Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey.
Speaker 2: Episode forty one, The War Council. The back room of
the Gambling Den was a different place. The calm controlled
atmosphere of our first visit was gone, replaced by a thick,
ugly tension. Silas was not sitting behind his desk. He
was pacing a restless force of nature, his knuckles white
where he gripped the hilt of a short sword at
his belt. Corvin and his other lieutenants stood grim faced
against the walls. The map of the Gutters lay on
the table, but now it was surrounded by wetstones and
unsheathed blades. This was not a business meeting. This was
a war council. They think they can choke me, Silas
snarled as we entered, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
The cool, calculating man was gone, stripped away by the
attacks on his income. In his place was the brutal
warlord he had built his empire upon. They burned my stalls,
they attack my merchants. They are dogs, rabid dogs, and
you do not negotiate with them. You put them down.
He stabbed a finger at the map at a section
marked as the Red Hands is territory. We end this
tomorrow night a single decisive strike. We go for the head.
We hit their main compound, We kill their leaders, and
we burned the rest to the ground. His plan was
a thing of pure brute rage. There was no subtlety
to it, no cunning. It was the roar of a
wounded animal, and it was my chance. I knew I
had to play my part. I stepped forward, letting a
look of eager brutality spread across my face. My men
are fresh, I said my voice, rough. We are not
from this city. We have no loyalties except to the
man who holds our leash. Give us the hardest part
of the fight, the front gate. My northman stigand will
break it down himself. While I spoke, my mind was
a sponge soaking in every detail. I saw the way
Silas's guards were positioned. I noted which lieutenants he trusted
and which ones he didn't look at. I saw the
path he was tracing on the map, the route himself
would take to oversee the battle. I was gathering the
intelligence or so needed, all while playing the part of
a loyal bloodthirsty hound. He's lost control. I thought Seligne
was right. They attacked his wallet and it broke his mind.
He's not a king, He's just a thug with a ledger,
and now he's angry. Angry men make mistakes. My performance,
my feigned loyal pleased him. He saw in me a
reflection of his own rage, A simple tool for a
simple job. He clapped me on the shoulder, his eyes
burning with a feverish light. Good, he snarled, I like
your hunger. He dismissed the rest of his counsel with
a wave of his hand, but he held me back.
When we were alone, he pointed at the map one
last time. Tomorrow night, we burned the red hands out
of my gutter for good, he said, his voice dropping
to a conspiratorial hiss. You and your crew, you will
be my vanguard. You will be the first ones through
the gate. It was the worst place to be, the
tip of the spear, the first into the battle, the
first to slaughter. Silas didn't mind if we died. He
just wanted us to do the job. But it was
also the best place to be, the tip of the spear.
He was placing us at the heart of the chaos
was about to unleash, giving us the freedom to move
and strike as we saw fit. He just handed me
the torch to burn down his rival's house. He had
no idea I also planned to burn his own house
down to