Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey.
Speaker 2: Chapter thirty two, The Rift or So isn't talking to me.
He's not hiding. I see him every day. He's on
the walls cleaning his crossbow. He's by the gate checking
the timber brace I wedged there. He's in the courtyard
sharpening his knife. But he's not seeing me. When I
walk past, he doesn't look up. When I ask for
a report, he gives me one word quiet, nothing fine.
It's worse than the yelling. I can handle yelling. I
can handle him telling me I'm an idiot. But this,
this silence, is something else. It feels like he's already gone.
Like Selaine find him on the south wall. He's looking
out at the river, watching the empty water.
Speaker 1: Or So.
Speaker 2: I say. He doesn't turn. What's happening? He takes a
long time to answer. He picks at a splinter on
the railing. You're happening, Dre, What does that mean? He
just shrugs. It's a small, careless movement, a movement that
says it doesn't matter. He walks away. I consider his attitude.
He's a man who has been beside me for a
long time. We've hit the highest highs and the lowest
lows together. I consider him a friend. So why is
he avoiding me? Is he planning something? Did he open
the gate? Is he waiting for the right moment to
put a bolt in my back? Is he the one
that is waiting to betray me? Or is it simpler?
Does he hate me? Later? I find him in the barracks.
He's sitting on his cot, oiling the trigger mechanism of
his bow. The smell of oil and old sweat is
thick in the room. Or So he doesn't move look
at me when I'm talking to you, I say, he
keeps oiling the trigger. I'm the leader of this pack,
or So, I am the king of this town. You
are my second. You are here to give me advice,
to help me plan still nothing. If you won't do that,
I snap, kicking the leg of his cot, then what
good are you? Or so stops. He sets the crossbow
down gently. He wipes his oily hands on a rag.
Then he looks up. His eyes are dead, not angry,
not afraid, just empty, like a well that's gone dry.
You've ignored every drop of advice I've given you for
the past month, he says, longer since the tangle. I listened.
You didn't listen, You ignored, You waited for me to
stop talking so you could do what you were going
to do.
Speaker 1: Anyway.
Speaker 2: You don't want advice, Dre, You want an echo. He
stands up. He's not a big man, not like Stiggand,
but right now he feels heavy solid. You want advice,
he asks, Here's the last piece I'll ever give you.
Think about what you feel is the best path forward,
what your gut tells you to do, what your instinct
screams is the right move. He leans in close, and
then do the exact opposite. He picks up his crossbow.
For now, just leave me alone. He walks past me,
showering me aside, not violently, just like I'm an obstacle,
a piece of furniture in a room he's trying to leave.
I stand there in the empty barracks. I want to
scream at him. I want to order him back. I
want to threaten him with treason. But I don't because
I know he won't care. He'll follow orders, he'll stand watch,
he'll shoot anyone who tries to kill me. He'll die
from me. Probably, but he won't talk to me. He's
checked out. I sit down on his cot. It smells
like oil. I am truly alone.