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, Kale, 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. Kle played
his part well enough. 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,
Brine'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, sharp nod,