Speaker 1: The scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey. Chapter fifty eight, The Scent of Prey.
Speaker 2: The dawn was a cold, gray wound in the sky,
and it promised nothing but another day of the same
grinding misery. We were huddled in a crevice, seven ghosts
trying to share the body heat of a corpse. The
wind was a constant physical assault, and the hunger. The
hunger was no longer a dull ache. It was a
living thing, a predator with its teeth in our guts
stigand was a statue of silent agony. His burnt hands
cradled in his lap cobs weeping had subsided into a low, constant,
animal like whimper. And or So or So was sharpening
his knife, shick, shick. The sound was the only clock
in our hopeless world, a rhythmic, grating reminder of his logic,
of my failure. It was the sound of I told
you so, over and over. Brynn was gone. She had
slipped out before the sun had even touched the horizon,
a phantom of desperate hope on a final, pointless hunt.
Now we were just waiting, waiting for her to return
with nothing, so we could finally give up, lie down,
and let the wind have us. The sun was past
its zenith when I saw a flicker of movement on
the ridge above. It was her. She didn't walk back
into camp. She appeared a shadow detaching itself from the
gray rock. The crew, too beaten to even look up,
didn't move. They expected nothing, But I saw it. I
saw her face. The dead, frustrated look she had worn
for days was gone. Her eyes, her eyes were alive.
They were bright, feral, and fixed on me with a terrifying,
single minded intensity. This was not the look of a
defeated scout. This was the look of a wolf that
has just found the scent of blood. The shick, shick
shick of Orso's knife stopped. The camp was dead, silent.
Every eye was on her. She didn't waste a word.
Her voice was electric with a new energy. Camp three
miles a box canyon stigand raised his head, his voice
a raw croak. Goats, soldiers, she said. The word landed
like a stone, cob led out a high, terrified whine,
stuffing his fist into his mouth. Soldiers, see soldiers, No, no, no,
kill us all We're dead. Or So was already shaking
his head, his face a mask of grim, cold logic.
Soldiers in these mountains. He looked at me, his eyes hard.
It's a patrol or a trap. They're not merchants, Drey,
they're professionals, and we are half dead. We leave them,
We go around. Brian ignored them both. Her focus was
on me, five of them. She continued, laying out the
facts with the lethal precision of a hunter, describing a
kill horses, three full supply packs heavy. They're not a patrol.
They're mapping cartographers, she pointed. They're in a box canyon,
one way in, one way out. Two men on watch.
But they're lazy. They're soldiers, playing at being explorers. They
feel safe. She was right. Or So was wrong. This
wasn't a patrol, This was a prize. Dre Orso said,
his voice a low, urgent warning. Listen to me. We
are in no condition to fight farmers, let alone five
armed and armored sea soldiers. We are wounded, we are starving.
They will be disciplined. It's a fool's errand we wait.
We go around. Selaine nodded in agreement, her face pale.
He's right. The risk is too high. It's suicide. I
looked at or So's sensible, logical, starving plan. I looked
at the crew, a collection of broken bones and shattered hopes.
I looked at Stiggand, who was now watching me a
desperate animal. Hope rekindled in his eyes. The abbey was
a fantasy. This was real. The food in those packs
was real. The horses that could carry us were real.
We couldn't get to the abbey. We couldn't get anywhere.
This wasn't a choice between logic and madness anymore. This
was a choice between dying on our feet or dying
on our knees. I was done being a victim. I
was done waiting. I stood up, my legs shaking, but
my will forged new and hard as iron. I looked
at Orso, then at the rest of them. We're starving,
I said, my voice, low and hard. They have food,
they have horses.
Speaker 1: They are in our way.
Speaker 2: I drew my sword. The sound of it leaving the sheath,
a long, cold shing of steel, was the sound of
a final decision. We're taking it