Speaker 1: The scum Kings, created and written by Mike Daltrey. Episode six, Heist.
Speaker 2: The dog's yapping cut through the dusk like a thrown knife.
We froze a pack of statues in the gloom. Or
So didn't panic. His mind is a machine built of
cold angles, and it was already recalculating bryn He whispered
his voice a bare rustle of leaves. The dog silenced it.
Brynn nodded once and was gone, melting into the shadows
toward the farm. The rest of us waited, every muscle
coiled tight. A few minutes later, the yapping cut off abruptly,
a single show yelp, then nothing. A moment after that,
Brin's shadow reappeared at the edge of the trees. She
gave a slight nod. The path was clear. Now I breathed.
We moved. Our grand coordinated assault fell apart the moment
we left the tree line, or So and stigand reached
the barn. But the old wood of the door didn't
give silently. It groaned like a dying man, loud in
the evening quiet. The sound was answered by a shout
from inside the cottage. So much for surprise, stigin' now,
I roared. The northman needed no other encouragement. With a
joyous bellow, he lowered his shoulder and smashed into the
barn door. Wood exploded inwards. From inside came a terrified,
high pitched squeal the pig. As Gixon I reached the cottage,
the door flew open, and the old farmer charged out,
a rusty pitchfork held before him like a knight's lamb.
He was thin and wiry, his face a mask of
fear and fury. He wasn't a warrior, but he was
defending his home. I almost admired him for it. I
sidestepped his clumsy lunch, but he was fast enough to
turn an aim for Gis. Before the tinines could connect,
the cottage door frame was filled by his wife, a
stout woman with iron gray hair and a bun and
a heavy black frying pan in her hand. She swung
it with the force of a blacksmith's hammer, catching Gicks
on the side of the head. The clang was loud
enough to wake the dead. Gicks staggered back, a look
of genuine surprise on his painted face. The woman raised
the pan for another swing. This was not a battle.
It was a brawl, a clumsy, muddy, pathetic mess from
the barn. Stiggins's laughter boomed. He'd cornered the other farmer,
who was jabbing at him with another pitchfork. Stigan wasn't
he using a weapon. He was just catching the wooden
shaft in his massive hands, treating the man's desperate attacks
like a game. Ha, there's fire in you yet, old man.
He roared, easily, twisting the pitchfork from the farmer's grasp
and tossing it aside. The old woman came at me,
pan raised. I caught her wrist, the bone delicate under
my grip. I could have snapped it like a twig.
The fight had gone on long enough, Gicks, I snarled,
and this Gigs recovered from the pantstrike, his surprise melting
away into a slow, cruel smile. He ignored the farmer
and his wife. Instead, he took two quick steps to
a small coop next to the cottage wall. He reached
inside and pulled out a small peeping chick. He held
it up for the woman to see, Cradling it gently
in his palm. He looked her right in the eye,
his smile widening, then Slowly he closed his fist, a faint,
wet crunch. The peeping stopped. The fight went out of
the old woman's eyes, replaced by a profound soul, deep horror.
The pans slipped from her fingers and clattered on the dirt.
The farmer stared, his mouth agape. They were broken. Dix
took a step toward them, his fists still closed. The
other chickens would like to play two, Gix, I said,
my voice sharp as broken glass.
Speaker 1: Enough.
Speaker 2: He stopped looking at me, a flicker of disappointment in
his eyes. My gaze fell on the old couple, huddled together,
their faces pale with terror. They were nothing, less than nothing,
a loose end. But killing them felt pointless, a waste
of effort. Get the pig, I ordered, leave them dead bodies,
Draw crows in questionans. He shrugged. The moment of cruelty passed.
The five of us, cob having stayed back as our lookout,
converged on the barn and the squealing, terrified pig. Wrestling
the beast was a battle in itself. It was strong,
slick with mud, and possessed by a demon's fury. It
took all of us to finally get a rope around
its snout and another around its hind legs, and then
we were fleeing into the night, dragging and carrying our prize.
A chaotic retreat of grunts, curses, and the pig's deafening squeals.
We threw the pig to the ground, where it lay,
panting and defeated. We stood around it, chests heaving, grinning
like madmen sticking clapped me on the back, his laughter
echoing through the trees. We had done it, We had won.
The taste of failure was washed away by the promise
of roast pork. In the dancing firelight. Cob stepped forward.
He looked at the pig with a holy reverence, tears
of joy streaming down his plump cheeks. From its leather sheath.
He drew his long, wicked looking butcher's knife. He knelt down,
pulling a sharpening steel from his pack. He ignored us
all his world, shrinking to the fat, breathing prize at
his feet and the tool in his hands. The firelight
glinted off the blade as he began to sharpen it,
the sound ringing through our small, triumphant kingdom. Shick shick, shick.
It was the sound of Salvation signal box.