Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey. Chapter nine, The View from the Hill.
The last ridge was a spine of broken flint that
tried to break us. We hauled the wagon up the incline,
inch by screaming inch. My boots slid on the loose shale.
The yoke dug into my shoulders until I lost feeling
in my arms. Stiggand was grunting like a dying bull
beside me, his breath coming in ragged wet gasps. One
more step, I roared, my voice raw. We crested the rise,
The ground leveled out, The wagon rolled forward, its weight
finally working with us instead of against us. We dropped
the yoke, gasping, chest heaving, and looked down. There it
was Vance's folly. It sat in the crook of the
muddy twist of the river like a fungal growth. It
was a sprawling, ugly collection of timber buildings and waddle
and daub huts, huddled behind a wooden palise that leaned
drunkenly toward the river. The streets were ribbons of black mud.
Smoke hung over it in a greasy yellow haze. There
was a packed dirt road that led to a thick
forest in the distance, near the horizon. Anyone else it
was a backwater sore on the map, a place where
dreams went to rot and lumberjacks drank away their sad lives.
I wiped the sweat from my eyes. I looked at
the river curling around it, a natural moat. I looked
at the stone keep in the center, the mayor's hall
rising above the filth. I looked at the single straight
road leading to the gate, before splitting into roads that
led to less pathetic place. I didn't see a slum.
I saw a throne. That's it, or so asked, stepping
up beside me. He sounded disgusted. That's your kingdom. It's
a cattle pen dre The walls are rotting. The gate
looks like it would fall down if you sneezed at it.
It's perfect, I replied, it's a trap. Or So countered,
his voice sharp.
Speaker 2: We roll this wagon down there, and we are trapped
between the river and the wall. If the garrison has
even ten competent men, they can hold that gate against
a hundred. He turned to the crew. They were slumped
against the wagon wheels, staring down at the town with
a mix of hunger and exhaustion. Look at it, or
So shouted, gesturing at the muddy sprawl. Is this worth
dying for a mud pit? We can still turn back,
We can still hide in the hills. The crew looked
at him then, and they looked at the town. They
saw the smoke rising from chimneys. I see smoke, Cob muttered,
licking his cracked lips. That means kitchens, ovens. I see
a tavern, stig and rumbled, pointing a scarred finger at
a large slate roofed building near the gate, A big one.
I see people, Gicks murmured, a disturbing smile playing on
his lips. Lots of little people. They were wavering. They
wanted the comfort, but they feared the risk. They needed
a push. They needed to understand what we were doing.
Walked to the edge of the small hill, standing tall
as if I were on a mountaintop. I turned my
back on the town and faced them. Or So sees
a mud pit, I said, my voice, carrying over the wind.
He sees a trap. I walked over to the wagon,
the wood right where the gold lay hidden beneath the
canvas were carrying the soul of a kingdom in this wagon.
I said, we have the wealth of an emperor. But
what are we. I looked at them, Filthy, ragged, bleeding.
We are scum, I answered for them. We are homeless,
starving dogs dragging a bone we can't chew as long
as we are out here. This gold is just heavy metal.
It's a burden. It's the thing that gets us killed.
I pointed down at the town. The king without a
castle is just a vagrant with a heavy purse. I snarled.
You want to be rich, truly rich, then you need
a wall to put between your gold and the world.
You need a cellar to lock it in, You need
a smith to forge it. I looked at stiggand you
want to drink that tavern dry. You don't walk in
there and pay for it, You walk in there and
own it. I looked at Selaine. You want to count
your coin, You need a table, You need a room
where the wind doesn't blow your ledger away. I turned
back to the town, spreading my arms. That isn't a town.
It's a suit of armor. It's ugly, it's dirty, and
it's weak, but it's waiting for someone strong enough to
wear it. I looked at it also. He was silent.
He was looking at the town now, not with disgust,
but with calculation. He saw the choke point, he saw
the geometry. I can't build a fortress, I said, my voice,
dropping to a low, intense growl. We don't have the time,
so we are going to take this one. I drew
my sword. I pointed it at the leaning wooden gate
of Vance's folly. We ride down there. We don't ask
for entry, we don't pay a toll. We kicked the
door in, and we tell them that their new landlords
have arrived. Stigans stood up. He picked up his axe.
He looked at the town, and for the first time
in weeks, he didn't look like a wounded animal. He
looked like a conqueror. I like the look of that tavern,
he grunted. I bet the mayor has a soft bed,
Brynn said, quietly, checking the fletching on her arrows. Or
So let out a long sigh. He looked at the town.
He shook his head, but there was a smirk on
his face, a grim, fatalistic smirk. The garrison will be lazy,
he muttered, they haven't seen a raid in twenty years.
If we hit them hard before they can rally, he
looked at me. We're really doing this. We're seizing a
Concord town. We're seizing a home, or so, I said.
I climbed onto the wagon seat. I gathered the makeshift
reins of the harnesses we'd rigged for ourselves on the wagon.
I ordered, we ride the rest of the way. They
scrambled up, clinging to the gold, their eyes fixed on
the muddy jewel below. We go in at dawn, I said,
looking down at the sleeping town, and by noon we
won't be scum, will be kings, scum kings,