Speaker 1: The scum Kings created and written by Mike Daltrey, Episode
thirty six, The Madman's Tail. The day before we were
to light the spark of a gang war, we needed
to be ghosts. We abandoned our room and paid a
few coppers to disappear into the anonymous misery of a
public flophouse. It was the lowest rung of the gutters,
a large, stinking common room where the city's dregs came
to cough, shiver, and die on lice ridden straw palettes.
Speaker 2: The air was thick with the smell of cheap gin
and despair. It was the perfect place to be forgotten.
We sat in a dark corner or so quietly reviewing
the final details of his plan, the rest of us
lost in our own thoughts. The only sound was the
leet rattling chorus of a dozen consumptive coughs. We were
focused on the immediate, gritty reality of our mission, on survival,
on revenge. That's when the Madman stumbled in. He was
a skeleton, draped in the tattered, filthy robes of a
sea acolyte, his eyes burning with a fever that had
long since cooked his sanity. He shivered uncontrollably, clutching a small,
smooth ivory icon in his fist like it was the
only thing anchoring him to the world. He wasn't speaking
to anyone in particular, just raving to the uncaring shadows gold,
he rasped, his voice of dry crackle. They polished the
floors with it. A secret treasury hidden behind a face
of stone, he staggered, catching himself on a post. I've
seen it. The cellars of wine, deeper than any hell,
enough to drown an army. Stigand, who had been half asleep,
perked up at the mention of wine.
Speaker 1: What's that?
Speaker 2: An army of drunks. The acolyte's feverish eyes landed on us.
He saw our weapons, our hard faces, and mistook us
for an opportunity. He lurched over to our corner, the
abbey of the Stern Visage, he hissed, his breath. Foul,
that's the name. A fortress of gold, disguised as a
house of prayer. They cast me out, killed the others
because we knew the secret or so didn't even look
up from the map he was scratching in the dirt.
Pay him no mind, he said, his voice flat with
dismissal fever dreams. A provincial abbey like that would be
lucky to own a single silver cup, let alone a treasury.
It's illogical. The madman was insistent. He shoved the Ivory
icon toward my face. It's real. I swear it on
the visage itself. This is their mark, their key. His
shouting was beginning to draw attention the one thing we
couldn't afford. My patience, already worn thin by days of
servitude and scheming, finally snapped. Shut your mouth, old man,
I snarled, getting to my feet. You'll bring the watch
down on all of us with your noise. I nodded
to Stiggant, get him out of here. Stigin rose, not
with anger, but with a weary sigh. He grabbed the
acolyte by his thin shoulders and began to haul him
toward the door like a sack of garbage. As he
was being dragged away, the man's hand opened slightly. I
saw the flash of ivory in the dim light, the severe,
judgmental face of the carving. For a heartbeat, the hair
on my arms stood up. It was the same, the
same as the icon I had taken from the pilgrim,
the one now tucked deep in my own pack. The
feeling was a cold spike of something familiarity, coincidence. Stiggins
shoved the madman out into the alley, and the door
slammed shut, cutting off his fading curses.
Speaker 1: I pushed the thought away.
Speaker 2: It was just a common religious token, nothing more a coincidence.
We had a real plan, a real path to coin
and power. We had a war to start. We had
no time for ghost stories. The scum Kings, created and
written by Mike Daltrey, usowed thirty seven a gift for
the Red Hands. The night air and the gutters was
cold and heavy, with the smell of the river and
the rot of a thousand miserable lives. This was not
a night for a brawl. This was a night for ghosts,
and we were about to become them. We moved through
the labyrinthine alleys, a silent procession of shadows. It was
Brynn who led us. Trapped in the city, she had
been a caged, sullen thing, but here in the darkness
she was reborn. The shadows were just a different kind
of forest to her. She didn't walk, She flowed her feet,
making no sound. On the slick cobblestones. The rest of us,
even me, were clumsy bulls crashing through a world of glass.
Without her we would have been caught a dozen times.
She led us to the abandoned tannery, a skeletal ruin
on the banks of the sluggish Black River. We took
up positions in the deep shadows of a crumbling wall,
overlooking a small, secluded courtyard, and we waited. The silence
began to wear on Stigant. He was a man of action,
and this quiet, patient scheming was a language he didn't understand.
He shuffled his feet and leaned over to Orso, his
voice a low, confused growl. Or So, what's the score here,
he whispered, We steal their blades? What good does that
do us? Can we even turn them into coppers?
Speaker 1: Who are we arming?
Speaker 2: Or So didn't take his eyes off the empty courtyard.
We aren't keeping the blades, stigand he hissed, his voice
full of a cold, weary patience. We are making them disappear.
Think for a moment, who in the gutters has the power,
the men, and the sheer arrogance to blatantly take an
entire crate of steel who would dare. Stigand was quiet
for a long moment, the gears turning slowly in his
head Silas he finally grunted exactly. Or So replied, The
Red Hands will find their create gone, and their minds
will jump to the only possible suspect. Silas will deny
it and assume the Red Hands are inventing a story
to start a fight. Their own hatred will do the
rest for us. We are not stealing weapons to night
stigand we are stealing their peace. Before Stigand could ask
another question, we heard them, the Red Hands. They were sloppy,
talking in loud whispers as they carried a heavy wooden
crate into the courtyard. They dropped it with a heavy thud,
covered it with a ragged piece of oilcloth, and left
two men to stand a lazy watch. They settled in
for a long, boring watch. From our hiding place, I
saw Orso's jaw titan. This was a complic Our window
to act was not opening. It was Bryn who solved it.
She was a coiled shadow beside me. I can move them,
she whispered, her voice, a bare rustle of sound. Before
I could even nod, she had melted back into the
deeper darkness of the alley.
Speaker 1: We waited.
Speaker 2: A minute passed, Then from across street, a good fifty
paces away, came a sudden crash of shattering pottery, followed
by a man's angry, drunken shout and a woman's convincing scream.
It was the perfect soundscape of a petty crime in progress,
a drunk rolling a whore, an easy score. The two
red handguards looked at each other, their boredom instantly replaced
by a greedy, predatory interest. I saw them hesitate, a brief,
silent argument passing between them. The promise of some easy
coin and brutal fun won out. Confident their hidden stash
was safe for a few minutes, they drew their blaze
aides and jogged off towards the sound of the disturbance
Bryn had created. Now, or so hissed. Brynn had bought
us our window. It was small and it would not
stay open for long. Stiggand and I moved in. The
crate was heavy, but the big Northman lifted it with
a grunt, his muscle straining. We didn't open it, we
didn't inspect it. We simply took it. A silent act
of piracy in the heart of the city, and vanished
back into the darkness. We dropped the crate and the
stinking river, joining corpses, shit and urine. Our work was done.
As we walked back. Or So allowed himself a thin,
satisfied smile. The spark is lit, he whispered. The war
had started, and all it had cost us was a
quiet night's work.
Speaker 1: The Scum Kings created and written by Mike Daltrey, Episode
thirty eight, The Kindling Burns.
Speaker 2: The morning air was cool, but the gutters were already
starting to stink as the sun warmed the previous day's filth.
We were perched on the flat, tarred roof of a
derelict flophouse, a king and his court looking down on
their new, unwitting kingdom. We weren't waiting for a score.
We were waiting for a war. The waiting was a
special kind of torment for stiggand he paced the small
rooftop like a caged bear. Nothing, he grumbled, staring down
at the waking slum. We steal their trinkets and nothing happens.
We should have just killed them all, Patience, or So said,
without taking his eyes off the alleys below. He was
as still as a gargoyle, his face a mask of
cold concentration. He was watching his experiment, waiting for the
first sign of a reaction. I watched with him, a new,
strange feeling churning in my gut. It was a feeling
of power, but it was a cold and distant thing.
The old me, the one who lived in the wilderness,
would have been down there, axe in hand, taking what
I wanted. But Orso's poison had taken root. I was
learning that the man who starts the fire sometimes has
more power than the flames. The reaction came just after
the morning rush had begun to fill the market square.
It started with a shout, then another. A group of
a dozen men, tattered red sound ashes tied around their arms,
stormed into the square.
Speaker 1: They moved with.
Speaker 2: The raw, angry energy of a mob. They weren't trying
to be quiet. They wanted an audience. Their target was
a merchant manning one of the larger stalls. Look at that,
Stiggin growled his hand, gripping the empty space on his
belt where his axe would normally be a proper fight
We should be down there. He took a step toward
the edge of the roof, his whole body tense with
the urge to join the fray. I grabbed his arm,
my grip like iron. No, he turned on me, his
eyes blazing. Let go of me, Dre. That's a battle,
and we are not soldiers in it. Stigand I said,
my voice, low and hard. We are the men who
gave them a reason to die. Now watch our work.
He stared at me for a long moment, his chest heaving,
before slowly, grudgingly he relaxed Down below. The scene exploded
into chaos. The Red Hands overturned the stall, sending piles
of expensive goods onto the filthy ground. They beat the
merchant senseless while his two hired guards tried to intervene.
It was a messy, brutal brawl, all wild swings and
furious shouts. It was exactly the kind of stupid, pointless
violence or so had planned on. The fight ended as
quickly as it began. The Red Hands were more numerous
and more savage. One of the guards went down with
a knife in his gut. The other fled. The Red
Hands didn't pursue. They had what they wanted. One of
them stood over the dead guard raised his bloody blade
for all to see and screamed a name for the
whole market to hear. Silas, they kicked over what was
left of the stall and retreated, leaving the body sprawled
in the middle of the square as a clear, bloody message.
The gutters erupted into an uproar of screams and panic.
The Cold War was over. Orso, who had watched the
entire scene with a calm, clinical detachment, turned to me
a thin, satisfied smile, touched his scarred lips. The kindling
has caught, he whispered, Now we watch it burn.
Speaker 1: The scum Kings created and written by Mike Daltrey, Episode
thirty nine.
Speaker 2: The Fallout. The next morning, the Gutters woke to blood.
The body of the Merchant's guards still lay in the
market square where the Red Hands had left him, a
bloody public statement, but it was joined by more bodies.
While we slept Silas wreeked some element of revenge, and
the Red Hands responded. The usual morning chaos of shouting
vendors and jostling crowds was gone, replaced by the commerce
of violence. Doors were barred, stalls were shuddered. The air
was a powder keg, and we were the ones who
had lit the fuse. We walked through the silent streets,
a tour of our own handiwork. It was a heady feeling,
more potent than any ale, to be the ghost in
the machine, the unseen hand pushing the giant pieces of
this city into conflict. This was a power greater than
a strong axe arm. I'm not just reacting anymore. We
were shaping our world. I saw the effects everywhere. Silas's
enforcers walked in larger groups, their chests puffed out with
their new arrogance, believing the Red Hands were now reacting
to them. And in the shadows of the alleys we
saw them, the Red Hands gathered in tight, angry knots
of men, the glint of whetstones on steel flashing in
the gloom. They were sharpening their blades, their faces grim
with the promise of more blood to come. Dicks was
in his element. He walked with a light, dancing step,
his smile wider and more unsettling than ever. He was
practically vibrating with joy. Look at them, he whispered to me,
his voice giddy as he gestured toward a group of
terrified merchants bolting their doors. They're all holding their breath.
It's wonderful. It's like the moment right before you tell
a really, really good joke. He was feeding on the paranoia,
drinking the fear in the air like fine wine. In
the chaos we had created, he was the only one
who felt truly at home. We ended up back at
the Crooked Keg. We were no longer unwelcome. Our presence
was now tolerated, a known, if unpleasant part of the scenery.
We had just ordered a round of ale, paid for
with stigans winnings. When Corvin walked in. He didn't have
his army of enforcers this time. He came alone, moving
with the same quiet confidence as before. He walked directly
to our table and sat down. Uninvited this business with
the red hands, he said, his voice a low murmur.
It stirred the nest, made the rats show their faces.
You seem pleased, I replied, still not understanding Corvin's goal
in approaching us. Indeed, we knew they were not to
be trusted, and this reveals it. Selain broke in, playing
her role perfectly. How are they not to be trusted?
Word is that Silas stole their shipment. Corvin turned to her,
his eyes dark. The word is wrong. The Red Hands
staged this theft to shift the power of sentiment against us,
but what they really did was reveal the depth of
their treachery. He looked at me, his eyes sharp and appraising,
which brings me to you. Silas is pleased. He sees
potential in your crew. You're direct, brutal. He has a
use for that. He slid a small, folded piece of
parchment across the table. The Red Hands are panicking. Their
leaders are arguing amongst themselves. One of them, a lieutenant
named Phelon, is smart enough to bring them mortar. That's
a problem for us. Silas wants that problem solved. I
picked up the parchment. It wasn't a request, It was
an order, an assassination contract. Make it look like a
street robbery gone wrong, Corvin said, standing up, behave. Don't
bring any more chaos to my doorstep than is necessary.
He turned and left. I looked down at the name
on the parchment. Corvin thought he was giving us a command,
promoting us to the role of his trusted assassins. He
had no idea. He was just reading from a script
that Orso had written. He was handing us a knife
and pointing us at the throat of his enemy, believing
he controlled the hand that held it. We had just
been given a license to escalate the war we had started,
and we were going to be paid for it. The
Scum Kings a broad Sword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey, Episode forty, the Second Front. The order
to kill Phelan was a sharp, clean thing, a clear objective,
but the gutters are never that simple. The next morning,
before we could even begin to formulate a plan, the
Red Hands made their own move. It wasn't the frontal
assault I had expected. There was no pitched battle in
the alleys. It was something different, something smarter. We saw
the first evidence in the market square, a weavers stall,
one known to pay a heavy tax to Silas, was
a heap of smoking, black, charred timbers. The owner was
weeping in the street. An hour later, news came that
a cart of cheap ale belonging to Silas had been ambushed,
its barrel smashed and its contents poured into the filth
of the gutter. The guards left beaten but alive. Back
in our room, Stiggin was delighted. Ha good for them,
he boomed, A proper fight is coming. I was less certain.
It felt chaotic, unfocused. This wasn't how a war was won.
You all think like thugs. The voice was Silins. She
was standing by our single, grimy window, looking down at
the street, where people were scurrying with a new urgency.
You see a brawl, she continued, turning to face us,
her gray eyes cold and analytical.
Speaker 1: You're wrong.
Speaker 2: This isn't about blood, It's about coin. This is economic warfare.
I stared at her, not understanding. She let out a short,
impatient sigh, the sound of a master explaining us simple
concept to a room full of fools. The Red Hands
know they can't beat Silas's enforcers in a straight fight.
Corvin's men are too disciplined, so they aren't attacking the soldiers.
They're attacking the kingdom. Every merchant who pays Silas for
protection is a part of his treasury. The Red Hands
just prove that protection is worthless. She walked to the
center of the room, her presence suddenly commanding. If the
merchants get scared and stop paying their tax, Silas's entire
operation collapses. He has no income, he can't pay his men,
his power evaporates. They aren't trying to break his bones, Dray,
They are trying to break his business. They're not trying
to win a street fight. They are trying to cut
his throat. In the Ledger book, her words hung in
the air, a chilling new perspective on the conflict. She
saw a lair to this war that the rest of
us were blind to. It wasn't just a battle of muscle,
It was a battle of finance. A frantic pounding on
our door interrupted her lesson. One of Silas's low level
thugs burst in his face, pale and slick with sweat.
He didn't have the calm arrogance of Corvin's usual messengers.
He was terrified. Silas wants you, he stammered, all of
you now to the gambling den, a war council. He
fled as quickly as he had arrived. I looked at Orso.
He gave a single, slow nod, a thin, satisfied smile
on his lips. The calm, confident machine that Silas had
built was beginning to shake apart. The red hands were
bleeding his wallet, and now he was panicking, or so
spark had found the kindling. Now the King of the
gutter was calling for his most vicious, most deniable blades
to help him put out the fire. We had just
been invited to the heart of the conflagration we had created.