Speaker 1: The scum Kings created and written by Mike Daltrey, Episode eleven,
The One Eyed Priest.
Speaker 2: The shrine was a pathetic sight, a small, three sided
hut of stacked stones with a leaky, thatched roof. We
watched it from the woods for an hour. The shame
of our mission a palpable thing. My gut was still
settled from the feast, but my mind was restless, disgusted
by this new low. It's one old man, stig And
grumbled for the third time, cracking his knuckles. He stared
at the shrine like it was a personal insult. We
walk in, take the box, and we're eating whatever he
has for dinner by sundown. Why are we hiding in
the bushes like frightened rabbits? Or so didn't even look
at him, his eyes fixed on the target. He was
scratching a detailed map in the dirt with a twig.
Because the farm was a mess, stiggand it was a
chaotic brawl that left us bruised. A silent blade is
always better than a loud axe. The goal here is
not the box. The goal is the coin from the box,
acquired without the entire countryside knowing our business. We need
him to wake up tomorrow and wonder if Spirits took
his money not to give a perfect description of your
ugly face to the first Sea Patrolly finds. Orso's cold
logic was undeniable. I couldn't stomach another clumsy, pathetic fight
that relied on luck. We do it Orso's way, I
said my voice, leaving no room for argument. This will
be clean. His plan was simple misdirection, Koe Orso said,
pointing his twig at the sullen man. You'll be our
lost traveler. You've been separated from your master. Approach from
the south. Get him to come out and keep him talking.
Point down the road, make him turn his back. Kyle's
face soured at being given the job of a decoy,
but he gave a curt resentful nod. Brynn or So
continued his gaze, shifting to her. The moment his back
is turned, you go in. You move like smoke, Get
the box, don't make a sound, and melt back into
the trees. The rest of us watch if anything goes wrong.
We fade no confrontation. But he'll know my face, Cale objected,
when he sees the box missing, he'll know I was
part of it, and then he'll have the patrol or
whatever person stumbles upon him looking for two people, not
a well armed group like us. I can give your
face a scar to better hide your visage, DICKX added,
tapping the flat of his sharp dagger against the palm
of his head, and Kayle wisely kept his mouth shut.
After that, we waited until the sun was low, casting
long shadows that would drink the light on Orso's signal.
Kayle stepped out from the tree line, his shoulders slumped
to sell the part of a weary traveler. We saw
the priest, a wiry man with a milky eye, look
up from tending a tiny patch of herbs.
Speaker 3: Kle played his part well enough.
Speaker 2: His voice drifted on the still air, asking for directions
to a market town two days ride from here. The
priest seemed wary at first, his one good eye squinting
with suspicion, but Kayle's story was simple enough to be believable.
The old man, leaning on his cane, eventually pointed down
the road, turning his back fully to the shrine's open
front as he spoke at length about the path ahead.
It was the perfect distraction. A shadow detached itself from
the north side of the woods. Bryn she was a phantom,
her feet making no sound on the dry leaves. She
flowed across the clearing and slipped into the dark maw
of the shrine, completely unseen. My gut clenched. The silence stretched,
feeling longer than the entire day we had spent starving.
I watched the priest, still talking. I watched the dark
doorway any second now inside the hut, Brind's eyes adjusted
to the gloom. She saw the donation box under a small,
rough hewn altar. It was heavier than it looked. She
gave it a careful tug. It didn't budge. She knelt,
running her fingers along its base and felt the cold,
unyielding iron of a chain bolted fast to the stone floor.
She was trapped by the problem. She couldn't make noise,
but she couldn't leave the prize outside. The priest finally
clapped Kyle on the shoulder. May the visage guide your steps, son, Kle,
his duty done, grunted and began to trudge off down
the road. The old man turned back to his hut.
From within, Brynn knew she was out of time. She
couldn't risk prying the chain. She had to abort. She tensed,
preparing to slip back out the way. She came a ghost,
leaving no trace. But the priest did not amble back inside.
He stopped at the entrance and stood perfectly still for
a long moment. He seemed to be listening to something
no one else could hear. Cale his job done had
already disappeared down the road. The clearing was silent. The
priest spoke, but not to himself. His voice was calm, conversational,
yet it carried with an unnatural clarity to our hiding
place in the woods. You can stop tugging now, little mouse,
he said to the empty doorway. The lock is old,
but the chain is new. The stern visage is not
so careless with its treasures. Inside the hut in froze,
her blood turning to ice. He knew he had known
she was in there the entire time. The old man
slowly turned his head, and his one good, dark eye
seemed to pierce the veil of the forest, ignoring the
trees and shadows, to stare directly into my own. There
was no guess work in his gaze. It was a
look of absolute, otherworldly certainty. His milky eye remained blank.
But the good One saw everything. This was his gift.
He had not been fooled by Cale's distraction. He had
been studying it, dissecting it, using it to pinpoint the
rest of us. The entire drama had been for his benefit.
He raised his voice slightly so there could be no
mistake who he was speaking to. The performance is over.
Your friend was a dreadful actor. He paused, a cruel smile,
touching his lips. You can all come out now. The
plan was not just in ashes. It had been a
foolish illusion from the start. We had been played. Our brilliant,
silent plan was a child's game to him. My face
burned with a humiliation that was hotter than any rage.
To be outfought is one thing. To be so thoroughly
outthought by a one eyed priest in a mud brick hovel,
that was an insult that could not stand. All of
Orsou's careful planning, all of Bryn's skill, all for nothing.
We were exposed, mocked, and our prize was still chained
to the floor, guarded by the man who had just
then maade us with a few quiet words. I looked
at Stigan. The confusion was gone from his eyes. There
was no need for cons or tricks any more. The
situation was simple, again, reduced to a language he understood perfectly.
His eyes were wide with the gleam of pure savage anticipation,
and they were locked on me, begging for the order.
There was only one move left to make. I gave
him a single shot arp nod. The Scum Kings created
and written by Mike Daltrey, Episode twelve. The mugging My
nod was all stig and needed. The leash was off
with a roar that was part rage, part pure joy.
The big Northman burst from the tree line. He moved
like an avalanche, his massive frame eating up the ground
to the small He didn't bother with the doorway. He
simply lowered his shoulder and hit the stone wall next
to it. The dry, stacked rocks groaned and burst inward
in a shower of dust and crumbling mortar. The old
Priest watched, his one good eye wide, gripping his cane
like a sword, as if waiting for the perfect moment
to strike. He was tough, I'll give him that. As
Stiggan charged through the newly made hole. The priest swung
his cane with surprising speed, cracking it hard against the
side of Stiggins's head. The blow would have felt a
lesser man on Stiggand it had all the effect of
a thrown pebble.
Speaker 3: It only made him angrier.
Speaker 2: He roared again, grabbed the priest by his frayed robes,
and hurled him into the hut. The old man slammed
into the far wall and crumpled to the floor in
a heap. The rest of us poured in after him,
a pack of wolves descending on a cornered rat. Clean
quiet plan was a forgotten dream. All that was left
was the hot, wet work of brute force.
Speaker 3: The box.
Speaker 2: I yelled, my voice raw with the humiliation the priest
had dealt us.
Speaker 3: Tear it out of the floor.
Speaker 2: The scene devolved into a frenzy of pathetic destruction. While
Orso and I pinned the priest down, Stiggan went to
work on the iron chain, kicking and stomping at the
bolt until the stone around it fractured and he could
rip the entire thing free. Gicks cackling started smashing the
shrine's meager contents. He kicked over the small cot, tore
down the shelves, and ground the priest's herbs into the
dirt with his heel. I let them. I wanted this
place unmade. I wanted every trace of our shame obliterated.
The priest fought back with a fanatic strength, spitting and
clawing his good eye, burning with a hate so pure
it was almost holy. Or so ever, the pragmatist silenced
him with a sharp blow from a sword pond The
old man went limp, a low groan, escaping his lips. Finally,
Stigan wrenched the box free with a triumphant roar, holding
it aloft like a champion's trophy. The rampage subsided, leaving
us all panting in the ruined, dusty hovel. Selaine stepped forward,
pushing Stiggins's jubilant hands away. This was her domain. She
took the box, laid it on the floor, and with
the claw end of a hammer we'd taken from the farm,
she went to work on the lock. With a final
sharp crack, the lid popped open. Silence fell. All eyes
were on her. The entire reason for this ugly, shameful
affair was in that box. Slowly, Selaine reached inside. She
turned her hand over, opening her palm for us to
see six copper spokes and a small, crudely stamped wood
and tin icon of the stern visage. That was it,
That was everything. The air went out of us, all
that planning, all that risk, all this rage and violence,
for six coppers, enough to buy a single loaf of
stale bread. A sound from the floor cut through our
stunned silence, a weak, wet, gurgling noise.
Speaker 3: The priest was stirring. He pushed himself up.
Speaker 2: On one elbow, his face a mask of blood and bruises,
his milky eye swollen shut. He looked at the pathetic
treasure in Selaine's hand, then at my face, then at
the ruin of his life's work around him, and he
began to laugh. It started as a pained chuckle, then
grew into a full throated, defiant cackle, bubbling through the
blood in his mouth. He was beaten, broken, and had
lost everything, and he was laughing at us, laughing at
our grand victory, laughing at the scum king's who had
conquered his little patch of dirt for the price of
a beggar's meal.
Speaker 3: The scum Kings.
Speaker 1: Created and written by Mike Daltrey, Episode thirteen, A New Road.
Speaker 2: The Priest's laughter followed us all the way back to camp.
It was a wet, bloody sound, but it was stronger
than any fortress wall. It was the sound of our
own pathetic failure, and it echoed in the dead quiet
of the woods. No one spoke on the walk back.
What was there to say? Stiggins's rage was spent, leaving
him looking confused and sullen. Dix's smile was gone for once,
even he could find no humor in this. We had
descended to the absolute bottom, and we had been mocked
for it. Selaine still clutched the six copper spokes in
her fist, as if the worthless metal might turn to
gold if she squeezed it hard enough. It was the
sum total of our victory, the price of our dignity.
We reached the hollow, our miserable home, and the sight
of it, the smell of our old fires and stale fear,
was suddenly unbearable. This was the kingdom of the Priest's laughter.
We couldn't stay. We were drowning in our own shame.
Pack your things, I said, my voice a low rasp
that cut through the silence. Or So looked up his
face a mask of weary pragmatism, and go dre We
are ghosts in a forest that wants to bury us
anywhere but here, I snarled, kicking at the dirt. I
won't listen to that old bastard's laughter in my sleep.
We're done with this place. It's cursed. Or So nodded,
but then rooted around his pack and brought out the map.
It was a sad, fragile thing, a piece of cracked
leather with faded lines inked by a long, dead hand.
Much of it was blank, marked only with crude drawings
of beasts or cymbals for swampland we huddled around the map,
a congregation of the damned, for those of you who
can't think past your next meal. Or So began tapping
a nameless spot surround a desolation. We are here in
this God's forsaken rock pile called the Gray Tangle. Now
let's explore our magnificent options. His finger jabbed north. North
is the Muddy Fork River. Beyond that the towns in
the city that put a price on our heads after
our last bit of business. There so We are not
going north, unless you'd like to see your face on
a wanted poster. His finger slid west west, he said,
tapping a series of sharp, jagged lines. Are the stone
Fence mountains an impassable wall of solid rock unless one
of you has sprouted wings since breakfast. We are not
going west, he paused and looked directly at Stiggand now,
before you get an idea, I know what you're thinking.
There are not just mountains to the west. There is
the Brown Way. His finger traced a faint line running
parallel to the mountains far to the west. Yes, it's
out there. It is also the main artery of the
Radiant Sea. That means sea patrols. It means caravans with
professional guards who, unlike us, win their fights. It means
anyone who might remember our faces from the first caravan disaster.
Marching directly for the Brown Way is the quickest way
to get a crossbow bolt in your throat. Do you understand?
Stiggin just grunted so or so, continued, his voice dripping
with condescension. Not north, not west, not straight at the enemy.
What does that leave His finger dragged down into the
great empty looking expanse at the bottom of the map.
It leaves this He tapped, a barely visible dotted line.
This map shows an old road, forgotten by anyone with sense.
It was used to haul flint from the quarries in
these hills. It runs east and west, eventually connecting to
the Brown Way, far to the southwest of here. To
reach it, we don't go west. We go south. We
march away from everyone through this desolation until we hit
this pathetic track at its most isolated point. It is
the long way. It is the hard way. It is
the only way on this entire map that is not
explicitly suicidal. He looked up from the map, his sharp
eyes pinning each of us in place. He had laid
our pathetic lives bare on a piece of leather. Those
are our options, he finished, his voice, flat and final.
A rope in the north, a wall in the west,
a bolt in the neck if we're stupid, or a long,
miserable walk south. I stared at the map, at the inescapable,
brutal logic of it.
Speaker 3: He was right.
Speaker 2: We were rats in a box, and he had just
shown us the only crack to squeeze through.
Speaker 3: But do we go east? Or West.
Speaker 2: After we reached the road, it was the squeaky voice
of rat. Everyone looked at him. We have to reach
the road first, I finally said, my comment, a tacit
agreement that reaching it would be our next move. No
one argued what was there to argue about. In sullen silence,
gathered our things, We kicked dirt over the last of
our fires, and abandoned the hollow without a backwards glance.
The march South began, a silent procession defined by the cold,
hard lines of Orso's map.
Speaker 1: The scum Kings created and written by Mike Daltrey episode fourteen,
The Ambush The March South. It was its own kind
of hell. It was not the sharp, clean hell of battle,
but the slow, grinding hell of hopelessness.
Speaker 3: For four days we.
Speaker 2: Walked through the gray, skeletal woods, the priest's bloody laughter
a constant echo in my mind. The hunger returned a dull,
familiar ache. The six copper spokes in Selaine's purse felt
heavier than a sack of gold. Each won a testament
to our humiliation. The men didn't speak, They just walked,
their shoulders slumped, their eyes fixed on the dirt, a
silent shuffling procession of failures. On the fifth day, the
trees began to thin. The oppressive canopy of the tangle
gave way to flint strewn hills and hardy, windswept scrub.
And then we saw it, Just as Orso's crude map
had promised, there was a road. It was little more
than two pairs l ruts, carved into the dry earth,
overgrown with weeds and littered with loose stones. It was
clear no wagon had used it in years, but it
was a road. It was a sign that men had
once passed this way with purpose. It was the most
promising thing we had seen in weeks. The sight of
it put a sliver of steel back into the men's spines.
This will work, I said, and the kings knew what
I meant. We didn't waste time. This was what we
were good at. This was the one thing we knew
how to do. There, I said, pointing to a narrow
cut where the road passed between two rocky bluffs. A
perfect throat to slit or so knotted in agreement, classic
kill box, no room to maneuver. The work began. There
was a dead, leaning iron wood tree, on the edge
of the bluff. It took four of them, with Stigan
as the main engine, to put their shoulders into it.
With a great groan and the sharp crack of splintering wood,
the tree fell was a crude but effective barricade. We
took our positions. Brinn scrambled up to the highest point,
a silent lookout. I took my place with Stigan and
Gicks behind a cluster of boulders directly overlooking the barricade,
ready for the charge. The others fanned out, hiding themselves
in the rocks and scrub on either side. We settled
into wait. The sun climbed. The heat became a physical presence,
baking the rocks and shimmering off the dusty road. Flies buzzed,
lazy and persistent. The initial tense alertness of the ambush
began to fade, replaced by a sullen, familiar boredom. The
silence of the empty road was a heavy blanket, smothering
the fragile spark of hope we'd nurtured. Hours passed, the
sun reached its zenith and began its slow descent towards
the western mountains. My muscles ached from staying still, My
throat was dry. Doubt, a cold and creeping thing, began
to seep back into my bones. Orso's map had been
right about the road, But what if it was truly dead.
What if we had marched for days only to set
a perfect trap on a road no one ever traveled.
It was the shrine all over again, another grand plan
that would curdle into a pathetic failure. The sun touched
the horizon, painting the clouds and bruised colors of orange
and purple. The shadows grew long, the air began to
cool dre Orso's voice was a low murmur from beside me.
Nothing we should call it. In a small, pathetic acknowledgment
of hope, he added, Brynn can keep watch and alert
us from camp if she sees anything in the dark.
He was right. It was over, another day wasted. I
felt the familiar bitter taste of defeat in my mouth.
I opened my mouth to give the signal to release
the men from their vigil and retreat into another night
of hunger. A sharp hiss cut through the quiet. It
was Brinn. Every man froze. All eyes snapped to the
far end of the road, to the horizon, now painted
in the fading light. At first I saw nothing, then
a flicker, a dark speck, slowly, almost imperceptibly, growing larger.
It was a lone figure walking with a steady, unhurried pace,
walking right toward our trap. It wasn't a caravan, it
wasn't a patrol. It was just one person, but it
was something. It was prey. A wave of hot, predatory
focus washed through me, clearing away all the doubt and despair.
Speaker 3: The weight was over.
Speaker 1: The scum Kings created and written by Mike Daltrey, Episode fifteen,
A Hollow Victory. The black speck on the horizon resolved itself, slowly, painfully.
The fading sun was in our eyes, and for long
minutes the figure was just a dark shape moving through
a sea of shimmering heat. Hope and hunger made us
imagine a fat merchant, a knight on a fine horse,
a wagon full of goods.
Speaker 3: As it drew.
Speaker 2: Closer, the fantasy evaporated, leaving a bitter residence of disappointment.
It was an old man, that was all. He wore
the simple, dusty robes of a pilgrim, and leaned heavily
on a thick wooden walking staff. He moved with a slow,
steady rhythm, not of a man in a hurry, but
of a man who has been walking for a very
long time. There was a strange peace about him, a
serenity that seemed utterly out of place in this desolate landscape.
I heard a low groan of frustration from stiggand Gecks
chuckled softly, a dry, predatory sound. Not a knight, or so,
stated his voice flat. Not a merchant, no, I said,
watching the old man's steady approach.
Speaker 3: But he's here.
Speaker 2: He was our only prospect, our only chance, after days
of marching and a full day of starving in the sun.
We were not going to let him pass. It didn't
matter who he was. He was prey and we were
the wolves. He reached the felled tree that blocked the
road and stopped surveying it with an untroubled gaze. I
gave the signal from the rocks and the scrub we
rose as one, a sudden, silent irruption of dirty, desperate men.
Stiggined in Gicks on the road before him, or So
and Slaine to his flank, for in a silent shadow
on the rocks above, I stepped out behind him, cutting
off his retreat. We had him surrounded. The pilgrim did
not startle, he didn't cry out. He simply turned his eyes,
taking us all in. And in those eyes I saw
no fear. There was only a profound, weary sadness, as
if he had been expecting us his entire life. He
sighed a soft exhalation of breath and tightened his grip
on his walking staff, holding it like a quarter staff.
The fight, when it came, was short and ugly. Rat,
the young thief, was the first to rush him, eager
to prove his worth. The pilgrim moved with a surprising,
fluid grace. He sidestepped the boy's clumsy charge, and the
thick staff whipped around, cracking hard against Rat's knee. The
boy went down with a yelp of pain. Stigin bellowed
and charged next, swinging his axe in a wide arc,
meant to end it, but the old man was nimble.
He used his staff to deflect the axe head, the
wood groaning but not breaking, and spun away from Stiggins
follow through. He was good, but he was still just
one old man. Gigs started in then, not with a
killing blow, but with one of his jagged little knives.
He wasn't trying to end the fight, he was trying
to start his game. He fainted and laughed as the
pilgrim parried his thrusts, trying to inflict small, tormenting cuts.
I watched from the side, a sour taste in my mouth.
This was pathetic. The old man was fighting with a strange,
quiet dignity, and Gis was turning it into a side show,
a cruel cat and mouse game for his own amusement.
There was no art in it, no efficiency. It was
just ugly. My own act of mercy in the woods,
the weakness that had shamed me, flashed in my mind.
This felt like the other side of that same coin,
pointless gigs. I snarled, my voice, cutting through his laughter enough.
He glanced at me, his smile faltering with disappointment. I
didn't wait for him to obey. I pushed him aside
and stepped in myself. The pilgrim turned his sad eyes
to me, his staff held ready. I didn't give him
time to use it. I closed the distance, parried his
staff with my forearm, and drove the pommel of my
sword into his temple. It was a single, heavy brutal blow.
There was a dull thud, and the fight went out
of him. The staff clattered to the dirt. He crumpled
to the ground without a sound. Swift, silent, and deeply,
deeply unsatisfying. We stood over the pilgrim's body in the
middle of the empty road. The sun was a sliver
of burning red on the horizon, casting long, bloody shadows.
The sudden silence was deafening. No one cheered, no one spoke.
For the first time, a victory felt entirely hollow. We
had just murdered an old man for the dust in
his pockets.