Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey. Chapter twenty, The Open Door.
Speaker 2: Woke up on the steps of the Mayre's hall, my
head feeling like stigand was inside it, splitting logs with
his axe. My mouth tasted like copper coins and dead rat.
I squinted against the glare, the light stabbing into my
eyes like needles, the hangover of the century. I pushed
myself up. My body was a stiff, aching cage. I
looked out at the square looked like a battlefield where
the army had died of gluttony. Tables were overturned, Puddles
of wine had dried into sticky purple scabs on the cobblestones.
Bones beef, chicken, por or were scattered everywhere, picked clean,
and in the center the mountain of gold. It looked
tacky in the harsh light of day. It didn't glitter,
It just looked yellow and cold. Stigand was asleep, faced
down in the pile, his arm draped over a chest
of ingots, like a lover, snoring so loud it rattled
the loose teeth in my head. Cob was curled in
a ball under a table, clutching some culinary masterpiece that
probably only he could enjoy. Town itself was silent, not
the quiet of a peaceful morning, the silence of a
held breath. There was no sound of hammers from the smithy,
no smell of yeast from the bakery, no creak of carts.
Vance's folly was waiting for the other boot to drop.
Stumbled down the steps, kicking a wine bottle aside. It rolled,
clattering across the stones, the sound obscenely loud. I walked
to the main gate. Jarreen and his smith had done
their work. The shattered timber I'd driven the wagon through
was gone, replaced by heavy, reinforced oak beams banded with iron.
It was ugly, industrial and strong. I climbed the ladder
to the palisade walk, My head throbbed with every rung.
I pulled myself over the parapet and looked out. The
river road stretched away to the east and west, a
ribbon of pack dirt following the lazy curve of the
muddy fork. Usually this time of morning, a road to
a trading town would be busy. Hell, a road to
a trading outpost would be busy. Farmers bringing crops, barges
pulling down the river, merchants moving iron to the capital.
I looked left, I looked right. Nothing. The road was empty,
not just quiet, abandoned. No dust clouds, no distant shapes.
The river was a flat, gray sheet of glass, undisturbed
by any boat. Was as if the world stopped at
the edge of the tree line. Or So had warned me,
but I felt he was exaggerating. A trading town doesn't
just stop. Where is everyone gone? I didn't turn. I
knew Orso's voice. He leaned against the parapet beside me.
He looked terrible. His skin was the color of old parchment,
his eyes red rimmed. He was holding a cup of
water with shaking hands. What do you mean gone, I asked,
squinting at the horizon. People have to trade, they have
to eat. They are trading, or So said softly, Just
not with us. He took a sip of water, wincing
as he swallowed. Word travels fast, ray, faster than a wagon.
The smoke, the screams, the gold. The story of the
madmen who took Vance's favs probably reached Brackingate by now.
It's certainly reached every caravan master within one hundred miles.
The ships float on past, and he gestured to the
empty road with his cup. They aren't scared of us, Drey,
not in the way you want. They're avoiding us like
a plague house. They've re routed. They're taking the long
way around the hills. You may have missed the piers,
but they used to have boats docked there. I gripped
the rough wood of the palisade. I had wanted fear.
I had wanted them to come and kneel. I hadn't
expected them to just leave. We're cut off, I said, completely,
or so agreed. We have the gold, We have the town,
and that is all. We have no supplies coming in,
no iron going out. We are an island. Turned to
look back at the town, at the sleeping drunkards and
the shuttered windows. They know Drey the conquered the sea,
the Bandit clans, everyone knows exactly where we are. We
lit a signal fire and threw a party. He looked
at me, his eyes grim. We didn't build a kingdom.
We built a trap, a big wooden box with no
way out. He pointed down at the gold pile in
the square. And we put the cheese right in the middle.
I looked at the gold. I looked at the empty road.
I felt the headache pulsing behind my eyes. Or So
was right. Logically, tactically, we were dead men. We were
sitting ducks, waiting for the hunter to arrive. But as
I stood there, looking at the empty horizon, the nausea
began to fade. A cold, hard knot tightened in my stomach.
I remembered the wilderness. I remembered the mud. I remembered
hiding in ditches. I looked at the iron reinforced gate
below me. Good, I said, or So blinked. Good, let
them come. I rasped, a grin stretched across my face.
It hurt, but it felt right. I'm tired of chasing caravans.
I'm tired of hunting. Patted the hilt of my sword.
If we're the trap, or So, then let's make sure
the teeth are sharp. I turned my back on the
empty world. Bake stigand I ordered, tell him to sober up.
We have a siege to prepare for. I walked back
down the ladder into the silence of my rotting kingdom.
I didn't care that the road was empty. I didn't
care that the world had turned its back. I had
a castle, I had a fortune, and sooner or later
someone was going to try to take it. I couldn't
wait to kill them to the