Speaker 1: The scum Kings, created and written by Mike Daltrey, Episode
five Planning.
Speaker 2: Brinn led me through the thorny scrub for half a mile,
moving with the silence of a hunting cat. I followed
my stomach, a hollow ache, the pathetic rabbit from the
night before, a distant, unsatisfying memory. She brought me to
a rocky outcrop overlooking a small cleared valley. Crouching behind
a gray, lichen covered boulder, she simply pointed. I peered
over the edge. My heart, which had been hammering with
the hope of a fat merchant train or a rich
pilgrim's camp, sank into my boots. Below us, and nestled
in the shallow dale was a farm, not a thriving estate,
but a tiny, isolated hovel clinging to life. There was
a small lopsided cottage with a wisp of smoke curling
from its stone chimney, a barn whose roof sagged in
the middle, and a muddy fenced in pen. In that pen,
snuffling contentedly in the muck, was the single most beautiful
thing I had ever seen. A pig, A fat, glorious,
pink flanked pig. It was pathetic. It was everything. How many,
I asked, my voice a hoarse whisper. Brin held up
two fingers, man and a woman old saw them gathering
wood this morning. I stared down at the sad little farm,
a wave of conflicting emotions washing over me. Disappointment, hot
and sharp. We were killers, conquerors, and now our grand
prize was a single farm animal. But beneath the disappointment
was a raw animal, craving that drowned out everything else.
My mouth watered. That pig was life, it was victory.
We brought the others one by one. They crawled to
the edge of the outcrop and stared down at our target.
I saw the same flicker of shame and hunger in
their eyes. That's it, Sigin grunted, his voice full of disbelief.
Then his eyes locked on the pig, and when a
low rumble started in his chest, Gods, look at the
size of it. We retreated back into the woods to
lay our plans. It was absurd, it was essential. We
couldn't afford another failure, not even this one. The memory
of the caravan guards of Finn and Joric bleeding out
on the road was too fresh. This time, there would
be no mistakes, or so, our master tactician knelt in
the dirt with the tip of his dagger. He began
to sketch a map with the focus and intensity he
would give to laying siege to a city. He drew
the cottage, the barn, the pig pen, even the thin
track of a creek that ran along the valley floor.
It's a simple two structure assault, he began, his voice,
all business. The six of us huddled around his dirt
map as if it were a king's war table. The
approach is clear from the north, but exposed. We move
under the cover of dusk. Brin He glanced at her.
You will circle west. Your job is observation. Only confirm
the targets are inside the cottage and stay there. She nodded,
her eyes already scanning the valley below. Stiggand or So
continued drawing a line toward the barn. You and I
will take the barn. It's our primary state aging point.
The door is old wood. It should be silent if
we're careful. If not, I'll break it. Steagan finished, clenching
a fist the size of a small ham two hits
or so nodded, Gicks, you have sentry. Duty. Gix, who
had been watching with a predatory stillness, smiled thinly. What
kind of sentry? The living kind, or so said, the
kind that secures the house. You and Dre will take
the cottage. Your job is containment. No one comes out,
no one makes a sound. The implication hung in the air.
Containment a clean word for a bloody job. Celaine, Ever,
the quartermaster, spoke up the asset. What is the plan
for extraction? We butcher on sight? No, I said, the
decision forming as I spoke. The thought of hot blood
and fresh meat was making me reckless. Too much noise,
too much time. We take it alive, We drag it
back here and deal with it. The absurdity of it
all hit me. Then, the scum kings, seven hardened killers,
planning the abduction of a single pig with the tactical
precision of a military campaign. I felt a hysterical laugh
bubble in my chest, but I choked it down. We
needed this, We needed a win, no matter how small,
how pathetic. Our pride was a luxury we had burned
on the pire of our last failure. All that was
left was the gnawing in our bellies. All right, I said,
looking at the faces around me. That's the plan. We
move in one hour. Check your gear, no mistakes, no noise.
The crew nodded, their faces grim and serious. Stiggins stretched
his arms, preparing for his grand assault on the barn door,
or so reviewed as dirt map checking angles. This was
the bottom, This was our great and terrible war for
a slab of bacon. As we stood there, finalizing our
pathetic masterpiece of a plan, a sound drifted up from
the valley. Yap, yap, yap, whoof We all froze. Every
head snapped toward the direction of the farm. A dog,
a yapping, alert, little farm dog. It wasn't a roar
of a warhound, but it was enough. It was an alarm,
an unplanned variable. We looked at each other, the same
thought in every eye, our meticulously planned ambush, our great
hope for a hot meal, might already be a failure.
Speaker 1: No box