Speaker 1: The scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey.
Speaker 2: Chapter thirty five, The Cookfires. It starts with the wind.
The wind has always been our enemy. Here it blows
in from the river, carrying the damp rod of dead
fish and weeds. But today the wind brings something else.
I'm sitting on the steps of the Mayor's hall. I
haven't slept in two days, or maybe three. The days
blur together.
Speaker 1: When you're hungry.
Speaker 2: I lift my head bacon, thick, fatty, wood smoked bacon.
My stomach cramps so hard I almost double over. It's
a physical pain, sharp and immediate. I stumble to my feet.
I'm not the only one. The townsfolk are coming out
of their hovels. They look like ghosts, faces gray, eyes, sunken.
They lift their noses to the air, sniffing like dogs.
Then comes the garlic, the roasting chicken, the yeasty, warm
smell of baking bread. I walk to the wall. I
have to see the hounds are cooking if dug long
pits just outside the range of our bows, not that
we have anyone manning the bows. They've filled the pits
with charcoal and on top of the pits. They're roasting pigs,
whole pigs, dozens of them. Giant cauldrons of stew are
bubbling over open fires. Baskets of fresh bread are stacked
on tables. Casks of ale are being tapped with mallets
that sound like thunderclaps in the quiet morning. It's a feast,
a feast for an army of giants. They're doing it
on purpose. They've set up huge fans, canvas stretched over
wooden frames. Soldiers are working the fans, waving them rhythmically,
pushing the smoke, the smell, the impossible promise of food
directly toward our walls. It's brilliant, it's cruel. It's the
most violent thing I've ever seen. Bastards. I whisper. My
mouth is watering so much I have to swallow every
two seconds. Clever bastards. I look down at the town.
It's not a town anymore. It's an animal. People are
pressing against the gate. They're scratching at the wood. They
aren't trying to fight the invaders. They're trying to get
to the food.
Speaker 1: Open it.
Speaker 2: Someone screams, let us out. They're so delirious they don't
realize The gate is held together with riverboat rope that
they could remove with a kitchen knife and enough effort.
I can smell it. A woman sobs. She's clawing at
her own face. Please just let me smell it closer.
I see a man, a tanner I recognize, climb up
the bracing of the wall. He gets to the top.
He stands there for a second, looking down at the
roasting pits. Then he jumps. He doesn't jump to fight,
he doesn't have a weapon. He jumps because he's delirious.
He hits the ground thirty feet below. He doesn't get up.
The hounds don't even look up from their cooking. They
just keep turning the spits, turn away from the wall.
I can't watch. I find Orso in the courtyard. He's
sharpening his knife again, always the knife. You smell it,
I ask. He nods, without looking up. Rosemary and pork.
They're breaking us without firing a shot. Or So stops sharpening.
He holds the blade up to the light. We're already broke, ok, Andre,
they're just ringing the dinner bell. We can't let them
do this. We have to we have to sally out.
We have to destroy the food or So laughs, Sally
out with what army? Look at them? He points to
the gate. The mob is growing. They aren't whispering anymore.
They're moaning a low, collective sound of hunger. If you
open that gate, or So says softly, they won't follow
you into battle. They'll trample you to get to the scraps.
He shrugs. Hell, open the gate. The people will distract
the hounds more than our swords will. He goes back
to sharpening. I walk back to the Mayor's hall. I
shut the heavy doors, I bar them, but I can't
shut out the smell. It seeps through the cracks, It
creeps under the door. It fills the room, mocking me,
reminding me of everything I'm not. I sit on the throne.
My stomach screams, close my eyes and dream of bacon.