horse. You still don't
know it. I'm quiet again, and she picks up the
saddle bags. Keep hammering bottles, tables, paintings and people. Dre. Eventually,
you may actually find a nail that makes me mad.
But response doesn't come out as rage. It comes out
as pathetic defensiveness. You think running makes you smart, I
hear myself say. You think riding off into the trees
makes you better than us? Where the scum kings Selaine.
We don't run, we don't beg We take what's ours,
and we hold it until until what. She's at the
stable door, now leading the mare by the reins, until
the walls fall, until Stigan drinks himself to death, until
Orso puts a bolt in your back. Because you won't
listen to reason. I don't have an answer. You're a coward,
I say. It sounds weak even to me. I'm a survivor.
She swings up into the saddle. The mayor shifts beneath her,
eager to move. There's a difference, you used to know it.
I could stop her, I could grab the reins. I
could put my sword through the horse's neck and make
her stay. But I don't, because somewhere deepen the part
of me that still knows how to count the odds,
I know she's right. This isn't working. The walls are
a joke. The gold is sinking into the mud. The
dogs are dead, and the forge is cold. And the
town stares at me with eyes that have forgotten how
to fear. It's not working. But I don't tell her that.
Chapter thirty, the Ghost. I hear the screaming from the
Mayor's hall, not the screaming of victims. I know that sound,
This is different. This is the sound of something breaking
inside a man's skull. By the time I get to
the brewery, it's over. Stiggan is on the ground, wrapped
in chains thick enough to anchor a ship, because that's
exactly what they are. Someone found the chains, and the
harbormasters shed the ones they used for the river barges.
It took all of them to hold him down long
enough to get the lynks around his arms. Three bodies
are cooling on the stone floor, townsfolk by the look
of them. A man with his skull caved in, a
woman with her throat opened, A boy maybe fifteen, with
his chest crushed where Stiggins's boot came down. Or So
is leaning against the wall, pressing a rag to his face.
Blood is seeping through the cloth. He looks at me
when I enter, and there's something in his eyes I
haven't seen before. Fury, pure and clean and aimed directly
at me. Stiggins's mind is broken. What happened? Or So
pulls the rag away. There's a gash running from his
eyebrow to his cheekbone. An inch lower and he'd be
missing an eye. His love of drink is what happened.
He spits blood onto the floor. The big bastard ran
out of Ale three days ago, started seeing things, ghosts.
He said, men, he killed, men, we all killed. Orso's
voice is flat, tired. He was talking to the wall
when these three walked past. I don't know what he saw.
Maybe he thought they were sea soldiers, maybe he thought
they were demons. Doesn't matter. He killed them before I
could get the chains on. He spits again, And the
only reason I could do that is how weak he is. Now.
I look at stiggand he's shaking. Not the controlled tremor
of cold or this is something deeper. His whole body
is vibrating like a plucked string. Sweat pours down his
face despite the chill. His eyes are open but seeing
something none of us can see. Dray, he whispers. His
voice is small wrong. Stiggins's voice should boom and rumble,
Not this, Dray. They won't stop looking at me. I
kneel beside him. Up close, he smells like sour sweat
and piss. The mighty Stiggant king of the Keg reduced
to a shivering wreck and chains his hands. Hands that
have crushed skulls and torn men apart are trembling so
badly he can't keep them still. Who's looking at you, Stig?
All of them? His eyes dart around the room, tracking
things that aren't there, the ones from the road, the
ones from the abbey, the dogs. He focuses on me suddenly,
and for a moment he's there, the old stigand the
one who laughed when we burned the convoy. They're angry,
dre They're so angry. They want to know why, why, what?
Why we did it? His eyes filled with tears, Stiggant crying.
I don't remember why we did it. I don't know
what to say to that. Tob appears in the doorway,
face pale, is he he's alive. I stand up, Find
me a bottle, anything, wine, ale, I don't care. Something
with a kick. Cob stares at me. We don't have
find one. My voice is harder than I intend. There's
a bottle somewhere in this town that someone's been hiding.
Find it, goes or So is watching me. The fury
has faded to something else, confusion. Maybe you're going to
give him more, there is no more. He had a
drink in days. It will calm him down. Stiggin's been
drinking since before I met him, twenty years of ale
flowing through his veins. The least I can do is
provide the one comfort as life has had. He killed
three people dre and he'll kill three more if the
shakes don't stop. I look down at my oldest soldier,
my oldest friend. If I'm being honest with myself, a
little bit, just enough to stop the shaking and get
him to sleep. Or so shakes his head but doesn't argue.
Bob returns with a bottle. It's cloudy and the label
is torn. But when I pull the cork, the smell
of rough brandy fills the room. Someone's private stash, probably
hidden for months. I kneel beside stigand again Stig look
at me. His eyes find mine. There's fear in them,
fear and shame and something that might be gratitude. I'm
going to give you a drink, just one, enough to
quiet the ghosts. His hands are shaking too badly to
hold the bottle, so I hold it for him. I
tip it to his lips like I'm feeding a child.
He drinks one, swallow two, and I pull it back.
That's enough for a moment. Nothing changes. Then Slowly, the
shaking starts to ease, not gone, but manageable. His breathing slows,
his eyes lose that wild, hunted look. Thank you, he whispers.
Sit down beside him, my back against the cold brewery wall.
The chains clink as he shifts trying to get comfortable.
We don't talk about gold. We don't talk about the kingdom.
We don't talk about the rotting walls, or the empty
treasury or the woman who rode away this morning. We
just sit there, two old killers in a dark room,
waiting for the ghosts to get quieter. Somewhere outside the
town is dying. Someone further away is coming. Everything we
built is crumbling. But right now, none of that matters.
Right now, Chapter thirty one, enemies everywhere, the silence is
the loudest thing. The town used to be full of
angry noise. Smith's beating, iron, tanners scraping hide, the dogs
shouting in the tavern. Now it's dead quiet, just the
wind coming off the river and the creak of timber
that hasn't been maintained. I wake up. The first thing
I notice isn't the cold. It isn't the smell of
rot that is settled into the stones of the Mayor's hall.
It's my boots. I left them by the door. I
always leave them by the door, facing out. Ready thereby
the window. I stare at them. They are just boots,
scuffed leather, mud caked soles. But they moved. Did I
move them? I try to remember. Last night I drank
the last of the turned cider. I sat on the
throne until my back ached. I came up here. Did
I kick them off? Did I stumble? No? I am Gidre,
the scum king. I don't stumble. Someone moved them. I
draw my sword before I even get out of bed.
I checked the wardrobe empty, under the bed empty, the
doors bolted from the inside. They moved. A dangerous reality
is a buzzing in my teeth. If someone was in
my room, they could have cut my throat. Why move
the boots? A message, a mockery. We can get to you,
is the message I know it. Checked the north tower empty.
I checked the river gate locked. I checked the main gate,
and my heart stops. It's open, not wide, just a crack,
a sliver of gray light showing between the heavy oak doors,
enough for a man to slip through or a knife.
I knew it, I whisper. I tear the barracks apart. First,
Where is the key? I scream, overturning a cot Who
has the master key? I rush outside and Gix is
leaning against a wall. He looks more amused than concerned.
He shrugs. Someone opened the gate. Gicks. Someone is trying
to let them in. He shrugs again. Useless. I leave
him in his annoying crown. I find Cob in the kitchen.
He's boiling water, just water, because we have nothing to
put in it. Did you go to my room? I demand,
grabbing him by his tunic, But no, Why would I
do that. I've been here to make soup from nothing.
Show me your hands. If you're lying to me, Cob,
I will boil you in that pot. I march Jarin
out of his house. I don't knock. I kick the
door in. He's sitting at his table, staring at his hands.
The hands my dogs smashed. They're wrapped in dirty bandages,
swollen and useless. He did this to get back at me.
I snarl. You told one of your apprentices to open it.
Aaron looks up. His eyes are dead open. What the gate?
You want us dead? You opened the door to let
the sea in, to reclaim their gold. He holds up
his ruined hands. I can't even wipe my own ass.
His voice is bitter, and there is no one left
to listen to my orders. Pull out my sword and
hold the tip to his throat. Tell me who moved
my boots? Your boots? Jarren laughs. It's a dry, hacking sound,
full of pathos and disbelief. You're mad, You've officially gone mad.
I press the blade until a bead of blood wells up. Dray.
I spin around. Orso is standing in the doorway. He
isn't holding his crossbow. He looks tired, so incredibly tired.
Let him go. He opened the gate. Or So it
was a jar a traitor. Or So doesn't argue, he
doesn't reason. He walks up to me, grabs my arm
and drags me. Get off me. I try to pull away,
but Orso's grip is iron. He doesn't stop. He drags
me through the mud, past the staring townsfolk, all the
way to the gate. I could stop him, I could
beat him, but I don't. He has something to show me,
and that's more than any of the rest of the
damned town has He shoves me toward the wood of
the gate. Look. I look at the doors. They are
still slightly open. Someone opened it, I insist, someone slipped out.
I look over my shoulder, or slipped in or so.
Doesn't say a word. He climbs up the bracing of
the gate. He grabs the upper hinge, the massive iron
knuckle that holds the door to the stone, the same
one that was crafted recently and broke. He wrenches it.
There's a sickening crunch of metal, and a chunk of
iron breaks off in his hand. He jumps down and
throws it at my feet. It lands in the mud
with a wet thud. It's broken, Dray, he says, his
voice flat. It's been broken since the casting failed, since
we broke the smith's hands. The door hangs crooked. It
doesn't close. I stare at the metal. No, it was
closed yesterday. Damn it, Dre. What is wrong with you?
Nothing will keep that broken gate closed. Every single day
we push it shut and gravity pulls it open. There
is no trader, There is no key, just a broken
door in a broken town. He turns and walks away.
I watch him go. I look down at the piece
of iron it's cracked, broken, useless. I walk back to
the Mayor's hall. I go to my room. My boots
are by the window. I pick them up and put
them by the door where they belong. Just because there
was nothing this time doesn't mean there won't be a
next time. They are out there. Chapter thirty two. The
rift or So isn't talking to me. He's not hiding.
I see him every day. He's on the walls cleaning
his crossbow. He's by the gate, checking the timber brace
I wedged there. He's in the courtyard sharpening his knife.
But he's not seeing me. When I walk past. He
doesn't look up. When I ask for a report, he
gives me one word quiet, nothing fine. It's worse than
the yelling. I can handle yelling. I can handle him
telling me I'm an idiot, But this, this silence, is
something else. It feels like he's already gone. Like Selaine.
Find him on the south wall. He's looking out at
the river, watching the empty water. Or So. I say.
He doesn't turn. What's happening? He takes a long time
to answer. He picks at a splinter on the railing.
You're happening, Dre, What does that mean. He just shrugs.
It's a small, careless movement, a movement that says it
doesn't matter. He walks away. I consider his attitude. He's
a man who has been beside me for a long time.
We've hit the highest highs and the lowest lows together.
I consider him a friend. So why is he avoiding me?
Is he planning something? Did he open the gate? Is
he waiting for the right moment to put a bolt
in my back? Is he the one that is waiting
to betray me? Or is it simpler? Does he just
hate me? Later I find him in the barracks. He's
sitting on his cot, oiling the trigger mechanism of his bow.
The smell of oil and old sweat is thick in
the room. Or So he doesn't move. Look at me
when I'm talking to you, I say, he keeps oiling
the trigger. I'm the leader of this pack, or so
I am the king of this town. You are my second.
You are here to give me advice, to help me
plan Still nothing. If you won't do that, I snap,
kicking the leg of his cot, then what good are you?
Or so stops, He sets the crossbow down gently. He
wipes his oily hands on a rag. Then he looks up.
His eyes are dead, not angry, not afraid, just empty,
like a well that's gone dry. You've ignored every drop
of advice I've given you for the past month, he says,
longer since the tangle. I listened, You didn't listen. You ignored.
You waited for me to stop talking so you could
do what you were going to do anyway. You don't
want advice, Dre, you want an echo. He stands up.
He's not a big man, not like stigand but right
now he feels heavy solid. You want advice, he asks,
Here's the last piece I'll ever give you. Think about
what you feel is the best path forward, what your
gut tells you to do, what your instinct screams is
the right move. He leans in close, and then do
the exact opposite. He picks up his crossbow. For now,
just leave me alone. He walks past me, shouting me aside,
not violently, just like I'm an obstacle, a piece of
furniture in a room he's trying to leave. I stand
there in the empty barracks. I want to scream at him.
I want to order him back. I want to threaten
him with treason, but I don't because I know he
won't care. He'll follow orders, he'll stand watch, he'll shoot
anyone who tries to kill me. He'll die for me, probably,
but he won't talk to me. He's checked out. I
sit down on his cot. It smells like oil.
Speaker 1: Chapter thirty three, The first Stone.
Speaker 2: I am the King. I say it to myself as
I walk the market. I am the king. It's hard
to remember. Sometimes my armor hangs loose on my frame.
Now I've punched three new holes in my belt. The
gold leaf on my pauldrons is flaking, exposing the dull
steel underneath. But the town, the town is still mine.
I walk to my pile of gold. It's still there, untouched,
as if it's worthless, and even the poor townfolk consider
it part of the background, like an unused alley or
a tree. It's there, you never notice it, but if
someone reminds you of its existence, you finally see it.
I see it, and it's mine. I walk through the square.
It feels different today, heavier. Usually when I walk, the
crowd parts like water. People scramble to get out of
my way. They flatten themselves against walls, they dive into alleys.
The silence they leave behind is the silence of respect
or fear. It doesn't matter. It's the silence of power. Today.
The water doesn't part, it flows around me. Man carrying
a basket of turnips doesn't dive into the mud. He
just steps aside, barely enough for me to pass. He
doesn't look down. He looks at my chest, at the
flaking gold. I stop. I turned to glare at him,
to remind him. He's already gone, disappeared into the crowd.
I keep walking. The thought of spies is back. Why
aren't they running? Do they know something? Do they know
Stigand is chained? Do they know or so? Won't talk
to me. I reach the communal trough. Three women are
washing clothes, beating gray tunics against the stone, thwack, thwack.
I wait for them to stop, to bow, to scurry away.
It don't. One of them, a heavy woman with red arms,
wrings out her shirt. She looks up, not at my face,
through me, like I'm a post, like I'm weather, like
I'm the pile of gold. But she does notice me.
I know this because she spits on the ground. It
lands an inch from my boot. The sound of the
washing stops. The square goes quiet. But it's not the
fearful quiet I'm used to. It's a waiting quiet. Respect,
I say. My voice sounds thin in the open air.
The woman picks up another shirt. Thwack, I said, respect,
I draw my sword. Steel screeches. That sound usually sends
them screaming. The woman doesn't scream. She stops washing. She
wipes her hands on her apron. She looks me in
the eye. Respect what she asks. It's the first time
a commoner has spoken to me without permission in months.
I am your king, the king of what, she says flatly.
Bile rises in my throat. I step forward, raising the blade.
I will cut your tongue out. I will plang. Something
hits my breastplate hard. I stumble back, shocked. I look
down a stone, a river stone, smooth and gray, lying
in the mud. I look up a boy, maybe ten
years old, skinny, dirty, standing by the trough, holding another stone.
He's shaking, but he's not running. Get away from her,
he says. His voice cracks. I stare at him, I
stare at the stone in his hand. I'm dre I'm
the man who burned the abbey. I survived the tangle.
I'm the scum king of Vance's Folly, and a ten
year old boy just threw a rock at me, a lunge.
It's instinct, the animal reaction to pain. I raise the sword,
ready to split him, like kindling. The woman steps in
front of him. She doesn't raise her hands, she doesn't
beg she just stands there and I stop. I'm standing
in the market square, fully armored, holding a sword that
has tasted the blood of knights, poised to butcher a
washerwoman and a child. I catch my reflection in a puddle.
I look ridiculous. I look small. I lower the sword.
I look around the square. The crowd hasn't run, They've gathered.
They're watching, scores of them, men with hammers, women with baskets,
old men with They aren't looking at a king, they
aren't even looking at a monster. They're looking at something worthless,
something beneath their attention, A pile of gold that's simply something.
They walk around go home. I don't know who I'm
saying it to them or myself. Sheathe the sword. It
feels heavy, clumsy. I turn my back on them. It's
the most dangerous thing a soldier can do, to turn
your back on a mob. But I do it because
I know they aren't going to kill me, not today.
Killing me would imply I'm worth the effort. I walk
back to the Mayor's Hall. I don't look back, but
I can hear them. They're silent, and that is louder
than any warhorn.