Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey.
Speaker 2: Chapter one. At least it's not a raft. The air
doesn't smell like mud anymore. It smells like pine pitch,
like wet hemp and drying fish. It smells like movement
from months or weeks. I don't really know or care.
What I do know is that we lived in the
rotten muck of Vance's folly the whole time, watching the
world shrink down to the size of a vomit strewn alley.
But now now the fresh air flows through our hair.
Stiggand is leaning over the rail of the river Demon
like a child watching a parade. The Northman has never
been on a boat bigger than a canoe, and to him,
this river Cutter is a floating fortress. He laughs, a
deep booming sound that scares a flock of herons from
the reeds. He fears the water, but he loves the
fresh air.
Speaker 1: More.
Speaker 2: Look at it, Dray, he shouts, slapping the wood. Look
at the trees moving. We're flying. Lean back against the
warm wood of the cabin. I have a belly full
of fresh river trout, cooked, not scavenged. The sun is warm.
The hounds are miles behind us, lost in the swamps
we left in our wake. For the first time in
a year, my hand isn't hovering over my knife. Brenn
stands at the tiller. She isn't wearing her leathers anymore.
She's found a coat, a long blue thing with brass buttons,
green from salt. She looks ridiculous, she looks dangerous, she
looks happy. Current is strong. She shouts her voice, tight
with a command tone. She's clearly practicing, keep your men
off the ropes, dray. My crew knows the rig yours.
Just get in the way, my men, her crew. That's
the joke. A dozen runaways, all women, all scowling, all
muscle their cutthroats. She gathered while we were playing house
in Vance's folly. They move around us like we are furniture.
They don't look at me with fear. They don't look
at Stiggind with awe. They look at us like cargo, heavy,
useless cargo. Fix is sitting on a coil of rope
near the mast, like me. He's eating fish, but he's
eating his raw, spitting out bits of bone and gray
inerds sliding down his chin. I don't even think he
scaled the thing. Fishy, fishy. He shrieks, licking some particularly
disgusting big of intestines off his wrist. Sailor walks past
a woman with a scar across her nose. She doesn't flinch.
She just steps over, digs his legs, and keeps walking,
shaking her head. That bothers me more than Giggs's chewing.
Stiggin turns from the rail beaming. He takes a step
toward me.
Speaker 1: Crack.
Speaker 2: His boot goes right through the deck. The wood gives
way like wet cardboard. He stumbles, catching himself on the gunwale,
his leg buried shin deep in the planking. Laughter stops.
Bryn's crew stops moving. They just look watch the heavy foot.
The scarred woman shouts, mammoth on deck. The crew laughs.
It's not friendly. It's the laugh you give a clumsy ox.
Another woman walks over. Watch what you're doing? Yah o
f Stigan pulls his leg free. He looks ready to shout,
ready to grab an axe and split the mocker's skull,
but he doesn't. He looks at Bryn. Brynn doesn't even
turn around. She just adjusts the tiller. Eyes on the river,
digging limps over to me. He rubs his shin, looking
back at the jagged hole. The wood inside is black,
spongy gray, he whispers. He sounds small. I didn't stomp,
I just walked. I look at the hole. Then I
look at the mast. The wood is gray. The ropes
are frayed. The river demon is held together by tar
and stubbornness. The varnish hides the rot, but the rot
is deep. I think it's the ship, dre stiggined whispers
like he's afraid of offending the timber. Of course, it's
the ship, I say, keeping my voice low so brit
won't hear. This thing is a piece of floating shit.
Or So is leaning against the gunwall next to us,
cleaning his fingernails with his dagger. He looks cleaner than
I've seen him in a year. He watches the shore
go by, his eyes, cold and calculating. At least it's
not a raft, he says, and the hounds aren't on it,
he adds, chewing slowly, So step lightly, big man. We're
ballast here, and ballast gets thrown over when the water
gets rough. I look back at Brynn. She is pointing
at a sail, shouting orders to the scar nosed woman.
She believes it. She wanted to roam the river, and
she's doing it. Good for her, But this rod is
not worship, no matter how hard she believes. But that's okay.
Let her believe. Belief keeps us moving. I check the
dagger at my belt anyway, just to make sure it's
loose in the sheath. Things don't ride as cargo for long.
I look down at the black water rushing past the hull.
We're moving, and that's all that matters.