Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey, Chapter sixty, The Desperate.
Speaker 2: Victory, My hand fell. It was the only signal needed
From the ridge above. A sharp crack echoed through the canyon,
followed by a low, gathering roar. Stiggins work. A wall
of rock and shale, loosened by his and Gigs's efforts,
thundered down onto the narrow path, completely blocking the canyon's entrance.
The trap was sprung. The three men on the path
spun around, their faces a mask of confusion and shock.
The cartographer screamed. The two soldiers' instincts taking over, drew
their swords and formed a tight back to back circle,
their eye I scanning the rocks above. They were professionals.
They knew this was an ambush. They just didn't know
it was coming from every direction at once. Now I roared.
Brinn loosed her first arrow. It was not aimed at
the soldiers. It was aimed at the cartographer. The man
clutched his throat, a gurgling, wet sound escaping his lips
as he crumpled to the dirt. A non combatant, A
liability removed at the same instant, or So and I
dropped from our crevice, a ten foot fall that we
landed in a shower of gravel and grit. We hit
the path hard, our starving bodies screaming in protest, but
the hunger made us fast.
Speaker 1: We were on them.
Speaker 2: This was not a clean fight. It was a desperate,
ugly brawl on a path barely wide enough for two men.
The soldiers were good gods. They were good. They were
clad in se male, their movements economical and precise. They
didn't panic. They met our charge with a wall of
disciplined steel. I lunged at the nearest one, my blade
a blur, but he parried with an almost lazy flick
of his wrist, his footwork perfect and countered with a
thrust that I barely managed to turn. Aside beside me,
or So was in a deadly precise dance with the other,
their blades a high speed whisper of steel on steel.
We were starving, We were wounded, they were fed, they
were armored. We were losing. Then from the rock slide,
a roar stiggined. He wasn't climbing down, he was leaping,
half sliding, half falling down The sheer wall of shale
he had created. He hit the path like a boulder,
a bellow of pure joyous rage tearing from his lungs.
The soldier's perfect disciplined formation broke. One of them had
to turn to face this new, massive threat. It was
the opening we needed. The soldier facing me was now distracted,
his eyes flicking to the giant who had just landed
behind him. It was the last mistake he ever made.
My blade, fueled by days of shame and starvation, punched
through the gap in his mail at the armpit. He
grunted his eyes wide, and I tore the sword free.
But Stigand was in trouble. The other soldier, the one
Orso had been fighting, was a veteran. He saw the
true threat. He abandoned Orso and met Stiggins's wild, sweeping
axe swing with a low, disciplined thrust. The sword bit
deep into Stiggins's left shoulder, punching through leather and muscle
with a sickening, wet thud. Stigand roared a sound of
pure agony and rage. But the soldier had made his
own fatal miscalculation. His sword was now stuck embedded in
the Northman's massive frame. He tried to pull it free.
He couldn't stigand grinned his teeth red with his own blood.
He let go of his axe. With his good hand,
he grabbed the hilt of the sword that was still
lodged in his shoulder, and he pulled, yanking the stunned
soldier forward off his feet into his embrace. He didn't
use a blade. He smashed his armored forehead into the
man's face once twice. The sound of breaking bone was
sharp and ugly. The soldier went limp silence. The only
sound was the wind and the ragged, desperate gasping of
our own lungs.
Speaker 1: It was over.
Speaker 2: We stood there, surrounded by the bodies of our enemies,
covered in mud, gravel and blood. We were wounded, we
were exhausted, but we were victorious. Stigan leaned against the
canyon wall, the sword still sticking from his shoulder. He
looked at me, a wild, triumphant, bloody grin splitting his face,
and he let out another roar, a sound that echoed
through the mountains. We were conquerors again. A high pitched,
gulping cry broke the moment. It was cob He was
scrambling out from behind the rock where he'd been hiding,
his face a mask of tears. But they weren't tears
of fear. They were tears of pure, unadulterated joy. He
wasn't looking at us or the bodies. He was running
toward the terrified horses and the heavy supply packs they carried.
He ripped one of the packs open with shaking hands.
He plunged his arms in and pulled something out, holding
it to his chest as if it were a newborn child. Food.
He wept, his voice cracking, Gods, it's real salt, there's salt.
He sank to his knees, clutching a long dried sauce
sssaging one hand and a skin of wine in the other,
his shoulders shaking with relief. The hunger, for now was over.
Speaker 1: We had won.