Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey. Episode forty four, The King is Dead.
The chaos of the warehouse fell away. The sounds of
the distant, city wide battle of faint echo here in
this small, quiet room. The world had shrunk to the
space between me and the man who thought he was
my master. The air was thick with the promise of
a final, bloody accounting, So Silas said, his voice calm,
almost conversational. He gave a slight, dismissive shake of his head.
The dogs have finally slipped the leash. I must admit
I underestimated your ambition. I thought you were just thugs.
My mistake. He didn't wait for a reply. He lunged.
He was not a brawler. He was a swordsman. His
movements economical and deadly. His blade was a blur of silver,
aimed not at Stiggin's bulk, but at my throat. I
parried a clash of steel, deafening in the small room.
What followed was not a glorious duel. It was a.
Speaker 2: Desperate, ugly struggle for survival in a cage. Stiggan roared
and tried to bring his massive strength to bear, but
the room was too small. He swung his axe and
a bit deep into the heavy oak table, getting stuck
for a precious second. Silas used the opening, his blade,
darting out and leaving a long, shallow cut on Stiggins's arm.
Dicks was a phantom trying to find an angle in
the chaos, but Silas was always aware, always moving, using
the table as a barrier, never allowing us to fully
surround him. It all came down to me. This was
my fight. My humiliation at the crooked keg, the memory
of Kle's pathetic death, the shame of taking this man's orders.
It all boiled up in my gut as a hot,
cleansing rage. Every time my blade met his, it was
a repayment. Every block, every perry was me taking back
a piece of what he had stolen. He was better
than me, a more skilled swordsman. Hell, he was a
more skilled fighter. His movements were precise, Mine were fueled
by raw fury. He cut my arm, a deep gash
that sent a jolt of fire to my shoulder. He
pressed his advantage, driving me back against the wall, his
face a mask of cold concentration, but he didn't have
my desperation. With a roar, I kicked out, not at him,
but at the leg of the heavy map table. It tilted,
unbalanced and slid toward him. He sidestepped his balance, thrown
for a fraction of a second, it was all I needed.
I didn't try to meet him with skill. I crashed
into him like a wild animal, a pure act of
brute force. We went down in a tangle of limbs,
my sword knocked from my hand. It was no longer
a fight of blades, but of teeth and nails and
raw strength. We wrestled on the floor, two beasts, trying
to tear out the other's throat. His fingers clawed at
my eyes. I smashed my forehead into his nose. His
blade was still in his hand, and he tried to
bring it to bear to drive it into my gut.
I caught his wrist, my muscle screaming with the effort.
With my free hand, I fumbled for the dagger at
my belt. I pulled it free and drove it once
hard into the soft flesh of his neck. His eyes
went wide with shocked surprise. A wet, gurgling sound escaped
his lips. The strength went out of him. The King
of the Gutter was dead. A look of shock surprise
still on his dead face, his own blood pooling on
the floor of his command.
Speaker 1: I had won.
Speaker 2: I pushed his body off me, my chest heaving, gasping
for breath, a triumphant roar building in my throat, ready
to savor the victory. But Stigand wasn't savoring anything. His
fight wasn't over. He was a storm of fury that
had not yet broken. He looked around the room, his
eyes wild, landing on the ledgers, the maps, the crates
of fine goods, everything that Silas had built, everything that
had been used to control us. It wasn't enough that
the man was dead. He wanted his entire world unmade.
He strode to the map table and seized the heavy
oil lantern, the room's only light. I saw the madness
in his eyes and scrambled to my feet. Stiggand, I roared,
my voice, raw, no stop, the gold, the supplies, It's
all ours now. But it was too late. He had
already thrown the lantern at isle of crates full of
spirits that had been stored against the wall. The triumphant
roar in my throat died, replaced by a choked gasp
as a wall of fire erupted with a deafening whoosh,
and the room was suddenly impossibly as bright and as
hot as the sun. Our prize, our victory, all of
it was now being consumed by a fire lit by
our own hand.