Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey. Chapter eight, The Crossroads.
Speaker 2: The road, if you could call it, that died at
a split stone. We stopped the wagon. The wheels settled
into the dirt with a heavy, exhausted groan that matched
the sound of my own joints. We stood at a
wide junction, a scar in the wilderness where the ancient
pavers had disagreed on where to go. To the left,
the path wound westward, disappearing into the dense, dark heart
of the deep wilderness. The trees there were thick, the
shadows long. It was the path to the unforged lands,
to places where no map maker from the sea had
ever bothered to walk. To the right, the road widened.
It sloped downward, toward the distant shimmer of the Muddy
Fork River Valley, toward civilization, toward the smoke of chimneys.
Speaker 1: Or so didn't wait.
Speaker 2: He walked to the left fork and pointed west. He said,
his voice ragged with fatigue, but firm with conviction.
Speaker 1: We go deep.
Speaker 2: There are caves in the foothills of the stone fence.
We stashed the wagon. We build a forge we spend
the winter melting this, this evidence down into generic bars.
He looked at me, his eyes pleading for sanity. It's
the only way, Dre we vanish. We become ghosts again.
In the spring, we walk out rich and anonymous. I
looked at the western path. It looked cold, It looked quiet.
It looked like a long, slow year of hiding in
a hole, scrubbing the face of a god off of
gold coins one by one. It looked like the life
of a frightened rat. Then I looked east, held out
my hand. Let me see the map. Or So stood there, staring,
dre be reasonable. I didn't reply, and he pulled the
map out of his pack, practically throwing it at me.
I unrolled it on the side of the wagon, smoothing
the vellum against the rough wood. Show me, I said.
Or So sighed irritated, and stabbed a finger at a
cluster of inklines near the river. There vance's folly, a
trade town logging some river commerce. It has a wall,
a garrison, and a mayor who pays his taxes to
the concord. If we go there with this wagon, we
are hanging ourselves. I stared at the ink or So
saw a threat. He saw a garrison in laws. I
saw geometry. I traced the line of the river. It
curved around the town on three sides, a natural moat.
I traced the road. It ran straight through the town gates,
the only viable trade route for fifty miles. It has
a smithy, I asked. It's a trade town. So yes,
or So snapped, probably three, and a constabulary and eyes.
It has cellars, I asked, stone foundations, Ray listen to me.
Or So slammed his hand on the map. It has people.
You can't just roll a stolen treasury into a town square.
We need to hide. I looked up from the map.
I looked at the miserable, shivering crew stigand was leaning
against the wheel, picking his teeth with a splinter, looking bored.
GX was braiding grass. I'm done hiding, or So, I
said quietly. I looked back at the map. Vance's folly.
It wasn't just a dot of ink. It was a
choke point. It was a cork in the bottle of
the river trade. You see a town, I said, my
voice rising. I see a fortress. I see a smithy
to reforge our armor. I see cellars to hold our vault.
I see walls to keep the world out. I straightened up,
rolling the map tight. We aren't melting this gold down
in a cave like Doblin's, I said, we aren't spending
the winter shivering in the dark. I walked to the
front of the wagon. I grabbed the yoke. We go east,
or so stepped in front of me. That is suicide.
You are declaring war on the world. No, I smiled,
and it was a cold, sharp thing. I'm declaring myself.
I looked at Stiggant Northman. Do you want to sleep
in a cave for six months? Or do you want
to sleep in a feather bed and drink a Mayer's wine.
Stigan didn't hesitate. He spat out the splinter. I hate
caves too damp. He grabbed the other side of the yoke.
Turn it, I ordered. The crew hesitated for a second,
looking at the dark safety of the western woods. Then
the greed took hold. The promise of soft beds, hot food,
and the power we had tasted at the abbey beheaved.
The wheels groaned in protest, biting into the dirt. As
we forced the heavy wagon around. We turned our backs
on the safety of the wilderness. We turned our backs
on obscurity. He pointed the tongue of the wagon down
the slope, toward the smoke and the river. We aren't
going to hide the gold, or so I said, leaning
into the weight as the wagon began to roll. We're
going to put it on a throne.