Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey. Chapter three, The Green Hell. The
ship is shrinking. I swear it was forty feet long
when we stepped on board. Now, after three weeks of
the river's muddy monotony, it feels like a coffin. I
can't turn around without bumping into a coil of rope,
a barrel of salted gut rot or one of Brinn's
sour faced sailors, or so is worse. He paces the
small patch of clear deck near the bow, four steps forward,
four steps back. He's like a wolf in a pit trap.
I need dirt, dre he mutters, not breaking his stride.
I need ground that doesn't heave every time the wind changes.
Lean against the rail, watching the tree line crawl by.
It's thick here, ancient.
Speaker 2: A wall of green vines and black trunks that seems
to be trying to strangle the river. I wonder how
long this fucking river could possibly be. We need water,
I say. It's an excuse, but a good one. The
casks are low, and what's left tastes like dead algae.
We fine Brin at the tiller. She's wearing that damned
blue coat, looking at a map that I know for
a fact is just a drawing of the coastline from
fifty years ago. We're going ashore, I state, it's not
a request. Brynn looks up, one eyebrow raised. Are you now?
And where pray tell is a shore in this swamp?
There's dry land on the east bank, or So says,
pointing to a break in the mangroves. We need water,
we can hunt. Bryn laughs. It's sharp and dismissive. This
isn't the ocean, e wofs. The river is our water.
We boil it. The river tastes like shit, I say,
and I'm tired of boiled shit. She looks at me,
then at Orso. She sees the tension in our shoulders.
She knows if she says no, we might just take
the boat, or at least try fine, she says, waving
a hand, dismissively. Take the skiff, go play explorer. Get
it out of your system. She stretches her arms. We'll
weigh anchor and wait for you. I'm sure it won't
be long. We take the small boat, just me and
or So. We don't take stiggand or gicks. We need quiet,
We need to think. As we row away from the
river demon. The relief is physical. The air feels cleaner,
away from the scent of unwashed bodies and tar. I've
never wanted to be as far away from women in
my entire life. We could just keep walking, or so
says quietly, his eyes on the approaching tree line. I
look at him to where Vesper. He says, it's south.
We have the sun, we have legs. How tough can
it be? Look at the map in my head. Vespers
hundreds of miles away. But we walked through the barren lands.
We survived the gray tangle. It's far from the centers,
or so continues his voice, gaining strength, far from the
sea's patrols, far from the concord's factories. We get to
Vesper on our own terms, no brin, no debt. He
glances at my leather trousers and the rectangular bulges in
the pockets I roughly sewed together. And you have your gold.
It sounds good, It sounds like freedom. We hit the bank.
It looks solid black earth covered in moss. I step
out of the skiff, squelk. The ground isn't solid it's
a crust over soup. My boot goes through and thick
black mud sucks at my ankle. I pull it free
with a wet pop. Solid enough, I lie. We push
into the trees. Ten minutes later, the dream of walking
to Vesper is dead. It's not a forest, it's a
green hell. The heat hits us like a physical blow,
heavy and wet. The air is thick with insects, clouds
of gnats that go for the eyes, mosquitoes the size
of wasps. Every step is a battle vine, snag our arms, roots,
trip us and the ground. The ground is a lie.
I take a step onto a patch of ferns and
the world drops away. I fall to my waist in
an instant. The mud is cold and heavy, clamping around
my legs like iron shackles. I struggle and I sink
deeper to my chest ray or so lunges. Grabbing a
hanging vine with one hand and my collar with the other,
he pulls. I kick. The mud fights back, suctioning tight.
It smells of rot and ould. Death takes five minutes
of screaming effort to drag me free. I crawl onto
a tree root, gasping, covered in black slime that burns
my skin. Or So isn't doing better. He's slapping at
his neck, his face. The flies, he hisses, they bite.
His face is already swelling. Blood trickles from a dozen
tiny punctures. We sit there on the root, panting, the
jungle screaming around us with the sound of a million
unseen things. Vesper, I wheeze white mud from my eyes.
Just a nice stroll south. Orso spits out a mouthful
of gnats. He looks at his swollen hands. He looks
at the endless, impenetrable wall of green ahead of us.
Fuck the land, he says. Row back to the ship
is silent. We climb back onto the deck of the
River Demon. We are covered in mud, bleeding, and smelling
of swamp rot. Brinn is there. She doesn't say a word.
She just looks at us, then at the shore, then
back at us. The corner of her mouth twitches. Where's
the water? Her twitch turns into a smile. Fuck you,
I reply, as she laughs. I walk to the water cask.
I take a ladle of the brown boiled river water.
It tastes like mud and rust. I drink it all.
I look back at the shoreline, the green wall that
promised to see escape. I hate it. I hate the trees,
I hate the mud, I hate the river, I hate
fucking everything. But mostly I hate that she was right.
We are trapped on the water