Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production.
Speaker 2: Created and written by Mike.
Speaker 1: Daltrey, Episode forty three, A Hammer for a King. The
night was alive, with the sounds of our work, distant
screams from the east, where the Red Hands compound was
under assault, shouts, and the sharp clash of steel from
the market square. The gutters were tearing themselves apart, just
as Orso had planned. And in the heart of that chaos,
we moved like ghosts toward our own true target. Silas's
command post was a large stone and timber warehouse near
the river, fortified and protected by his best men. Two
guards stood at the heavy iron banded main door, their
eyes nervously scanning the chaos in the city. We took
our positions in the shadows of an adjacent alley. This
was it, the culmination of all our planning, all our humiliation.
Speaker 2: Brin moved first. She slipped away, a phantom in the dark.
A moment later, there was a loud crash of shattering
glass from the far side of the warehouse, followed by
a convincing, panicked scream. The two guards at the door
looked at each other, hesitated, then drew their blades and
jogged off to investigate the disturbance. It was the same
act Brenn had used earlier, and it was just as
effective now. Or So hissed the moment the guards were gone,
stigging to hit the main door, not with an act
with his shoulder. The sound was like a thunderclap as
the heavy bar splintered and the doors flew inward. We
poured into the darkness after him. This was not a
clumsy brawl, This was an execution. For the first time
since the caravan Raid were working as a single, deadly unit.
Balcony left, or So barked, and a crossbow bolt from
one of Silas's guards whistled over our heads. Bryn, already
inside and hidden in some dark corner I couldn't see,
loosed an arrow of her own. The guard gave a
choked cry and tumbled over the railing. Dix was a
blur of terrifying motion. He used the chaos, the stacked
crates and deep shadows to his advantage, appearing from nowhere
to slit a throat or hamstring a swordsman before melting
back into the gloom. His quiet, unnerving laughter the only
sign he had been there. Stiggan was the hammer. He
moved through the center of the warehouse, a whirlwind of
pure destructive force, his massive fists breaking shields and bones
with equal ease. He was the anchor of our assault,
drawing the enemy's attention while the rest of us cut
them apart from the flanks, and I was the tip
of the I moved with him, my own blade, a
sharp counterpoint to his brute strength, cutting a bloody path
through Silas's elite. We were no longer servants, we were
no longer victims. We were the scum kings, and we
had come to claim our kingdom. The fight was desperate
and bloody. Silas's men were good, the best in the gutters,
but they were caught by surprise, and we were fighting
with the fury of men who had nothing left to lose.
We pushed them back through the main floor, up a
flight of stairs to the last heavy oak door at
the back of a catwalk Silas's command room. Stiggand I roared.
The big northmen needed no other command. He lowered his
shoulder and hit the door with the force of a
battering ram. The wood groaned, splintered, and after another blow,
flew from its hinges. I was the first one through
the breach, my sword held ready, my body thrumming with
the hot, clean energy battle. The room was quiet, lit
by a single steady lantern, and there he was silas
he stood alone in the center of the room, turning
from a large map on the table, a clean, sharp
blade already in his hand. There was no surprise on
his face, no fear, only the cold, appraising look of
a king who has been waiting for the final challenge
to his throne.