Speaker 1: The scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey, Chapter forty two. They ignored. They
won't let me build it. But I have a better idea.
This is a port town. There is a shipwright or
citizens who repair boats. They can make us a stable raft.
I will show them all that I can still lead.
I don't need a raft made of barrels. I don't
need driftwood. I need a keel. I need ribs. I
need a vessel that can cut the current of the
water and march out of the Mayor's hall. My sword
is on my hip. My armor is strapped tight, holding
me together. Blacksmith, I scream into the empty market. Carpenter.
I need a man who knows wood. A woman walks
past me. She's carrying a bundle of clothes. She doesn't
look up you. I grab her arm. Do you know
a carpenter. She pulls away. She doesn't scream, she doesn't
beg she just keeps walking. I am speaking to you.
I draw my sword. The sound usually stops hearts. Today
it doesn't even stop footsteps. Man pushes a hand cart
past me. He actually bumps my hip. Watch yourself, I snarl.
I will take your head. Grunts and keeps pushing. They
aren't ignoring me. It's worse. They're flowing around me. I
am a stone in the stream, something they can just
flow right past. I run after them. Where are you going?
The hounds are out there. They will kill you. They
don't answer. They just move a river of gray body,
all flowing in one direction toward the gate. I follow them.
The crowd at the gate is thick. They aren't screaming.
They are working. Men are pulling at the timbers or
so and I wedged against the doors. Women are dragging
debris away. And there directing them is Jarrin. His hands
are wrapped in dirty bandages. He can't lift a finger,
but he guards the work like a captain. Heave, he
croaks together. Stop, I roar. I shove my way through
the mob. That is my gait, that is my barricade.
They part for me, not out of fear, but out
of utility. I am just another obstacle to be moved.
I reach Jaren, I point my sword at his chest.
You'll let them in. I spit. You'll let the hounds in,
and they will slaughter you. Jaron looks at me. His
eyes are old, tired. They might, he says, but it's
better than being locked in here with you. The words
hit me harder than a fist. I don't know how
to reply to that. Ruling by force is all I've known.
If you don't like that, you end up in a
pool of blood. But these people, they prefer to be
pools of blood over my rule of force. I am
your king, I whisper. He doesn't object, he doesn't spit
in my face. He doesn't hurl insults at me. Worse,
he just turns away and ignores me. He turns back
to the men. Pull. I will kill you. I raise
the sword. I will do it. I will cut him
in half. I will make them see me. They'll understand
that being a pool of blood is worse. The mob
turns fifty people a hundred. They stop working. They just
look at me. They don't have weapons, they have desperation,
they have hate. Jaren doesn't flinch. I grip the hilt,
my hand is shaking. A hand lands on my arm,
heavy calloused. I spin around. It's or so. I didn't
hear him. Come up. I never hear him. He looks
at the mob. He looks at Jaren. Then he looks
at me. It's time to go, he says, softly. We
can stop the more so we can. No, we can't.
He tightens his grip on my arm. He pulls me
back just an inch, but it breaks the spell. The river,
he says, look at the gate one last time. The
timber groans. It's giving way. I lower the sword the river,
I agree, return and run. The town doesn't even watch
us go