Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey. Chapter twenty eight, The Heist. The
moon is a sickle, the kind of moon that cuts.
I'm wandering the Mayor's hall, restless. Sleep has become a stranger.
I pull open cabinet after cabinet, searching for wine. I've
already searched these cabinets three times tonight. The good bottles
are gone, the mediocre bottles are gone. There's nothing left
but the vinegar dregs that cob uses for pickling. I
find a clay jug pushed to the back of some
shelf I missed. I pull the cork, sniff applesider turned.
I drink it anyway from somewhere outside. There's a crash,
metal on stone. Then a muffled curse set.
Speaker 2: Down the jug. I don't reach for my sword. I'm
too tired for violence. Instead, I move to the window
and look down into the courtyard. The dogs are robbing
my treasury. It's immediately clear that this is not a
professional operation. Vic is gesturing frantically. Two of his men
are trying to lift one of the abbey chests. These
chests were built to hold the wealth of saints, their
oak and iron and heavier than coffins. Two dogs get
the chest about three inches off the ground before one
of them loses his grip. The chest crashes down and
the lid pops open, spilling gold bars into the mud. Quiet,
you fucking idiots, Vic kisses. One of the dogs, drops
to his knees and starts shoveling gold into a burlapsed sack.
The sack tears under the weight almost immediately, gold bars
tumble out, sinking into the muck. Another dog tries to
pick up a single bar. He fumbles it. The bar
lands on his companion's foot. The companions screams, shut up.
I lean against the window frame, watching. I take another
sip of the turned cider. Should be angry, I should
be drawing my sword, storming down there making examples, but
I can't stop watching. It's too perfect, too pathetic. I'm
watching a comedy, and I'm curious how it ends. Pretty
soon I find out I'm somewhere in the town. A
door bangs open. Stigin emerges from an alley, swaying. He's
been sleeping in the brewery again, or what passes for sleeping.
When the ale is gone and the shakes have set in.
His eyes are bloodshot, his beard matted with something that
might be vomit. He squints at the commotion in the courtyard.
When the fucking gods, he mutters, lumbering forward, the dogs
freeze Vickxy Stiggin first. The big man is silhouetted against
the moonlight, actxe already in his hand. Not because he
planned violence. Stiggan just sleeps with the axe. It's the
only thing that keeps the shakes at bay. Easy, big
guy Vic says, holding up his hands. We're just you're
robbing the treasury. We're just moving it to a more
secure location. Dre knows about this. He approved it. I
almost laugh almost. Stiggin's head tilts a dog considering a rat.
Speaker 1: Did he now, Yes? He did.
Speaker 2: Then Vic makes his first and final mistake with Stiggind,
you should be careful. I have Drey's ear, you know.
Stigin takes a step and swings his axe. There's a
spray of blood, and Vic's head is rolling off to
Stiggins's left while his body is falling to his right.
I finished the cider. I set the jug on the windowsill,
and I walk downstairs. The rest of the dogs are
not dumb. Actually they are dumb, but they're scared, so
they don't make any dumb mistakes. They just stand there.
Stiggan isn't quite sure what to do when I walk over.
I killed that one. He points to the head lying
near his feet, not sure what to do with the
rest of them. He points to the crowd of dogs
that are slowly distancing themselves from the gold. I look
at the cowering group. They're armed. A few of them
look downright intimidating. I look, Stiggind, and you take care
of this mess. Stiggins's lips peel back from his teeth.
It's not a smile, it's something older, something hungrier. Gladly,
I turn and walk back toward the Mayor's hall. Behind me, thunk,
a scream, thunk, another scream, cut short thunk, then a crash,
then more screams, and then silence. Morning comes gray and cold.
I walk through the town at dawn, following the route
I used to walk as a king, Past the market
square where I once held court, Past the brewery where
Stigand claimed his domain, Past the smithy where Jaren's hands
now hang useless at his sides. The bodies of the
dogs are still in the courtyard. Stigand left them where
they fell. Crows are already gathering. The townsfolk are watching
from their windows. They don't hide anymore, they don't bow,
They just watch. I see it in their eyes. They
know the invaders are killing each other. The gold is
sinking into the mud. The gates are broken, and the
walls are unmanned. And somewhere out there, beyond the tree line,
the real wolves are gathering. I walk back to the
mayor's hall and sit on my throne. The cushion is rotting,
the silk is stained. The gold leaf on the armrests
is peeling. I sit there anyway. There's nothing else to do.