Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey. Chapter forty three, The gate opens.
Speaker 2: You walk to the river and the pier. It's on
the other side of the city, and the walk is silent.
Or So doesn't say anything. He keeps his eyes straight
and just marches ahead so fast I struggle to keep
up without jogging. There's a loud crash from behind, and
I know that the gate is open. Or So keeps
a steady pace. I expect the shout of soldiers, the
screams of dying citizens, the clang of swords. I hear nothing. Silence,
then cheering, not the roar of a battle, one the
sound of relief. They aren't fighting, I whisper, of course not.
Or So finally says they weren't escaping or leaving to fight.
He pauses. They were letting the hounds in. I imagine
it the gate's opening, the hounds rushing in, not with
swords drawn, but with wagons of bread. No, some of
them would have swords, the ones looking for the scum Kings.
You pass the pile of dirty gold, and I stop.
Or So keeps walking for a bit, but then stops
and turns. Don't even think of it. The boat will
barely hold us, let alone a pile of cursed gold.
I walk over and grab a gold bar. I show
it to Orso. This, this priceless collection of gold, enough
to pay for a hundred hound armies. It's mine. I
think I'm screaming, but I may be whispering. Or So
walks back to me. I earned it, I'm taking it.
You're not, Drey. He puts his hand on his shoulder
and squeezes. I should have forced you to make this
decision weeks ago. He nods towards the gold. It's the
gold or us, and without saying anything else, he lets
go of my shoulder, turns and walks towards the pier.
I look at the gold, enough to pay a hundred
hound armies. Or So he stop, turns, looks. We can
bribe the hounds with the gold, give them enough to
join us and not fight us. That's not how it works, Dray,
And with what appears to be a sad shake of
his head, he turns a final time and walks away.
I have an idea. I unbuckle my sword sheath. If
we're fleeing, we're not fighting. I strip out of my
filthy armor and let it fall to the ground. I
even take off my boots. I shed every bit of
weight and honor other than my under garments. Now lighter
than I have been for as long as I can remember.
Catch up to Orso and match strides next to him.
He glances at me, and then glances again. He stares
at me and then laughs loud and full. It's the
most joyful thing I'd heard in weeks. It's laughter aimed
at me, and I don't even mind. You look like
that beggar that tried to knife you in the back
and back and gate. Hopefully things will work out better
for me than him. It look good in rags, you
look good covered in women, and that's never happened before either.
We both laugh, and it feels like something has changed.
I don't know what it is, and it isn't quite natural,
but it feels good. We have the same goal and
we're moving toward it. Perhaps that's what it is. Perhaps
we're just walking and that simplicity is allowing our friendship
to shine again. Or some nods toward the ingots in
my hand. You know, you could have kept the armor
and slid a few gold coins in your belt, and
no one would have been the wiser. That's the difference
between us. Or So. You dream practical and I dream big.
Speaker 1: Or So.
Speaker 2: It turns away and I can tell his mood has soured.
What did I say? Did I do something? I desperately
want our friendly banter to return, for things to be
back the way they were before. I stride up closer
to him and nudge his shoulder. Except with women, you
always dreamed big with women. A grin, But or So
just keeps walking.