Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey. Chapter forty five, The Return of a Friend.
It's been floating for hours. The sun is low, hidden
behind a ceiling of leaden clouds. The river is a flat,
gray snake winding through endless woods. The cold is settling in.
My fingers are numb. It's not just the cold, it's
the wet cold. My legs dangling in the water to
stabilize this pile of trash feel like dead wood. Stigging'
is shivering so hard the raft vibrates. Dix has stopped singing.
He's curled into a ball on the center barrel, staring
at nothing. Slaine and Orso are watching the bank, and
the hounds are watching us. They are still there. We
can't see them.
Speaker 2: Or So claims the main force remained behind and they
just have a single tracker following our progress. But I
don't believe him. I know they're out there in the woods,
ready for us to make one mistake. We can fight them,
I say, It's the tenth time I've said it. We
paddle to the far bank. I continue trying to inject
some fire into my voice. We beach this thing. We
find a defensible position in the rocks, we we die,
or So cuts me off. He doesn't even look at me,
either now or when the tracker returns with men, Dre.
We have no armor, no bows. You want to charge
a patrol of twenty armored men with wooden slats. It's
better than this, I snarl. It's better than freezing to
death on a floating door. Bit you, dre. Your stench
is the best defense we have, and that won't stop them.
I turn to look at Selaine. She didn't say it
as a joke, which makes me all the more angry.
Nothing is going to happen. I stand up. The raft lurches,
water sloshes over my feet. We are kings. We do
not die like rats in a bucket. We sit down, dre,
or so says tired, dismissive. I am giving an order.
You're rocking the boat. Stare at him, my second, my general.
He's not looking at me with respect or fear or
even anger. He's looking at me like I'm a nuisance,
a child throwing a tantrum. I am not the king anymore.
I am just noise. Sink back down onto the wet wood.
I am a poor man, stiggand big, useless, And if
I'm not killing something, I'm just taking up space. We
drift the narrows approach. The current picks up, the water churns,
white foam appearing around the raft. The raft may not
hold or so grips his paddle, get ready to swim.
I can't stick. Int whispers. Then a sound from up
river behind us, a rhythmic splash, creek, splash, creek. We turn.
Boat appears cutting through the gray water. Not a raft,
a ship, a river cutter, sleek and low with a
furled sail and six oars biting the water in perfect unison.
It's moving fast, faster than the current, faster than us.
Looks like the hounds decided not to wait after all,
Selaine says. Her hand goes to the knife at her belt.
The cutter sweeps toward us. It's going to ram us.
It's going to smash our pathetic raft into kindling and
drown us. All. I hold the gold ingots like blunt cudgels.
If this is the end, I will at least use
our riches for something. The boat looms over us, Shadows
fall across the raft, hard to starboard. A voice shouts.
The cutter swings it pulls alongside us with a spray
of cold water. I look up at the gunwall. Two
women stand there. They wear leather armor, practical and scarred.
They hold crossbows leveled at our chests. They don't look
like hounds, they look like professionals. Between them, stepping up
to the rail is a figure in a wolf fur cloak.
She pushes back her hood, green eyes, wild hair, a
face hard as flint brin. My mouth falls open. She
looks down at us, at the sinking raft, at the filth,
at the shivering, pathetic mess of the scum kings. She
doesn't smile. You look terrible. She says, you came back.
Gigs whispers I needed a crew, She says, Get on.
Women lower a rope ladder. We scramble a shove stiggand
toward the ladder.
Speaker 1: Go move.
Speaker 2: He hauls himself up, grunting. Selaine follows, nimble as a spider.
Gik scampers up like a monkey. I climb last. I
tumble over the rail and hit the deck. It's solid, dry,
It smells of pine, pitch and oil. I look up.
Or So is standing next to Brynn. He's looking at
the rigging, at the tiller, at the crew of women
who are already rushing to reset the oars. He nods
to Bryn, acknowledging, respecting she's fast. He says she is.
Brynn replies, we should head for the coast. We can
lose ourselves there and melt down. Dre's ingots. Brynn looks
at him, unmoving her jaw set. We should do what
I order we do. Or So stares at her and
then nods his head. I Captain, what can we do?
She barks, in order to her women, then turns back
to Orso. For now, stay out of the way. A
woman brings us blankets, and or So leads us to
surprisingly large cabin below decks. Bryn nods at him as
we pass. I get it. They are a unit. Two
leaders or So, the mind and deputy, and Brin the captain,
and I I am sitting below decks in my underwear, shivering.
At least we escaped. I think Cob is probably happier
than he's ever been, cooking for a four that has
plenty of food and ingredients. Bria has a ship and crew,
and we are safe and comfortable. If not warm. But
as soon as I take comfort in that, the thought
leaves my mind. The scum kings didn't escape. The scum
kings died in that town. What's left is something else,
something harder, something colder. And I am no longer its king.
I am just one of the scum. I lean back
against the hardwood of the hull, I close my eyes,
and we sail into the fog.