Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey.
Speaker 2: Chapter four, The Mark of the Sun found a hollow
deep in the gut of the tangle, a natural bowl
shielded by a thicket of thorns that would stop a
bore let alone a patrol horse. It was the first
time in two days we felt safe enough to breathe,
safe enough to count. Delaane had demanded it. I cannot
manage what I do not know, She'd hissed, her hands shaking.
So we unhitched the exhausted horses, lit a covered lantern,
and we opened the wagon. It was a religious service.
Slaine was the priestess, and the ledger was her scripture.
We laid the canvas on the damp moss and began
to load the horde, stack by stack, chest by chest.
The sheer volume of it was sickening. It was enough
wealth to make a man vomit. There were bars of
bullions stacked like firewood, chests of heavy silver, solari, leather
sacks bursting with gemstones that caught the lantern light like
cat eyes. For an hour, the only sound was the
clink of metal and the scratch of Selaine's charcoal on
parchment orso stood watch his back to us, but I
saw his shoulders tense with every scratch. He was doing
the math in his head, calculating the risk against the reward. Finally,
Selaine sat back on her heels. She looked at the
total she'd scrawled at the bottom of the page. Her
face was pale, drained of blood. Well stig and grunted,
leaning on his axe. Are we rich or are we gods?
It's a dutchy, Selaine whispered, it's a fleet of ships.
It's Drey. We could hire the Concord's entire Southern Mercenary
army for a year and still have enough to pave
a road in silver, Its giggled, tossing his crown in
the air and catching it. I'll buy a zoo with
only dangerous animals. I felt a surge of heat in
my chest. This was it, the proof we had won.
But Selaine wasn't smiling. She picked up a heavy gold ingot.
She held it up to the lantern light, turning it slowly.
But we can't spend it, she said. Her voice was
flat dead, A hollow went silent. What are you babbling about?
I snapped, stepping forward. Gold is gold, it spends everywhere.
Not this gold, she said. She shoved the ingot into
my chest. Look at it, Dray, look at the stamp.
Looked pressed deep into the soft yellow metal was a seal.
It wasn't the generic sunburst of the Sea's treasury. It
was a face, severe, judgmental, the heavy brow, the downturned mouth,
a stern visage. I dropped the ingot and picked up
a chalice stamped on the base. I grabbed a handful
of coins from a chest stamped. Every single piece of
gold in the wagon bore the face of the god
we had robbed. It's a mint mark, Selaine said, her
voice rising in panic, A specific, restricted mint mark. This
isn't currency, dre It's consecrated treasury gold. It's never meant
to circulate. It sits in vaults to back the Sea's currency.
Or So turned around his face grim he had known,
or he had guessed. It's poison, or So said, walking
into the circle of light. If you walk in to
a tavern and slap one of those coins on the bar,
you aren't buying ale. You're signing a confession. Every merchant,
every fence, every banker from here to the coast knows
that mark. It screams, I raided the abbey. He kicked
a pile of coins. They scattered with a mocking jingle.
It's worthless or so spat unless we melt it down.
And to melt two tons of gold, we need a foundry,
We need smiths, we need months of work in a
secure location. We have none of that. We are hauling
dead weight that will get us hanged. Stigan looked at
the gold, then at his axe, confused and angry. Gold
is gold. If a man won't take it, I'll split
his head. And then the watch comes or so countered,
and then the sea's inquisitors. We can't fence this dre
not in this quantity, not with these marks. We're carrying
the world's heaviest suicide note. Selene nodded, tears of frustration
welling in her eyes.
Speaker 1: He's right.
Speaker 2: We have to bury it, hide it. Take small amounts,
melt them down in campfires over years. It's the only
way they looked at me, the practical ones, the smart ones.
They saw a problem. They saw a wall. I looked
at the gold. I saw the face of the stern
visage staring up at me from a thousand coins, judging me,
and I smiled. You're thinking like merchants, I said, my
voice low. I picked up an ingot. It was heavy, cold, solid.
You're thinking about how to buy things, I said, how
to trade this for bread, or horses or safety. You
are thinking about spending it. I tossed the ingot back
onto the pile. It ended with a heavy thud. I
don't intend to spend it, or so, stared at me, exasperated.
Then what is the point of it, dre It's metal.
You can't eat it. We don't spend the foundation of
a house, I growled, You build on it. I walked
around the pile, looking at my crew. If I take
one of these coins to a shop, I'm a thief,
I said. But if I pile all of this in
the center of a room, if I sit on top
of it, I'm not a customer. I'm a bank I'm
a power. I pointed at the wagon. We don't need
to melt it down to hide who we are. We
use it to show them exactly who we are. We
don't trade this gold. We use it as leverage. We
use it to buy loyalty, not with payment. But with
the promise of payment, we use it to prove we
have the capital to rule. Rule what, Selaine asked, her
voice trembling. We're in the woods, not for long, I said.
I looked east, toward the edge of the forest. We
find a place, a stronghold. We put this gold in
the middle of it, and we dare the world to
come and take it. We don't hide the mark, Slaine.
We let them see it. Let them know we broke
a god's nose and took his teeth, or so rubbed
his face with his hands. This is arrogance, stray, pure
suicidal arrogance. It's a kingdom, I said. And kingdoms are
built on gold that stays in the vault. I kicked
the canvas back over the pile, pack it up. Chapter five.
The mud and the wheel skies were as angry as
the sea. It wasn't rain. It was a solid curtain
of gray water that turned the tangle into a drowning pool.
The ancient rowed, packed hard by centuries of use, dissolved
in minutes. It became a slurry, a soup, a mouth,
and the wagon was a heavy golden tooth that the
earth wanted to swallow. It happened fast. We were pushing
for a higher ground when the front left wheel hit
a soft patch. The crust broke. The wheel dropped two
feet with a sickening thunk, dragging the axle down into
the muck. The momentum died instantly. The wagon slipped sideways,
the rear swinging out toward the drop off on our right,
a steep, jagged ravine leading down to a frothing creek. Push,
I roared, spitting mud. Put your backs into it. We
were in the shit. Literally. The mud smelled of ancient
rot and sulfur. For six hours, we fought the earth
stigand was a mud gullum his shoulder rammed against the tailgate,
roaring with effort. I was at the wheel, slim up
to my waist, trying to lever it up with a
tree branch. Dixon cob were slipping and falling, useless in
the chaos. The rain was freezing. It turned our hands
to claws and our skin to ice. But the sweat
was pouring off me. It's not moving, or so shouted,
wiping sludge from his eyes. It's settling. The vibration is
shaking the bank loose.
Speaker 1: He was right.
Speaker 2: The edge of the road, five feet from the rear
wheel was crumbling. Chunks of earth were sloughing off into
the ravine. The wagon groaned, tilting further. The center of
gravity was shifting. The gold was pulling us into the void.
The horses, the two massive drays we'd stolen from the abbey,
were screaming. It's a terrible sound, a horse screaming, high,
human and full of terror. They were scrabbling for purchase,
their hoofs churning, the mu cut into a froth, their
eyes rolling white. The weight of the wagon was dragging
them backward toward the edge. They're going over. Brin yelled.
She was at the heads of the horses, trying to
calm them, but she was sliding too dre The bank
is going They're going to fall. Cut the traces, or
so commanded, reaching for his knife. Cut them loose. We
lose the wagon, but we saved the transport. We can
come back for the gold. It was the logical choice,
the humane choice. Without the horses, we were stranded anyway.
If they went over the edge, they'd drag the wagon
with them and we'd lose everything. If we cut them,
the wagon might slide, but the animals our engine would live.
I looked at the wagon. It was tilting precariously. If
we cut the tension now, if we released the horses,
the wagon wouldn't just sit there without the counterpull of
the team, gravity would take it. It would slide backward,
tip and spill the abbey's hoard into the ravine. We'd
never get it back. I looked at the horses, panic stricken, exhausted,
foam dripping from their mouths, mixed with blood where the
bits cut them. No, I roared. I lunged out of
the mud, knocking Orso's hand away before he could slash
the leather traces. Dray, you fool, or So screamed over
the thunder. If they go over, we lose it all.
Cut them, we don't cut, I snarled. I snatched the
long leather whip from the driver's seat. Dray, don't, Brynn shouted,
stepping between me and the animals. They can't do it.
Look at them, they're broken. Shoved her into the mud.
I didn't have time for mercy. I didn't have time
for logic. I had will stiggind I bellowed, lift now.
Stigan didn't question He jammed his shoulder under the rear
corner of the wagon. He roared, the veins in his
neck bulging like cables. I turned to the horses. They
were scrambling backward, hind legs slipping over the crumbling edge.
I raised the whip. Didn't use it to guide them.
I used it to hurt them. I brought the lash
down with everything I had across the flank of the
near horse.
Speaker 1: Crack.
Speaker 2: The animal shrieked, a sound of pure agony. It didn't
think about the weight anymore. It didn't think about the mud.
It thought about the pain. It lunged forward. Crack. I
hit the other one. Crack again. Crack. Pull, I screamed,
my voice shredding my throat. Pull, you bastards.
Speaker 1: Pull.
Speaker 2: It was brutal, it was ugly. I was flaying the
skin from their backs. I was driving them past panic,
past exhaustion, into the realm of biological failure. They lunged
their hooves found a patch of stone beneath the mud.
Muscles tore, tendons popped audibly. Stigand roared. As he lifted
the back end an inch. The wagon groaned, it shuddered.
For a second. We hung in the balance, gold against flesh,
and with a sucking schluck sound, the wheel broke free
of the vacuum. The horses, driven by the absolute terror
of the lash, threw their weight forward. They dragged the
wagon five feet ten feet onto the solid rock of
the upper track. We were safe. The horses didn't stop
because I told them to. They stopped because they died.
Near horse simply collapsed. Its front legs buckled, and it
hit the ground with a heavy, wet thud. It shiver.
I heard once foam and blood bubbling from its nostrils,
and then went still. Its heart had burst. The other
horse stood trembling, its head hanging low, blowing bloody froth.
Its left hind leg was hanging at a sickening angle.
Ruined stood there in the rain, the whip still in
my hand, my chest heaving. The gold was safe. The
wagon was on solid ground. I dropped the whip. Silence
was heavy, even the rain seemed to quiet down. Bren
was on her knees by the dead horse, her hand
on its neck. She looked up at me. I've seen
hate and eyes before, but this was different. This was revulsion.
Or so walked over. He looked at the dead animal.
He looked at the crippled one that would have to
be put down. He looked at the wagon. He turned
his eyes to me. There was no anger, just a cold, profound,
too disgust. We are footsloggers now, he said quietly. We
have a two ton wagon and no horses. Was it
worth it, dre to torture them to death for metal?
I walked past him. I put my hand on the
side of the wagon. I felt the gold inside, heavy
and eternal. I looked at the dead horse. It was
just meat. It was just a tool that had served
its purpose until it broke. We can steal more horses,
I said, wiping the rain and mud from my face.
I patted the wood of the wagon. Chapter six, The
Lions of the Tangle. We were the mules now, with
the horses dead in the mud, the harnessed leather cut
into our own shoulders. Stigand and I took the yoke,
dragging the two ton obsession through the sludge dixon orso pushed.
Speaker 1: From the rear.
Speaker 2: It was a humiliating, backbreaking crawl, moving at the speed
of a dying man. The gray Tangle was supposed to
be empty. It wasn't for two days. The hair on
the back of my neck had been standing up. The
woods were too quiet, and yet they felt crowded. Branches
snapped when there was no wind, Shadows stretched long and
then vanished when you turned to look. Brynn dropped from
a tree branch ahead of us, landing silently in the muck.
She didn't look tired. She looked spooked, and bryn doesn't
get spooked. Stop, she hissed. I dropped the yoke my shoulders,
screaming in relief.
Speaker 1: What is it?
Speaker 2: The sea worse, she said, her eyes darting to the
dense undergrowth on our left. Everyone else She moved closer,
lowering her voice. I found tracks, rags, bone charms, tied
to trees. It's not just the soldiers anymore, dre The
story traveled fast, faster than the wagon. Imagine the legends
forming the Golden Wagon. The abby ghosts, every scavenger, bandit,
clan and starving throat cut her in the tangle knows
we're here. She pointed into the gloom. They aren't attacking,
they're hurting us. They're waiting for us to collapse, or
for the sea to catch us so they can pick
the bones of whoever loses, we are surrounded by invisible eyes.
The crew went still. Cob whimpered. Selaine looked at the gold,
our savior, our burden. With a look of pure nausea.
Or So walked to the side of the wagon. He
ran his hand over the wood. We stop, he said,
It wasn't a question. He turned to me, his face grim,
dre Look at us. We are pulling this thing by hand.
We are making a mile an hour. We are surrounded
by jackals, and we are bleeding into the underbrush. He
pointed to a dense thicket of briers near a large
rock formation. We bury it, or So said, right here,
we dig a pit, we bury the gold, We mark
the trees. We leave the wagon as a decoy. We
walk out of here light and fast. We survive the winter,
and we come back with fresh horses and men to
reclaim it. It was smart, a small delay to secure
riches beyond belief, and I hated it. I felt the
rage spike in my chest, hot and blinding. Bury it
put my kingdom in the dirt. Hide it like a
dog hides a bone. Across the distance between us. In
two strides, I grabbed or So by his tunic and
slammed him against the side of the wagon. The wood groaned.
We do not bury it, I snarled, my face inches
from his ray. Be reasonable, or So shouted, not fighting back,
just staring at me with those cold, calculating eyes. It's
a tactical retreat. If we keep hauling this, they will
swarm us. We are prey. That's exactly why we don't
hide it, I roared, throwing him back. I turned to
the others. They were looking at me like I was mad.
Maybe I was, but I saw something they didn't. You
bury things you're ashamed of, I yelled, pacing in front
of the wagon. You bury things you're afraid to lose.
If we put this gold in the ground, we are
admitting that we are weak. We are admitting that we
are thieves running from the law. I drew my sword.
I walked to the nearest tree, where a shadow seemed
to linger. I slashed at the branch, severing it. They
are watching us, I shouted into the silent woods. Good
let them watch. I turned back to Orso, breathing hard
Jackal circle the w the wounded, or so, they circle
the things that are bleeding and afraid. I slammed my
sword against the iron rim of the wagon wheel. Clang.
The sound rang out, sharp and defiant, echoing through the trees.
We don't hide, we don't bury. We light the torches,
We make noise. I glared into the dark, challenging the
invisible eyes I knew were there. If the jackals come,
I growled, we show them that we are the lions.
We show them that we are the biggest, meanest things
in this forest, and we go exactly where we please.
I picked up the yoke. The leather bit into my skin.
Pick it up, I ordered. We walk, and if they
want it. Chapter seven, A feast of scraps didn't even
wait for the sun to go down. That was their
first mistake. We were hauling the wagon through a narrow defile,
the wheels riding over tree roots, when the brush exploded.
A dozen men in rags painted with mud and ash,
screaming like demons. It was adorable. They thought we were exhausted.
They thought we were beasts of burden, broken by the
weight of the cart. They saw stigand in me in
the yoke, sweating and grunting, and they saw meat. I
didn't realize that beasts of burden are strong, drop it,
I roared, Stigan, and I didn't unhitch. We just stopped pulling.
The wagon's momentum carried it forward another foot, the sudden
halt jarring the frame. The first bandit reached me, he
had a rusted wood axe and a desperate look in
his eyes. He swung. I didn't bother, drawing my sword.
I stepped inside his guard, grabbed his throat with my
free hand, and slammed his head against the iron rimmed
wheel of the wagon. His skull gave way with a
wet crunch. Stiggan was even less subtle. He didn't have
his axe in hand. He was still strapped to the yoke,
so he used the yoke. He pivoted his massive body,
swinging the heavy wooden beam like a club, dragging the
wagon tongue with him. He caught two bandits in the chest,
shattering ribs and sending them flying into the briers or
so flank. I barked, finally drawing my blade. It wasn't
a battle, It was a pest control operation. These weren't soldiers.
They were starving tangle rats who would believed the rumor
of easy gold. They fought with desperation, flailing and stabbing wildly.
We fought with the cold, bored efficiency of men who
had just butchered the stern guard. Brinn put an arrow
through a man's eye From ten paces, Dix was a blur,
weaving through the melee, hamstringing men, just to watch them fall.
In two minutes, eight of them were dead in the dirt.
Remaining four dropped their weapons. They fell to their knees, weeping,
begging for mercy, hands raised to the sky. I wiped
my blade on a dead man's tunic. I looked at
the survivors. They were pathetic, scrawny, stinking, shaking with terror mercy.
One of them sobbed, please, lords, we were starving. We
didn't know. You didn't know we were lions, I said,
looming over him. You thought we were sheep because we
were pulling a cart. I looked at Gis. He was vibrating.
He was bored with the walking board, with the hauling.
He needed to play, Dix, I said, softly, they need
to learn a lesson, and they need to teach the
rest of the forest. Dix's painted face split into a wide,
terrible grin. He sheathed his Maine knives and pulled out
a small curved skinning blade. A lesson, He chirped, Yes,
a story. Stories need to be memorable. I walked away.
I didn't want to watch. I needed to eat. He
rated the bandits camp a pathetic hideout, just fifty yards
into the tree line. They had nothing of value except food,
salted pork, dried apples, a cask of decent ale. He
sat on the wagon tongue the scum kings eating the
bandit's own dinner while gigs worked in the background. Sounds
were wet and high pitched. There was screaming at first,
then just whimpering, then a strange, bubbling silence. Bob was
cooking the pork over a fire made from the bandit's spears.
He was humming, happy to be cooking real meat again,
studiously ignoring the horror happening ten feet away. Stiggin tore
into a loaf of bread, washing it down with the
stone an ale. His mood improved by the brief violence.
This pork is tough, stig and grumbled, chewing loudly. It's free,
I said, savoring the salt on my tongue. It tastes
like victory. An hour later, gigs emerged from the bushes.
He was wiping his hands on a rag. He looked refreshed.
They are ready to go, he announced, happily, stood up
and walked over to inspect his work. He hadn't killed them,
that would have been a waste. He had altered them.
It had taken their clothes. He had shaved their heads
and into the flesh of their chests and backs. He
had carved a single word, deep and jagged, the letters
weeping red blood pray. That wasn't the worst part. He
had cut the tendons in their hands so they hung
uselessly like paws, and he had sown their mouths shut
with rough twine. They couldn't speak, they couldn't hold weapons.
They could only run. They were living, breathing billboards of
our cruelty. I looked at the four trembling wretches, run,
I said.
Speaker 1: They ran.
Speaker 2: They stumbled into the forest, a silent, bleeding pack of warnings.
I walked back to the fire. I took a bite
of an apple. It was crisp and sweet. The forest
will be quiet tonight, or so said staring into the flames,
I I said, looking out into the darkening woods, The
jackals know better now. I looked at the wagon. It
wasn't a burden anymore. It was a trap, and we
had just snapped it shut on the first fools to
test it. Eat up, I told the crew Chapter eight.
The crossroads road, if you could call it, that, died
at a split stone. We stopped the wagon. The wheels
settled into the dirt with a heavy, exhausted groan that
matched the sound of my own joints. We stood at
a wide junction, a scar in the wilderness where the
ancient pavers had disagreed on where to go. To the left,
the path wound westward, disappearing into the dense, dark heart
of the deep wilderness. The trees there were thick, the
shadows long. It was the path to the unforged lands,
to places where no map maker from the sea had
ever bothered to walk. To the right, the road widened.
It sloped downward, toward the distant shimmer of the Muddy
Fork River valley, toward civilization, toward the smoke of chimneys.
Speaker 1: Or so didn't wait.
Speaker 2: He walked to the left fork and pointed west. He said,
his voice ragged with fatigue but firm with conviction.
Speaker 1: We go deep.
Speaker 2: There are caves in the foothills of the stone fence.
We stashed the wagon, we built forge. We spend the
winter melting this, this evidence down into generic bars. He
looked at me, his eyes pleading for sanity. It's the
only way, Dre we vanish. We become ghosts again. In
the spring we walk out rich and anonymous. I looked
at the western path. It looked cold, It looked quiet.
It looked like a long, slow year of hiding in
a hole, scrubbing the face of a god off of
gold coins one by one. It looked like the life
of a frightened rat. Then I looked east, held out
my hand. Let me see the map. Or So stood there,
staring Dre be reasonable. I didn't reply, and he pulled
the map out of his pack, practically throwing it at me.
I unrolled it on the side of the wagon, smoothing
the vellum against the rough wood show me, I said,
or So sighed and stabbed a finger at a cluster
of inclines near the river. There Vance's Folly, a trade
town logging some river commerce. It has a wall, a garrison,
and a mayor who pays his taxes to the concord.
If we go there with this wagon, we are hanging ourselves.
I stared at the ink. Or So saw a threat.
He saw a garrison and laws. I saw geometry. I
traced the line of the river. It curved around the
town on three sides, a natural moat. I traced the road.
It ran straight through the town gates, the only viable
trade route for fifty miles. It has a smithy, I asked.
It's a trade town, so yes, or So snapped, probably three,
and a constabulary and eyes. It has cellars, I asked,
stone foundations. Hey listen to me. Or So slammed his
hand on the map. It has people. You can't just
roll a stolen treasury into a town square. We need
to hide. I looked up from the map. I looked
at the miserable, shivering crew. Stiggand was leaning against the wheel,
picking his teeth with a splinter, looking bored. GX was
braiding grass. I'm done hiding, or So, I said quietly.
I looked back at the map. Vance's folly. It wasn't
just a dot of ink. It was a choke point.
It was a cork in the bottle of the river trade.
You see a town I said, my voice rising. I
see a fortress. I see a smithy to reforge our armor.
I see cellars to hold our vault. I see walls
to keep the world out. I straightened up, rolling the
map tight. We aren't melting this gold down in a
cave like goblins, I said. We aren't spending the winter
shivering in the dark. I walked to the front of
the wagon. I grabbed the yoke. We go east, or
so stepped in front of me. That is suicide. You
are declaring war on the world. No, I smiled, and
it was a cold, sharp thing. I'm declaring myself. I
looked at stiggand Northman. Do you want to sleep in
a cave for six months? Or do you want to
sleep in a feather bed and drink a Mayre's wine.
Stigan didn't hesitate. He spat out the splinter. I hate
caves too damp. He grabbed the other side of the yoke.
Turn it, I ordered. The crew hesitated for a second,
looking at the dark safety of the western woods. Then
the greed took hold the promise of soft beds, hot food,
and the power we had tasted at the abbey. The
wheels groaned in protest, biting into the dirt as we
forced the heavy wagon around. We turned our backs on
the safety of the wilderness. We turned our backs on obscurity.
It pointed the tongue of the wagon down the slope,
toward the smoke and the river. We aren't going to
hide the gold, or so I said, leaning into the
weight as the wagon began to roll. We're going to
put it on a throne.