Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey. Chapter nine, The View from the Hill.
The last ridge was a spine of broken flint that
tried to break us. We hauled the wagon up the incline,
inch by screaming inch. My boots slid on the loose shale.
The yoke dug into my shoulders until I lost feeling
in my arms. Stiggand was grunting like a dying bull
beside me, his breath coming in ragged wet gasps. One
more step, I roared, my voice raw. We crested the rise,
The ground leveled out, The wagon rolled forward, its weight
finally working with us instead of against us. We dropped
the yoke, gasping, chest heaving, and looked down. There it
was Vance's folly. It sat in the crook of the
muddy twist of the river like a fungal growth. It
was a sprawling, ugly collection of timber buildings and waddle
and daub huts, huddled behind a wooden palise that leaned
drunkenly toward the river. The streets were ribbons of black mud.
Smoke hung over it in a greasy yellow haze. There
was a packed dirt road that led to a thick
forest in the distance, near the horizon. Anyone else it
was a backwater sore on the map, a place where
dreams went to rot and lumberjacks drank away their sad lives.
I wiped the sweat from my eyes. I looked at
the river curling around it, a natural moat. I looked
at the stone keep in the center, the mayor's hall
rising above the filth. I looked at the single straight
road leading to the gate, before splitting into roads that
led to less pathetic place. I didn't see a slum.
I saw a throne. That's it, or so asked, stepping
up beside me. He sounded disgusted. That's your kingdom. It's
a cattle pen dre The walls are rotting. The gate
looks like it would fall down if you sneezed at it.
It's perfect, I replied, it's a trap. Or So countered,
his voice sharp.
Speaker 2: We roll this wagon down there, and we are trapped
between the river and the wall. If the garrison has
even ten competent men, they can hold that gate against
a hundred. He turned to the crew. They were slumped
against the wagon wheels, staring down at the town with
a mix of hunger and exhaustion. Look at it, or
So shouted, gesturing at the muddy sprawl. Is this worth
dying for a mud pit? We can still turn back,
We can still hide in the hills. The crew looked
at him then, and they looked at the town. They
saw the smoke rising from chimneys. I see smoke, Cob muttered,
licking his cracked lips. That means kitchens, ovens. I see
a tavern, stig and rumbled, pointing a scarred finger at
a large slate roofed building near the gate, A big one.
I see people, Gicks murmured, a disturbing smile playing on
his lips. Lots of little people. They were wavering. They
wanted the comfort, but they feared the risk. They needed
a push. They needed to understand what we were doing.
Walked to the edge of the small hill, standing tall
as if I were on a mountaintop. I turned my
back on the town and faced them. Or So sees
a mud pit, I said, my voice, carrying over the wind.
He sees a trap. I walked over to the wagon,
the wood right where the gold lay hidden beneath the
canvas were carrying the soul of a kingdom in this wagon.
I said, we have the wealth of an emperor. But
what are we. I looked at them, Filthy, ragged, bleeding.
We are scum, I answered for them. We are homeless,
starving dogs dragging a bone we can't chew as long
as we are out here. This gold is just heavy metal.
It's a burden. It's the thing that gets us killed.
I pointed down at the town. The king without a
castle is just a vagrant with a heavy purse. I snarled.
You want to be rich, truly rich, then you need
a wall to put between your gold and the world.
You need a cellar to lock it in, You need
a smith to forge it. I looked at stiggand you
want to drink that tavern dry. You don't walk in
there and pay for it, You walk in there and
own it. I looked at Selaine. You want to count
your coin, You need a table, You need a room
where the wind doesn't blow your ledger away. I turned
back to the town, spreading my arms. That isn't a town.
It's a suit of armor. It's ugly, it's dirty, and
it's weak, but it's waiting for someone strong enough to
wear it. I looked at it also. He was silent.
He was looking at the town now, not with disgust,
but with calculation. He saw the choke point, he saw
the geometry. I can't build a fortress, I said, my voice,
dropping to a low, intense growl. We don't have the time,
so we are going to take this one. I drew
my sword. I pointed it at the leaning wooden gate
of Vance's folly. We ride down there. We don't ask
for entry, we don't pay a toll. We kicked the
door in, and we tell them that their new landlords
have arrived. Stigans stood up. He picked up his axe.
He looked at the town, and for the first time
in weeks, he didn't look like a wounded animal. He
looked like a conqueror. I like the look of that tavern,
he grunted. I bet the mayor has a soft bed,
Brynn said, quietly, checking the fletching on her arrows. Or
So let out a long sigh. He looked at the town.
He shook his head, but there was a smirk on
his face, a grim, fatalistic smirk. The garrison will be lazy,
he muttered, they haven't seen a raid in twenty years.
If we hit them hard before they can rally, he
looked at me. We're really doing this. We're seizing a
Concord town. We're seizing a home, or so, I said.
I climbed onto the wagon seat. I gathered the makeshift
reins of the harnesses we'd rigged for ourselves on the wagon.
I ordered, we ride the rest of the way. They
scrambled up, clinging to the gold, their eyes fixed on
the muddy jewel below. We go in at dawn, I said,
looking down at the sleeping town, and by noon we
won't be scum, will be kings. Chapter ten, The Open Hand.
The night was thinning. The deep indigo of the sky
was darkening to black over the eastern hills below us.
Fanc's folly was a smudge of shadow and dying cookfires,
silent and asleep, waited in the tree line, just out
of sight of the gate watch. Or So was on
his knees, sketching in the dirt with his dagger. He
looked tired, he looked sane. The drainage ditch, he whispered,
tapping the jagged line he'd drawn It runs under the
palisade on the south side. Brynn checked it. It's tight,
but we can fit. We go in now, while the
moon is down. We slit the throats of the gate
guards quietly and open the main doors from the inside.
We bring the wagon in before anyone wakes up. We
take the garrison in their barracks. He looked up at me,
his eyes pleading. It's clean, dre it's safe. By the
time the sun comes up, we'll be sitting in the
mayor's chair and they won't even know they've been conquered.
It was a perfect plan. It was surgical. It was
the plan of a master thief. I kicked dirt over
his drawing or So stared at his dirty map, then
up at me. He didn't say a word. He just
closed his eyes for a second, a look of profound
exhaustion crossing his face. We aren't thieves, or so, I said,
my voice, loud enough to startle a bird in the
branches above. We aren't rats crawling through a sewer to
steal a piece of cheese. I turned to the wagon, dressed.
We had stripped the bodies of the stern guard. At
the abbey. We had piles of black lacquered steel and
gold trimmed velvet in the back of the wagon, mixed
in with the bullion. Dray Celaine said, armor clanks, Armor
reflects light. If we wear that, they'll see us coming
a mile away. Exactly, I said. I picked up a breastplate.
It was heavy, polished to a mirror shechine, emblazoned with
the sunburst of the sea. I strapped it on over
my filthy tunic. It was cold and tight, a steel
skin that made me feel invincible. Put it on, I
ordered stiging, grunted, and grabbed a breastplate meant for a
large man. He forced it onto his massive frame, the
leather straps groaning, the steel plates barely covering his chest.
He looked like a black iron glum bursting out of
its shell. He donned a helmet with a golden plume.
The visor torn off so his scarred, bearded face glared out.
Dicks found a suit of light skirmisher's plate. It fit
him perfectly. He looked like a polished, deadly insect. He
strapped his knives to the outside of the greaves, grinning
as he caught his reflection in a shield. Laying on
the pile he threw the helmet aside and put on
his crown. Even Cob was forced into a male hauberk
that hung to his knees. When we were done, we
didn't look like scum. We looked like a nightmare, a ragged,
terrifying parody of an elite guard unit, stained with mud
and blood, wearing the skins of our betters. The sun
began to crest the horizon. The first ray of light
hit the gold trim on Stiggin's shoulder and flared like
a beacon. Hitched the team, I said, he had no horses,
so we took our places at the yoke, Stiging and
I at the front, or so in gecks at the wheels.
This is the plan, I said, looking down at the
sleepy town. We walked down the center of the road.
We let the sun hit this armor. We let the
gold rattle in the bed. We make as much noise
as we want. And when they close the gate, or
so asked, adjusting as gauntlets, they won't, I said. People
are sheep or so. They see black armor and gold,
they see power. They hesitate, climbed onto the wagon, tongue
looking at my crew, my army. We give them the
open hand, I said, we roll up to the gate.
We offer them a choice. They can open the door
and kneel and accept their new lords. I drew my sword.
It caught the dawn light burning orange. Or I snarled.
I closed the hand, and we burn every stick of
timber in that mud hole until there is nothing left
but ash. I looked at stiggand it was grinning. He
smashed his axe against his breastplate, a ringing clang that
sounded like a bell. I hope they choose fire. He
rumbled with the gate, I commanded, snapped the makeshift reins
of the yoke. Stigging leaned into the leather. The wagon groaned,
a deep, heavy sound of wood and gold. The wheels turned.
He rolled down the open road. The sun hit us
full force. We must have looked like gods descending from
the mountain. The black armor shone, The gold in the
wagon bed glittered with a blinding light. The sound of
our approach, the grinding wheels, the clanking armor, the heavy
tramp of boots rolled down the hill like thunder. Down below,
a sleepy guard on the palisade rubbed his eyes. He
looked up. He saw a golden wagon driven by giants
in the armor of the sea, marching straight for his throat.
I saw him freeze, I saw him panic. I didn't stop,
I didn't hide. I marched straight into the sunrise, bringing
the weight of my kingdom down on their heads. Chapter eleven.
The splintered gate gravity was our cavalry. The slope leading
down to the main gate of Vance's folly was steep,
a muddy shoot of slick grass and gravel. We didn't
march down it. We let the weight of the gold
take the lead. We got the wagon rolling, the iron
rimmed wheels grinding, and then we jumped on. It became
a two ton sled, a runaway vault, hurtling toward the
valley floor. I stood at the front, gripping the iron
rail of the driver's bench, my boots slipping on the
wood behind me. The crew clung to the pile of
loot like ticks on a charging boar. A gate was
coming up fast. It was pathetic, rotting timber, lashed together
with old rope, leaning drunkenly in the mud. Yuards stood there,
leaning on rusty spears, rubbing sleep from their eyes. They
looked up. They saw a black armored nightmare, barreling down
the hill, the sun flaring off our stolen sea breastplates.
It didn't even have time to scream. Brace yourselves, I roared.
We didn't knock, we didn't slow down. Crack a sound
was like a tree snapping in a storm. The wagon
tongue punched through the center of the gate, and the
rest of the wood simply disintegrated. Splinters the size of
spears flew into the air. The wagon bucked, violently, hopping
over the debris, and slammed down into the mud of
the main street. We were inside the town of Vance's folly,
woke up to the apocalypse. We skidded through the mud,
the wagonfish tailing, smashing through a chicken coop in a
flurry of feathers and squawks clear the way. I screamed, laughing.
It was the laughter of a man who has stopped
caring about survival and started caring about impact. The guards,
the few who hadn't been on the gate, were scrambling
out of a guard shack, fumbling with their belts. They
were amateurs, farmers with badges. Stigan didn't wait for the
wagon to stop. He was fueled by mountain rage, stolen
wine and the sheer joy of violence. He leaped from
the top of the gold pile, a massive, black armored meteor.
He landed on the first guard. He didn't use his axe,
he used his boots. There was a wet, sickening crunch,
and the guard simply folded into the mud. Stigand roared
a sound that shook the shutters on the windows, and
backhanded the second guard with a gauntleted fist. The man's
jaw shattered and he spun away, spitting teeth. We are
the scum kings. Stigin bellowed, grabbing a third guard by
the throat and hurling him into a water trough. Neil
Or Bleed fought the wagon, wrestling the tongue to keep
us upright. We plowed through the market. Square stalls loaded
with winter turnips and cheap pottery shattered under our wheels.
I drove over a cart of cabbages, the wagon slowing
but still lurching as we crushed it into paste. Pavilians
were screaming, diving into alleys, pressing themselves against the mud
walls of their hovels. They looked at us and saw
the stern guard of the Radiant sea gone mad. They
saw gold spilling from the chests. In the back, they
saw demons. Dix was cackling, throwing stones from the wagon
bed at anyone who looked like they might be thinking
about being brave or so was shouting targets, his crossbow
thumping rhythmically. I hauled back on the brake lever, the
iron screeching against the wheel. The wagon drifted sideways, carving
a deep furrow in the mud, and slammed to a
halt in the center of the square, right in front
of the town well. The silence that followed was heavy,
broken only by the groans of the guard stiggand had broken,
and the spin of a single, loose wagon wheel. I
stood atop the gold, my sword drawn, towering over the
cowering town. I looked at the muddy peasants, the broken stalls,
the shattered gate. It was ugly, it was messy, it
was perfect. My name is Dre, I shouted, my voice,
echoing off the timber built Chapter twelve, the Mayer's Neck.
The dust from the shattered market stalls was still settling
when we rolled up to the only building in Vance's
Folly that wasn't made of rotting timber and mud. The
town hall was a squat two story block of greystone.
It looked like a sullen child sitting in the middle
of a playground, pretending it wasn't surrounded by filth. We
hauled the wagon right in front of the steps, the
iron wheels grinding into the cobblestones. The gold in the
back settled with a heavy, rich clatter. The door opened,
and outwaddled the mare. Mayor Vance was a man built
of soft dough and bad decisions. He wore a tunic
of crushed purple velvet that cost more than the rest
of the town combined, and a heavy brass chain of
office that sat on his chest like a leash. He
was flanked by two scribes who looked like they were
about to faint, but no guards. He thought his office
protected him. He looked at the shattered gate. He looked
at the crushed cabbage cart. He looked at Stigand, who
was currently wiping blood off his axe with a chicken
he'd snatched. Then he looked up at me, standing tall
on the driver's bench in my stolen black armor. He
didn't kneel. He puffed out his chest. See here he squeaked,
his voice pitching high with indignation. This is a chartered
township of the hearth forged concord. I don't know what
brigandry you think you're conducting, but there are protocols, there
are jurisdiction treaties. He pulled a scroll from his sleeve
and shook it at me. You are in violation of
the third Act of Commerce. You will dismount, identify your company,
and prepare to pay a substantial fine for the damage
to the gate. I stared down at him. He was
speaking a language that didn't exist any more. He was
talking about paper in a world made of steel, and
at that moment he made the worst mistake of his life.
He attempted to intimidate me. Do not push me. I
have friends across the concord. They will bring soldiers who
enjoy crushing brigands like you. You will pay the fine,
and then, because I am a generous man, I will
let you leave. When I didn't reply, he quickly added,
you may consider yourselves lucky. You will let us leave,
I asked, Leaning forward over the rail, He took a
step closer to the wagon, waving his scroll. If you
do not, I will expect your weapons impounded until the magistrate.
I didn't let him finish. I lunged. I didn't need
a weapon. I just reached down my gauntleted hand, closing
around the collar of his expensive velvet tunic. I twisted
the fabric tight, cutting off his air, and hauled him up.
He squealed a wet, panicked sound. Not as his feet
left the ground. He scrabbled at my arm, his face
turning the color of a plum drive. I roared to Stigan,
who had taken the yoke. Stigan laughed and leaned into
the harness. The wagon lurched forward. I didn't pull Vance
into the wagon. I held him over the side. We
did a lap of the town square. It was a slow,
grinding parade. I held the mayor of Vance's folly like
a naughty puppy, his heels dragging and bouncing over the
uneven cobblestones. He screamed for help, kicking his legs, But
the townsfolk just watched in terrified silence. They saw their law,
their treaties, and their mayor being dragged through the mud
by a man in black armor. His velvet tore, his
scroll fell into a puddle and was crushed by the
wagon wheel. His dignity evaporated with every bump. We completed
the circle and came back to the steps of the hall. Whoa,
I said. Stigan laughed, and the wagon stopped. I opened
my hand. Mayor Vance dropped into the muck in a
heap of torn purple and bruises. He gasped for air, wheezing,
curled into a ball. I hopped down from the wagon.
My boots landed heavy on the stone steps, inches from
his face. I sat down on the second step, resting
my elbows on my knees, and looked out at the town,
at the faces peering from windows and alleys. I looked
at the blood smeared on the toe of my boot,
where Vance had flailed against it. The third act of
Commerce is repealed, I announced my voice, Carrying across the square.
I pointed a thumb at the sobbing lump of velvet
behind me. The Mayor is retired. I stood up and
drew my sword, stabbing the point into the wooden door
of the town hall. It stuck there, quivering. My name
is Dre, I said, and the law is whatever I
say it is. I looked at orso move the gold
inside Chapter thirteen, The toy Box. The silence that settled
over Vance's folly after I broke the Mayor was a fragile,
trembling thing. It was the silence of a plains that
hopes the lion has eaten its fill and will simply
go to sleep. Townsfolk peered from behind shuttered windows and
cracked doors. They saw the golden wagon parked in the square.
They saw the mayor weeping in the mud. And they
saw us, seven figures in nightmare armor, caked in mountain
grime and dried blood, standing in the center of their world.
My crew was vibrating. I could feel it radiating off them,
like heat from a furnace. They had hauled that wagon
over a mountain range. They had starved, they had bled,
they had been hunted, and now they were standing in
a town full of soft beds, full pantries, and terrified
people who couldn't fight back. They looked at me. They
were waiting for the order. Were we soldiers? Were we
going to set a watch, secure the perimeter, and ration
the supplies. I looked at stigand whose eyes were fixed
on a sign hanging above a sturdy brick building down
the street, the gilded Tankard Brewery and tap room. I
looked at Gicks, whose fingers were twitching over the hilts
of his knives as he watched the local constables huddled
near the guard house. They weren't soldiers, We were the
scum kings. The town is secured, I said, my voice,
carrying across the quiet square. I unbuckled my sword belt
and let it drop to the cobblestones with a heavy clatter.
I spread my arms wide inventory, I said. It was
like cutting the string on a marionette. The discipline, what
little there was, vanished instantly. Stiggan moved first. He didn't run,
He charged. He moved with the terrifying momentum of a landslide.
He hit the door of the brewery with the sole
of his boot. The timber didn't just open, It shattered inward,
tearing the hinges from the frame. He disappeared inside with
a roar that sounded less like a battle cry and
more like a love song. I walked through the town,
a king touring his new estate, while my court tore
it apart. The sounds of inventory began to drift through
the streets, glass shattering wood, splintering screams that were half fear,
half outrage, quickly silenced by the roar of laughter. I
found Stigan exactly where I knew he would be. The
brewery was a warm, yeasty haven, filled with massive oak
tons and the smell of fermenting grain. The brewer and
his apprentices had fled out the back, leaving the Northmen
alone with his God. He hadn't bothered with a mug.
He hadn't even bothered with the taps. He had smashed
the top off a hogshead barrel of dark ale and
was currently dunking his entire head into it. He surfaced, gasping,
his beard dripping foam, his eyes wild with ecstasy bray.
He bellowed, Seeing me in the doorway, He scooped up
a wooden bucket, dipped it into the barrel, and hurled
the ale at me. It splashed against my breastplate, cool
and sticky. It's not sour, it's thick. It's bread and
a cup. He kicked a sack of malted barley, sending
grains spilling across the floor, just because he could. He
was claiming the space. He grabbed a ham that had
been hanging from the rafters and tore a chunk out
of it with his teeth, washing it down with another
bucket of ale. This is my house, he roared at
the empty room mine. Anyone wants a drink, they asked
the king of the keg. I left him to his drowning.
He was happy, a happy stigand is a loyal Stigand
further down the street, the tone shifted, the air grew colder.
I heard high, thin whimpering coming from the stone blockhouse
that served as the town's constabulary. I pushed the door open.
Dix had been busy local constables. Four men in padded
jacks with truncheons were not used to real violence. They
were used to breaking up drunk fights and chasing pickpockets.
When Gigs had come through the door, they had surrendered
immediately expecting a parley. Fixed in parley, he had stripped
them to their underclothes. He had shoved them into the
single iron barred holding cell at the back of the room.
It was a ight squeeze for four grown men. DICKX
was sitting on the desk, his legs crossed, wearing the
captain's hat and on top of it at a precarious
tilt was his crown. The captain's hat was too big
for him, sliding down over his eyes. He pushed it
back up with the tip of a knife. In his
lap was a massive ring of iron keys. Now, Gicks chirped,
his voice bright and friendly. We are going to play
a game called the jailer's dilemma. He held up a key.
One of these keys opens the door, he explained to
the terrified men huddled in the cell. The rest do not.
He tossed the key into a pot of boiling water
that was sitting on the woodstove in the corner. Water
meant for tea who wants to fish. One of the
constables began to sob. Gicks giggled, swinging his legs. He
looked up and saw me, boss. Look, I caught four
of them, he gestured to the cell. They're very polite.
They gave me their hats. Don't break them all at once,
gigs I said, leaning against the doorframe. We might need
someone to clean the latrines later. Oh, I won't break them,
Gigs promised, his eyes shining. I'm just echucating them on
the irony of incarceration. He picked up another key, and
looked at the stove. The constables flinched as one. I
walked out. The scream started. A moment later. The rest
of the town was being devoured. It was the urban
exploration of degenerates. We were locust with thumbs. Saw Cob
waddling out of a merchant's house, his arms full of
silk sheets. He wasn't taking them to sleep on. He
was using them to wrap up wheels of cheese he'd
stolen from the larder. He dropped a bolt of velvet
into the mud and didn't even look back. He took
a bite out of a wheel of cheese, decided he
didn't like the rind, and through the whole thing through
a glass window. Why carry it when you can just
smash it, Why save it when you can destroy it.
Rinn was the ghost in the machine. I didn't see her,
but I saw her wake. A jeweler shop door swinging
in the wind. The display cases swept clean, a trail
of discarded silver chains leading up to the bell tower
of the local chapel, the highest point in town. She
had claimed the eerie, turning it into a sniper's nest.
Lining it with soft furs. She pulled off a furrier's rack.
Walked through the market square. It was a ruin. The
wagon stood in the center, still loaded with gold, unguarded
because no one in this town dared to touch it.
I found a merchant standing by his ruined stall. He
was staring at a pile of smashed pottery, fine plates, jugs, bowls,
reduced to shards. He looked at me, tears streaming down
his face. Why, he whispered, You could have sold them,
they were worth money. I kicked it, shard of painted clay.
We have money, I said. I looked around at Vance's folly.
Smoke was rising from a chimney where someone had burned
furniture for heat because they were too lazy to chop wood.
The smell of spilled wine and fear hung heavy in
the damp air. We weren't governing, We were consuming. We
were children who had broken into the toy box, and
now we were snapping the heads off the soldiers just
to see what was inside. I walked up the steps
to the Mayor's hall. I turned and looked out over
my kingdom. Stigand was roaring a song in the brewery.
Dicks was laughing in the jail, Cob was gorging himself
in the street. It was a disaster, it was a waste,
it was unsustainable. I smiled. It was exactly what we
wanted U