Speaker 1: The scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey, Chapter twenty one.
Speaker 2: The morning after I had felt like a cracked egg
held together by twine. Sat up on the mare's velvet mattress,
blinking against the dawn light that was slicing through the shutters.
My mouth tasted like sour wine or blood or ale,
or maybe all of the above. The world was spinning,
a slow, sickening rotation that had nothing to do with
the earth and everything to do with the drink from
the night before. I groaned, swinging my legs over the
side of the bed. Everything hurt. By the gods, it
felt good.
Speaker 1: Water.
Speaker 2: There was no response, so I shouted, which only made
me head hurt. More water. Silence, boy, water Now nothing.
No scampering footsteps, no terrified yes, my lord, just the heavy,
wet silence of a house that hadn't been cleaned in
a century. I had found the mayor's former assistant cowering
in a closet. He was now my assistant, or he
should have been cursing. I stood up. I needed wine.
The best thing to stop a hangover is to build
a new one. For the next day. I stumbled over
to the sideboard empty. I looked around. There weren't even
any half drunk or broken bottles with dregs around. I
walked out into the hallway, naked as the day I
was born, sword in hand, cob I roared Celaine. A
hallway was empty. The portraits of Vance's ancestors stared down
at me with disapproval. I kicked open the door to
the main stairwell and listened. And I expected the noise
of mourning. I expected the clatter of pots from the kitchen,
the thud of boots, the screams of the town waking
up to their new reality. This was truly the first
day of the scum King's triumphant rain, and it was
met with silence. Went back, threw on a tunic and breeches,
belted my sword, and marched downstairs. I didn't care about
the wine anymore. I cared about the lazy townsfolk, my townsfolk,
not doing their jobs. I kicked open the front doors
of the Mayor's Hall and stepped out into the square.
The sun was blinding. It hit the aftermath of the
feast and turned it into a masterpiece of filth overturned tables,
gnawed bones scattered like divination tokens, pools of wine that
had dried into sticky purple scabs on the cobblestones. The
smell was sweet rot and stale beer. Stiggand was snoring
on a bench, a literal pile of ham bones on
his chest. Beyond the square nothing. Walked to the main gate.
The heavy timber bars were in place, just as I
had ordered, but the trench I'd commanded to be dug
in front of it untouched, a shallow scratch in the
dirt where desperate men had started and then stopped. I
looked up at the walls. I had ordered Jarn to
strip the iron from the town's railings and reinforce the palisade.
I wanted spikes. I wanted armor on the wood. I
wanted a fortress that would break the teeth of the
world when it tried to bite us. The wood was bare,
rage hot, and clean flushed. The headache away. I marched
to the smithy. Forge was cold. The anvil was silent.
Jaren was sitting on a stool, staring at a pair
of tongs, as if deciphering a holy text. Buys the
fire out. I asked my voice was low, dangerous. Baron
jumped so hard he knocked the tongs over. He scrambled up,
eyes wide, breath coming in shallow gasps. I, my lord,
I the coal. We ran low, and the boys grabbed
him by his leather apron and slammed him back against
the cold brick of the chimney. I told you, I snarled,
looking into his terrified, weeping eyes. I told you I
wanted spikes. I told you I wanted chains. I told
you that if this town wasn't ready for a siege
by the time the moon turned, I would shoe you
like a mule. I'm working, he squealed, I'm working now. Please.
He scrambled for the bellows. He started pumping frantically. He
shouted for his apprentices, who crawled out from behind heaps
of scrap metal like cockroaches. Within seconds, the forge was roaring,
iron was clanging, sparks were flying. Industry fear fueled, frantic industry.
I watched them for a moment. They were operating with
fear in their eyes. Good turned and marched out, heading
for the tannery. I needed boiled leather for the gate hinges,
and that took time. Walked inside The tanner was asleep
on a pile of hides. I kicked the stool out
from under him. He hit the floor with a grunt,
scrambled up, saw me, and immediately started scraping a hide,
his hands shaking so bad he nearly sliced his own
thumb off work. I roared at him, the wolves are coming.
Do you want to be meet? No? No, my lord.
I looked around. Where are your apprentices, your masters? Ill?
My lord? They're all sick. The tanner didn't danswer, He
just show like a leaf. I'd have to deal with
his men later. I left for the mill. As I
crossed the street, I stopped a frantic clanging from the smithy.
It had stopped. I turned back. The smoke was thinning.
The ring of the hammer had died. The second I
was out of earshot. Looked at the tannery. The scraping
had stopped once again. Everything was silent. I walked back
to juryn. He apologized something about a flu being blocked.
It would be fixed soon. I marched over to the tanner,
whose name was so long I refused to memorize it.
He had to work slow. He was ill, perhaps with
the same sickness as his men. I walked back to
the center of the square and stood amidst the trash
and the sleeping drunks of my crew. I knew I
could motivate the smithy to smith and the tanner to tan.
But I was one man. I needed help, stigand would help.
Gicks would practically cry out in joy to help. Maybe
the others. But there were so many things that needed attention.
The gait, the wall, the stores, the armory, the smith,
the tanner, the peer. It went on and on, and
they all needed a whip. I glanced at the clotting
wine and the overturned tables and the rotting food. Clean
up my fucking mess, I screamed at the empty windows.
My voice echoed off the stone unanswered. It appears yelling
doesn't motivate people, dre it was Orso, who had an
arrogant smile on his face. Shut up, or So. Fear
also motivates. Indeed, look at all those frightened townsfolk rushing
to clean up this mess, he laughed, and I wanted
to beat him into unconsciousness right then. But he was right.
No one had come to clean anything. You're right, or So,
The comment clearly surprised him. I smiled and nodded out
toward the town. My mistake was not giving people something
to fear, or so, just stared at me. I need men,
bad men, enforcers who break legs over a slow sweep
of the broom, dogs who will tear off an arm
over a forge burning too cold, or so, laughed, But
he seemed intrigued more than dismissive. And how do you
plan on building this army of dogs with gold?
Speaker 1: Of course,