Speaker 1: The scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey.
Speaker 2: Chapter six, The Lions of the Tangle, We were the
mules now, with the horses dead in the mud, the
harnessed leather cut into our own shoulders. Stigand and I
took the yoke, dragging the two ton obsession through the sludge.
Dixon also pushed.
Speaker 1: From the rear.
Speaker 2: It was a humiliating, backbreaking crawl, moving at the speed
of a dying man. The gray Tangle was supposed to
be empty. It wasn't. For two days. The hair on
the back of my neck had been standing up. The
woods were too quiet, and yet they felt crowded. Branches
snapped when there was no wind. Shadows stretched long and
then vanished when you and to look. Brynn dropped from
a tree branch ahead of us, landing silently in the muck.
She didn't look tired. She looked spooked, and Brynn doesn't
get spooked. Stop, she hissed. I dropped the yoke my shoulders,
screaming in relief.
Speaker 1: What is it?
Speaker 2: The sea worse? She said, her eyes darting to the
dense undergrowth on our left. Everyone else she moved closer,
lowering her voice. I found tracks, rags, bone charms, tied
to trees. It's not just the soldiers anymore, Dre. The
story traveled faster than the wagon. Imagine the legends forming
the Golden Wagon. The abbey ghosts, every scavenger, bandit, clan,
and starving throat cut her in the tangle knows we're here.
She pointed into the gloom. They aren't attacking. They're hurting us.
They're waiting for us to collapse, or for this sea
to catch us so they can pick the bones of
whoever loses. We are surrounded by invisible eyes. The crew
went still. Cob whimpered. Selaine looked at the gold our savior,
our burden with a look of pure nausea. Or So
walked to the side of the wagon. He ran his
hand over the wood. We stop, he said, It wasn't
a question. He turned to me, his face grim, Dre.
Look at us. We are pulling this thing by hand.
We are making a mile an hour. We are surrounded
by jackals, and we are bleeding into the underbrush. He
pointed to a dense thicket of briers near a large
rock formation. We bury it, or So said, right here,
we dig a pit, we bury the gold, we mark
the trees. We leave the wagon as a decoy. We
walk out of here light and fast. We survive the winter.
We come back with fresh horses and men to reclaim it.
It was smart, a small delay to secure riches beyond belief,
and I hated it. I felt the rage spike in
my chest, hot and blinding. Bury it put my kingdom
in the dirt. Hide it like a dog hides a bone.
Across the distance between us. In two strides, I grabbed
or So by his tunic and slammed him against the
side of the wagon. The wood groaned. We do not
bury it, I snarled, my face inches from his pray.
Be reasonable, or So shouted, not fighting back, just staring
at me with those cold, calculating eyes. It's a tactical retreat.
If we keep hauling this, they will swarm us. We
are prey. That's exactly why we don't hide it, I roared,
throwing him back. I turned to the others. They were
looking at me like I was mad. Maybe I will us,
but I saw something they didn't. You bury things you're
ashamed of, I yelled, pacing in front of the wagon.
You bury things you're afraid to lose. If we put
this gold in the ground, we are admitting that we
are weak. We are admitting that we are thieves running
from the law. I drew my sword. I walked to
the nearest tree, where a shadow seemed to linger. I
slashed at the branch, severing it. They are watching us,
I shouted into the silent woods. Good let them watch.
I turned back to Orso, breathing hard. Jackals circle the weak,
the wounded, or so, they circle the things that are
bleeding and afraid. I slammed my sword against the iron
rim of the wagon wheel. Clang. The sound rang out,
sharp and defiant, echoing through the trees. We don't hide,
we don't bury. We light the torches, we make noise.
I glared into the dark, challenging the invisible eyes I
knew were there. If the jackals come, I growled, we
show them that we are the lions. We show them
that we are the biggest, meanest things in this forest,
and we go exactly where we please. I picked up
the yoke. The leather bit into my skin. Pick it up,
I ordered. We walk, and if they want it, let
them come and try to take it,