Speaker 1: The scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey. Chapter thirty seven, aper Rain. The
siege begins not with fire, but with fluttering. I'm standing
in the courtyard watching the sky. The catapults thump in
the distance, a heavy, wet sound. Thump, thump, thump.
Speaker 2: I flinch, waiting for the crash, waiting for rocks to
shatter the roofs, or fire to rain down to burn
the granaries, not that we have any grain left to burn.
But there is no crash. Instead, the air above the
town fills with white moats, like snow or ash. It
takes a long time for them to fall. They drive
on the wind, swirling over the walls, catching in the updrafts,
catch one before it hits the mud. It's paper, expensive paper,
thick and creamy. I look at it. There are words
at the bottom, squiggles in black ink. I don't know
what they say. I never learned words. Swords don't need
to read. But I know what the picture says. It's
a drawing, crude but clear, a fortress with an open gate,
people streaming out of it, and an arrow pointing to
a campfire. The fire is a pig, A whole pig
roasting on a spit, or so, I say. My voice
is tight. He's standing next to me. He's always standing
near me, as if to protect me or protect others
from me. I don't care which is true, if I'm
honest with myself. He catches a paper out of the air,
answers at it. What do the words say? I ask,
are they mocking us? No, or so says it says
the same thing as the picture. Leave and join us
for food and safety. I crush the paper in my fist.
I look around. They are falling everywhere, hundreds of them,
covering the mud, the roofs, the empty market stalls. The
townsfolk are coming out. They don't run from this bombardment.
They run toward it. A man grabs a paper from
the air. He stares at the picture of the pig.
He runs his thumb over the ink. Then he folds
it carefully and shoves it into his boot. A few
people start wandering toward the gate we blocked with heavy
wooden beams. Don't touch them, I roar. I draw my sword.
They are lies, poisoned words. I grab a woman who
is reading one. I snatch it from her.
Speaker 1: Burn them.
Speaker 2: I scream at Stiggand, who has recovered from his ale
sickness and has been mostly quiet. I figured this would
be a good mission to return him to good spirits.
Burn them all, gather them up, and burn them. Stigan
looks at the paper snow covering the street. He looks
at the hundreds of people scrambling to collect them, stuffing
them into shirts, into pockets, into mouths. You can't burn snow, dre,
he says quietly. I'm shocked at the quiet wisdom coming
from the hulking mass of violence. But he's right, there
are too many. I watch a child chase a drifting
paper down an alley. He catches it, stares at the
picture of the pig, and then looks toward the gate.
He smiles. It is the most terrifying thing I have
ever seen. Hounds haven't fired a single arrow, they haven't
breached a single wall, but they just killed us. I
look down at the crumpled ball in my hand. I
can't read the words, but I can read the promise.
Drop the paper in the mud. I stomp on it,
but I know it doesn't matter. The offer has been made,
and everyone in this town wants to take them up
on it.