Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey. Chapter thirteen, The Toy Box.
Speaker 2: The silence that settled over Vance's folly after I broke
the Mayor was a fragile, trembling thing. It was the
silence of a plane's that hopes the lion has eaten
its fill and we'll simply go to sleep. Townsfolk peered
from behind shuttered windows and cracked doors. They saw the
golden wagon parked in the square. They saw the mayor
weeping in the mud. And they saw us, seven figures
in nightmare armor, caked in mountain grime and dried blood,
standing in the center of their world. My crew was vibrating.
I could feel it radiating off them, like heat from
a furnace. They had hauled that wagagon over a mountain range.
They had starved, they had bled, they had been hunted,
and now they were standing in a town full of
soft beds, full pantries, and terrified people who couldn't fight back.
They looked at me. They were waiting for the order.
Were we soldiers? Were we going to set a watch,
secure the perimeter, and ration the supplies. I looked at Stigand,
whose eyes were fixed on a sign hanging above a
sturdy brick building down the street, the gilded Tankard Brewery
and tap room. I looked at Gicks, whose fingers were
twitching over the hilts of his knives as he watched
the local constables huddled near the guard house. They weren't soldiers,
We were the scum kings. The town is secured, I said,
my voice, carrying across the quiet square. I unbuckled my
sword belt and let it drop to the cobblestones with
a heavy clatter. I spread my arms wide inventory, I said.
It was like cutting the string on a marionette. What
little there was vanished instantly. Stiggin moved first. He didn't run,
He charged. He moved with the terrifying momentum of a landslide.
He hit the door of the brewery with the sole
of his boot. The timber didn't just open, it shattered inward,
tearing the hinges from the frame. He disappeared inside with
a roar that sounded less like a battle cry and
more like a love song. I walked through the town,
a king touring his new estate, while my court tore
it apart. The sounds of inventory began to drift through
the streets, glass shattering, wood splintering screams that were half fear,
half outrage, quickly silenced by the roar of laughter. I
found Stigen exactly where I knew.
Speaker 1: He would be.
Speaker 2: The brewery was a warm, yeasty haven, filled with massive
oak tons and the smell of fermenting grain. The brewer
and his apprentices had fled out the back, leaving the
Northmen alone with his God. He hadn't bothered with a mug.
He hadn't even bothered with the taps. He had smashed
the top off a hogshead barrel of dark ale and
was currently dunking his entire head into it. He surfaced, gasping,
his beard dripping foam, his eyes wild with ecstasy bray.
He bellowed, Seeing me in the doorway, He scooped up
a wooden bucket, dipped it into the barrel, and hurled
the ale at me. It splashed against my breastplate, cool
and sticky. It's not sour, it's thick. It's bread and
a cup. He kicked a sack of malted barley, sending
grains spilling across the floor, just because he could. He
was claiming the space. He grabbed a ham that had
been hanging from the rafters and tore a chunk out
of it with his teeth, washing it down with another
bucket of ale. This is my house, he roared at
the empty room mine. Anyone wants a drink, they asked
the king of the Keg. I left him to his drowning.
He was happy, a happy stiggand is a loyal Stigand
further down the street, the tone shifted, the air grew colder.
I heard high, thin whimpering coming from the stone blockhouse
that served as the town's constabulary. I pushed the door open.
Dix had been busy local constables. Four men in padded
jacks with truncheons, were not used to real violence. They
were used to breaking up drunk fights and chasing pickpockets.
When gigs had come through the door, they had surrendered immediately,
expecting a parley. Fixed in parley, he had stripped them
to their underclothes. He had shoved them into the single
iron barred holding cell at the back of the room.
It was a tight squeeze for four grown men. Dix
was sitting on the desk, his legs crossed, wearing the
captain's hat, and on top of it, at a precarious tilt,
was his crown. The captain's hat was too big for him,
sliding down over his eyes. He pushed it back up
with the tip of a knife. In his lap was
a massive ring of iron keys. Now, Gicks chirped, his
voice bright and friendly. We are going to play a
game called the jailer's dilemma. He held up a key.
One of these keys opens the door, he explained to
the terrified men huddled in the cell. The rest do not.
He tossed the key into a pot of boiling water
that was sitting on the woodstove in the corner. Water
meant for tea who wants to fish. One of the
constables began to sob. Gicks giggled, swinging his legs. He
looked up and saw me, boss. Look, I caught four
of them, he gestured to the cell. They're very polite.
They gave me their hats. Don't break them all at once,
gix I said, leaning against the doorframe. We might need
someone to clean the latrines later.
Speaker 1: Oh, I won't.
Speaker 2: Break them, Gigs promised, his eyes shining. I'm just educating
them on the irony of incarceration. He picked up another
key and looked at the stove. The constables flinched as one.
I walked out. The scream started. A moment later. The
rest of the town was being devoured.
Speaker 1: It was the.
Speaker 2: Urban exploration of degenerates. We were locust with thumbs. I
saw cob waddling out of a merchant's house, his arms
full of silk sheets. He wasn't taking them to sleep on.
He was using them to wrap up wheels of cheese
he'd stolen from the larder. He dropped a bolt of
velvet into the mud and didn't even look back. He
took a bite out of a wheel of cheese, decided
he didn't like the rind, and through the whole thing
through a glass window. I carry it when you can
just smash it. Why save it when you can destroy it.
Frin was the ghost in the machine. I didn't see her,
but I saw her wake. A jeweler shop door swinging
in the wind, the display cases swept clean, a trail
of discarded silver chains leading up to the bell tower
of the local chapel, the highest point in town. She
had claimed the eerie, turning it into a sniper's nest,
lining it with soft furs. She pulled off a furrier's rack.
Walked through the market square. It was a ruin. The
wagon stood in the center, still loaded with gold, unguarded
because no one in this town dared to touch it.
I found a merchant standing by his ruined stall. He
was staring at a pile of smashed pottery, fine plates, jugs, bowls,
reduced to shards. He looked at me, tears streaming down
his face. Why, he whispered, You could have sold them,
they were worth money. I kicked a shard of painted clay.
We have money, I said. I looked around at Vance's folly.
Smoke was rising from a chimney where someone had burned
furniture for heat because they were too lazy to chop wood.
The smell of spilled wine and fear hung heavy in
the damp air. We weren't governing, We were consuming. We
were children who had broken into the toy box, and
now we were snapping the heads off the soldiers just
to see what was inside. I walked up the steps
to the Mayor's hall. I turned and looked out over
my kingdom. Stiggand was roaring a song. In the brewery.
Dicks was laughing in the jail. Cob was gorging himself
in the street. It was a disaster, it was a waste,
it was unsustainable. I smiled. It was exactly what we wanted.