Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production created and
written by Mike Daltrey. Chapter forty four. The river piers
solid and a reminder of a town that once was
busy with loading and unloading wagons and boats. The boat
is not. It's a reminder of a group that were
once rich beyond their wildest imaginations, but are now hopeful
they don't drown. Stigan drags the raft to the edge.
It scrapes along the warped wood, leaving a trail of splinters.
Thing is an abomination. Two oak benches lashed to four
ale barrels with rope and shredded curtains. Gix's contribution shutter
slats whittled into paddles. It looks like something a child
would build to cross a puddle, not a river swollen
with spring melt. That's not a boat, I say, it's
not supposed to be a boat, or so, replies. He's
already stepping out onto the first barrel, testing his weight.
The barrel dips, water lapping over the edge. It's supposed
to float. Before I can comment on his description that
it is supposed to float, stigand pushes the whole thing
into the water, it bobs, it lists, but it floats
for a long moment. We all just stare at it. Well.
Gigs is rocking on his heels, grinning. His filed teeth
catch the gray light. Who wants to die first? Delaye
nods at me. Drey's dressed for swimming. He should do it.
She stifles a laugh as she stares me standing in
my shit stained underwear. Or so steps on his weight,
pushes the raft down, but it holds. He settles into
a crouch in the center, distributing his mass carefully. I
forgot that he was a boatman's son before he was
a killer. Stigan goes next. The big Northman is hesitant,
his braided beard more tangled and unkempt than normal. Brushes
his chest as he looks down at the water. I
remember him saying he couldn't swim. The memory feels like
it belongs to another life. He steps on the raft, groans,
the lashings tighten. One of the benches cracks, but it holds.
I go third. The raft dips further. I feel the
cold of the river seeping through my thin undergarments. My
bare feet slip on the wet wood. We all look
at Gicks he's standing on the pier. He's wearing his crown,
and he's grinning. He's always been thin, unnervingly so, all
limbs and sinew, but now, after weeks of starvation, he's skeletal,
a specter in a madman's paint. He steps onto the raft,
the whole contraption to the right. Water rushes over the rim.
Stiggin yelps a sound I've never heard from him, and
grabs at a barrel or So throws his weight the
other way. I scramble for balance, my hands splashing in
the freezing water. Dix laughs, high and bright, like a
child at a fair careful GX, I snarl careful. He
cocks his head. I'm the lightest one here. If I'm
the one that tips us, you've all gotten very, very fat.
He settles down cross legged on the bow. The raft steadies.
It's still listing, still taking on water, but it's stable.
It holds. Stiggin lets out a long, shaky breath. His
massive hands are white knuckled around the barrel's rim. He
looks at Orso. Push off, or So, says. Stigen uses
one of Gis's paddles to shove us away from the
pier the planks for seed. The current catches us, gentle
at first, then stronger. We drift. The town shrinks behind us.
Smoke is rising from the chimneys, now not the smoke
of war, but of fires. They're already cooking. The hounds
are feeding them. Look at my hands, they're still holding
two gold bars in the tangle. We would have given
anthing for a few silver coins. Two gold bars is
unfathomable wealth. And yet I can't help but be disappointed.
I had it all. We had it all. Now what
stigand interrupts my reverie. He's found a paddle and is
holding it like a weapon, unsure of what to do
with it or so takes the other He dips it
into the water, testing the drag. We row, We stay
in the center of the current. We put as much
distance between us and that place as we can and
the hounds, I ask. We're in the center of the
river now. The current is strong here, pushing us downstream.
The town is already small, a toy fortress, and there
on the bank a line of figures in gray cloaks.
The hounds. They're not running, they're not mounting horses, They're
just standing there watching. Why aren't they following? I ask?
Or So doesn't look up from his paddling. They are.
I watch them for a long moment. More figures appear
from the trees, A dozen, two dozen. They're walking along
the bank, matching our pace, not rushing, not shouting. Patient,
Why aren't they shooting arrows at us? With this current,
we'll soon have distance between us and them. Or So
finally looks at me. His eyes are older than I've
ever seen them. I'm sure there are for us is
much greater alive than dead. Stiggan looks back at the
pursuing figures. So they're just going to follow us the
whole way until we reach a bridge or a ford,
or until we're stupid enough to beach the raft on
the side of the river. Then we stay on the raft,
I say, until we starve or freeze, or the raft
falls apart. Or So dips his paddle again. His strokes
are smooth, practiced. We're not escaping dre We're just buying time.
Time for what. He doesn't answer. Look at stigand he's
staring at the water, his paddle forgotten. His face is gray.
I try to remember the last time I heard him laugh,
that booming, joyful sound that used to fill the campfire.
I can't. He's not the champion of the fighting pits anymore.
He's not the wall. He's just a tired, hungry man
who can't swim, floating on a pile of trash. Dix
is singing. It's a low, tuneless hum, the melody unrecognizable.
He's staring at the sky, his filed teeth bared in
a perpetual empty grin. The madness that made him terrifying
now just makes him sad. He's a gesture in a
court that no longer exists. And or So Orso is
still Orso, still calculating, still efficient, still paddling us downstream
with the cold precision of a man who has already
accepted the outcome and is simply working to delay it.
He's the only one of us who looks alive, and
even he looks like he's operating on borrowed time. The
line sits next to Orso and scans the river, upstream
and down. Her head moves with the same attention it
always had, looking for threats, looking for opportunities. I think
about Bryn, about Cobb, Where's Cob, I can't believe I
just simply forgot about him. Where's Cob, I finally ask.
He left through the gate. I'm thinking he's probably cooking
for the hounds. Now. Orso's voice is flat, without a
tinge of anger. He abandoned us. I feel a flash
of rage. This is worse than Brynn, who left for
her own path. Cob left for the enemy. There was
nothing to abandon. Or So says. The words, and his
tone one I'm familiar with. It's a tone that says,
change the subject. I don't want to talk about it.
You don't want to talk about it. I don't reply.
I look around the raft again. We are what's left
of the scum Kings, Five filthy kings on a sinking raft,
clutching two gold bars and fleeing from an army that
isn't even bothering to run. The current pushes us around
a bend. The town disappears behind a line of trees
for a moment. Can pretend it never happened, that we
never took it, that we were never richer than any
city in the Concord, that we were ever kings. The
hounds are still there, walking along the bank slowly falling
behind but not giving up. Chapter forty five, The Return
of a Friend. We've been floating for hours. The sun
is low, hidden behind a ceiling of leaden clouds. The
river is a flat, gray snake winding through endless woods.
The cold is settling in. My fingers are numb. It's
not just the cold, it's the wet cold. My legs
dangling in the water to stabilize this pile of trash
feel like dead wood. Stigging is shivering so hard the
raft vibrates. Dix has stopped singing. He's curled into a
ball on the center barrel, staring at Nothing's lane. And
or So are watching the bank, and the hounds are
watching us. They are still there. We can't see them.
Or So claims the main force remained behind, and they
just have a single tracker following our progress. But I
don't believe him. I know they're out there in the woods,
ready for us to make one mistake. We can fight them,
I say, It's the tenth time I've said it. We
paddle to the far bank. I continue trying to inject
some fire into my voice. We beach this thing. We
find a defensible position in the rocks, we die, or
So cuts me off. He doesn't even look at me,
either now or when the tracker returns with men, Dre.
We have no armor, no bows. You want to charge
a patrol of twenty armored men with wooden slats. It's
better than this, I snarl. It's better than freezing today
on a floating door. Bit you, Dre. Your stench is
the best defense we have, and that won't stop them.
I turn to look at Selaine. She didn't say it
as a joke, which makes me all the more angry.
Nothing is going to happen. I stand up. The raft lurches,
water sloshes over my feet. We are kings. We do
not die like rats in a bucket. We sit down, Dre,
or So says tired, dismissive. I am giving an order.
You're rocking the boat. Stare at him, my second, my general.
He's not looking at me with respect or fear or
even anger. He's looking at me like I'm a nuisance,
a child throwing a tantrum. I am not the king anymore.
I am just noise. Sink back down onto the wet wood.
I am a poor man, stigging, big, useless, and if
I'm not killing something. I'm just taking up space. We
drift the narrows approach. The current picks up, the water churns,
white foam appearing around the raft. The raft may not
hold or so grips's paddle. Get ready to swim. I
can't stick. Int whispers, Then a sound from up river
behind us, a rhythmic splash, creek, splash, creek. We turn.
Boat appears cutting through the gray water. Not a raft,
a ship, A river cutter, sleek and low with a
furled sail and six oars biting the water in perfect unison.
It's moving fast, faster than the current, faster than us.
Looks like the hounds decided not to wait after all,
Selaine says. Her hand goes to the knife at her belt,
sweeps toward us. It's going to ram us. It's going
to smash our pathetic raft into kindling and drown us. All.
I hold the gold ingots like blunt cudgels. If this
is the end, I will at least use our riches
for something. The boat looms over us, Shadows fall across
the raft, hard to starboard. A voice shouts. The cutter
swings it pulls alongside us with a spray of cold water.
I look up at the gunwol Two women stand there.
They wear leather armor, practical and scarred. They hold crossbows
leveled at our chests. They don't look like hounds, they
look like professionals. Between them, stepping up to the rail,
is a figure in a wolf fur cloak. She pushes
back her hood, green eyes, wild hair, a face hard
as flint brin. My mouth falls open, Bryn. She looks
down at us, at the sinking raft, at the filth,
at the shivering, pathetic mess of the scum kings. She
doesn't smile. You look terrible. She says, you came back.
Gigs whispers I needed a crew, she says. Get on, women,
lower a rope ladder. We scramble, shove Stiggins toward the ladder.
Go move. He hauls himself up, grunting. Selaine follows, nimble
as a spider. Gick scampers up like a monkey. I
climb last. I tumble over the rail and hit the deck.
It's solid, dry. It smells of pine, pitch and oil.
I look up. Or So is standing next to Bryn.
He's looking at the rigging, at the tiller, at the
crew of women who are already rushing to reset the oars.
He nods to Bryn, acknowledging, respecting she's fast, He says
she is. Brynn replies, we should head for the coast.
We can lose ourselves there and melt down Dre's ingots.
Brynn looks at him, unmoving her jaw set. We should
do what I order we do. Or So stares at
her and then nods his head. I Captain, what can
we do? She barks in order to her women, then
turns back to Orso. For now, stay out of the way.
A woman brings us blankets, and or So leads us
to surprisingly large cabin below decks. Bryn nods at him
as we pass. I get it. They are a unit.
Two leaders, also the mind and deputy, and Brin the captain,
and I I am sitting below decks in my underwear, shivering.
At least we escaped. I think Cob is probably happier
than he's ever been, cooking for a force that has
plenty of food and ingredients. Bria has a ship and crew,
and we are safe and comfortable, if not warm. But
as soon as I take comfort in that, the thought
leaves my mind. The scum kings didn't escape. The scum
Kings died in that town. What's left is something else,
something harder, something colder. And I am no longer it's king.
I am just one of the scum. I lean back
against the hardwood of the hull. I close my eyes.
Chapter one. At least it's not a raft. The air
doesn't smell like mud anymore. It smells like pine pitch,
like wet hemp and drying fish. It smells like movement
for months or weeks. I don't really know or care.
What I do know is that we lived in the
rotten muck of van It's his folly the whole time,
watching the world shrink down to the size of a
vomit strewn alley. But now now the fresh air flows
through our hair. Stiggand is leaning over the rail of
the river demon like a child watching a parade. The
Northman has never been on a boat bigger than a canoe,
and to him, this river Cutter is a floating fortress.
He laughs, a deep booming sound that scares a flock
of herons from the reeds. He fears the water, but
he loves the fresh air more. Look at it, dre
He shouts, slapping the wood. Look at the trees moving.
We're flying, lean back against the warm wood of the cabin.
I have a belly full of fresh river trout, cooked,
not scavenged. The sun is warm. The hounds are miles
behind us, lost in the swamps we left in our wake.
For the first time in a year, my hand isn't
hovering over my knife. Brenn stands at the tiller. She
isn't wearing her lemore. She's found a coat, a long
blue thing with brass buttons, green from salt. She looks ridiculous,
she looks dangerous, she looks happy. Current is strong. She
shouts her voice tight with a command tone. She's clearly
practicing keep your men off the rope. Stray. My crew
knows the rig, yours. Just get in the way, my men,
her crew. That's the joke. A dozen runaways, all women,
all scowling, all muscle their cutthroats. She gathered while we
were playing house in Vance's folly. They move around us
like we are furniture. They don't look at me with fear.
They don't look at Stiggand with awe. They look at
us like cargo, heavy, useless cargo. Fix is sitting on
a coil of rope near the mast. Like me, he's
eating fish, but he's eating his raw, spitting out bits
of bone and gray innerds sliding down his I don't
even think he scaled the thing. Fishy, fishy, He shrieks,
licking some particularly disgusting big of intestines off his wrist.
The sailor walks past a woman with a scar across
her nose. She doesn't flinch. She just steps over gigs
his legs and keeps walking, shaking her head. That bothers
me more than Gigx is chewing. Stigging turns from the rail, beaming.
He takes a step toward me. Crack. His boot goes
right through the deck. The wood gives way like wet cardboard.
He stumbles, catching himself on the gunwale, his leg buried
shin deep in the planking. Laughter stops. Brind's crew stops moving.
They just look watch the heavy foot. The scarred woman shouts,
mammoth on deck. The crew laughs, it's not friendly. It's
the laugh you give a clumsy ox. Another woman walks over.
Watch what you're doing? Yeah? Oh? Stigging pulls his leg free.
He looks ready to shout. Ready to grab an axe
and split the mocker's skull, but he doesn't. He looks
at Bryn. Bryn doesn't even turn around. She just adjusts
the tiller, eyes on the river. Stigging limps over to me.
He rubs his shin, looking back at the jagged hole.
The wood inside is black, spongy gray, he whispers. He
sounds small. I didn't stomp, I just walked. I look
at the hole, then I look at the mast. The
wood is gray, The ropes are frayed. The river demon
is held together by tar and stubbornness. The varnish hides
the rot, but the rot is deep. I think it's
the ship, dre Stiggin whispers, like he's afraid of offending
the timber. Of course, it's the ship, I say, being
my voice low, so Brinn won't hear. This thing is
a piece of floating shit. Or So is leaning against
the gunwle next to us, cleaning his fingernails with his dagger.
He looks cleaner than I've seen him in a year.
He watches the shore go by, his eyes, cold and calculating.
At least it's not a raft, he says, and the
hounds aren't on it. He adds, chewing slowly, so step lightly,
big man. We're ballast here, and ballast gets thrown over
when the water gets rough. I look back at Brynn.
She is pointing at a sail, shouting orders to the
scar nosed woman. She believes it. She wanted to roam
the river, and she's doing it. Good for her. But
this rod is not worship, no matter how hard she believes.
But that's okay. Let her believe. Belief keeps us moving.
I check the dagger at my belt anyway, just to
make sure it's loose in the sheathings. You don't ride
his cargo for long. Look down at the black water
rushing past the hull. Remove Chapter two The Jester. The
boredom is worse than wondering. If a plank is going
snap under your feet. On land, there is always somewhere
to walk. If the camp gets too loud, you walk
into the dark. If the men are grating on your nerves,
you scout ahead. But on a boat, a boat is
a cage that floats. We are drifting down a wide,
brown stretch of the river. The wind slack and the sails.
The silence is heavy, broken only by the creak of
the rigging and the wet slap of the water against
the hull. X is vibrating. That's the only word for it.
He's sitting on a barrel of salted fish, his legs bouncing,
his fingers twitching. He looks like a coiled spring covered
in soot. Boredom for Gicks is dangerous. This before, in
the Gray Tangle, when the rain didn't stop for three days,
he started carving faces into the trees, faces that look
like the people we'd killed in that tavern in gray Mark,
when we were hiding from the guard, he started playing
a game with a knife and his own fingers that
made even Stiggin leave the room. He needs stimulation, or
he turns. He doesn't turn bad, he doesn't turn profane.
He turns into himself. He hops off the barrel entertainments.
He announces his voice too loud for the quiet river.
Since the wind has decided to nap, the Great Gicks
shall provide the gale. Few of Brin's crew glance over.
They're bored too polishing brass or mending nets. They don't
know him yet. They think he's just the ugly one
with the painted face. Watch closely, Dicks shouts. He reaches
into his pocket and pulls out a gold coin. A
hand goes to my belt. It's a Solari, pure gold.
Everyone had seen my gold bars when they pulled me
on the ship, and that's a whole level of tension
I have to manage. As Brinn said, we'll talk about
this later. It's a conversation I'm not looking forward to.
But now Gicks showing off a coin worth more than
the ship shows that we may just all be wealthy.
And being wealthy and showing off gold on a ship
full of mercenaries is a dangerous thing. Or so catches
my eye from the rail. He sees it too. He
shakes his head slightly. Don't move yet. Dix holds the
coin up. It catches the sun, a bright, dangerous spark.
Now you see the wealth. And now he claps his
hands like our own miserable lives. He laughs and lacks
any mirth at all. He opens them empty, Gone, he squeals.
The scarred woman, the one who yelled at Stiggand yesterday, snorts, impressive,
did you eat it better? Dick's giggles. He waddles over
to her. She instinctively puts a hand on her knife,
but he stops a foot away. I didn't eat it,
but you can find it. He points to the front
of his trousers. The fabric is stained and frayed. It's
with my other valuables. Go on reach. He starts to
untie his trousers. The woman's face twists in disgust. Get
away from me, you little rat, the crew grumbles. It's
not angry yet, just annoyed. He's being a pest a pervert.
Ick shrugs, undeterred. Suit yourself, you're missing out on the wonder.
He reaches into his own pants, digging deep, his tongue
poking out of the corner of his mouth. He grunts,
fishing around, and then pulls his hand out. The coin
is between his fingers. Tah dah, he screams, thrusting it
towards her face. Woman recoils by the gods. Dix laughs,
tossing the coin in the air and catching it. He's
losing them, he can feel it. He needs to escalate.
Two sailors walk past carrying a crate of fresh river
fish destined for the salt barrel. The fish are still
thrashing their tails, whipping the air. Fresh participants gigs yells.
He dives into the crate. The sailors shout, dropping it.
Fish spill onto the deck, flopping in the slime. Dicks
grabs three of them. They are big, slick and fighting
for life. Up and up and up. He starts to
juggle them. It's actually incredible. The fish are writhing, slippery
as oil, but his hand's moving blur. He keeps them
in the air, a rotating circle of gray scales and
white bellies. The crew stops working. They watch. It's hard
not to The skill required is extraordinary. Look at them.
Fly gets laughs, his eyes wide and unblinking. They think
they're birds. Even or So is watching now. Jix catches
one of the fish mid air, but he doesn't throw
it back up. He brings it to his face, crunch,
the sound like stepping on dry twigs. A chunk of
fish is in his teeth while without missing a beat,
he continues to juggle blood and fish, guts flying as
he does so. He brings another fish to his face.
He bites the fish's head off. He spits the head
onto the deck and throws the headless body back into
the rotation. He catches the next one rip He tears
a chunk out of its stomach. This filed teeth guts
spill out, pink and gray spraying across his face. He
throws it back up. He's still juggling a headless fish,
a torn apart fish, a whole fish. Bud is flying
in an arc, splattering his chest, his face, the clean deck.
He isn't stopping. He grabs the third fish by the
tail and snaps his head forward, tearing the tail fin
off with a wet tear. He's laughing now. It's a
high mannic sound bubbling through the blood in his mouth.
Do you see? He screams his mouth full of raw meat.
They fly, they bleed, It's all the same. The crew
isn't grumbling anymore. They are silent. A scarred woman looks
at him, and her hand isn't hovering over her knife anymore.
It's gripping the handle, white knuckled. She looks horrified. I
look around the rest of the crew look stunned, as
if they are watching a torture session, which in a
way they are, And now realize what we know. He
isn't a jester, he isn't a fool. He's a rabbit animal.
We forgot to chain up X. I bark. He doesn't
hear me. He catches the headless carcass and mashes it
into his face, smearing slime and blood into his eyes.
He's lost in the red across the deck in three strides.
I don't reason with him. I grab his arm and
pull hard. The air leaves him in a whoosh. He
flies back toward me, crashing into the chest. He's thin,
I am not. He lets out a grunt. The fish
splat onto the deck around him. He looks up at me, blinked,
the blood out of his eyes for a second. I
see the murder there. I see the knife hand twitch,
and he sees it's me. Rage vanishes. He smiles, his
teeth red tough, crowd dre they'd prefer a bard, I think.
I grab him by the collar and shove him below.
I say my voice is low, but I make sure
the crew can hear it. Get cleaned up now. He
wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. I captain.
He winks at the scarred woman as he shuffles past
her towards the hatch. She takes a step back. I
look at the mess on the deck, the fish heads,
the guts, the blood I look at Brent at the tiller.
She isn't looking at the river anymore. She's looking at us.
She's seen, she knows. I think she was trying to
pretend a monster like Gigs could change the fact that
he hadn't clearly hits her. She looks like someone who
just realized she invited wolves into her sheep pen. I
kick the fish headboard back to work chapter three. The
green hell ship is shrinking. I swear it was forty
feet long when we stepped on board. Now, after three
weeks of the river's muddy monotony, it feels like a coffin.
I can't turn around without bumping into a coil of rope,
a barrel of salted gut rot or one of Brinn's
sour faced sailors, or so is worse. He paces the
small patch of clear deck near the bow. Four steps forward,
four steps back. He's like a wolf in a pit trap.
I need dirt, dre he mutters, not breaking his stride.
I need ground that doesn't heave every time the wind changes.
I lean against the rail, watching the tree line crawl by.
It's thick here, ancient, a wall of green vines and
black trunks, that seems to be trying to strangle the river.
I wonder how long this fucking river could possibly be.
We need water, I say. It's an excuse, but a
good one. The casks are low, and what's left tastes
like dead algae. We fine Brin at the tiller. She's
wearing that damned blue coat, looking at a map that
I know for a fact is just a drawing of
the coastline from fifty years ago. We're going ashore, I state,
it's not a request. Brynn looks up when eyebrow raised.
Are you now? And where pray tell is a shore
in this swamp? There's dry land on the east bank,
or So says, pointing to a break in the mangroves.
We need water, we can hunt. Bryn laughs. It's sharp
and dismissive. This isn't the ocean, eu wofs. The river
is our water. We boil it. The river tastes like shit,
I say, and I'm tired of boiled shit. She looks
at me, then at Orso. She sees the tension in
our shoulders. She knows. If she says no, we might
just take the boat, or at least try fine. She says,
waving a hand dismissively. Take the skiff, go play explorer,
get it out of your system. She stretches her arms.
Will weigh anchor and wait for you. I'm sure it
won't be long. We take the small boat, just me
and or So. We don't take stigand or Gix. We
need quiet, We need to think. As we row away
from the river demon the relief is physical. The air
feels cleaner, away from the scent of unwashed bodies and tar.
I've never wanted to be as far away from women
in my entire life. We could just keep walking, or
So says quietly, his eyes on the approaching tree line.
I look at him to wear Vesper. He says, it's south.
We have the sun, we have legs. How tough can
it be? Look at the map in my head, Vespers
hundreds of miles away. But we walked through the barren lands.
We survived the gray Tangle. It's far from the centers,
or so continues his voice, gaining strength, Far from the
sea's patrols, far from the Concord's factories. We get to
Vesper on our own terms, no brin, no debt. He
glances at my leather trousers and the rectangular bulges in
the pockets I roughly sewed together, and you have your gold.
It sounds good, it sounds like freedom. We hit the bank.
It looks solid black earth covered in moss. I step
out of the skiff, squelk. The ground isn't solid, it's
a crust over soup. My boot goes through and thick
black mud sucks at my ankle. I pull it free
with a wet pop. Solid enough, I lie. We push
into the trees. Ten minutes later, the dream of walking
to Vesper is dead. It's not a forest, it's a
green hell. The heat hits us like a physical blow,
heavy and wet. The air is thick with insects, clouds
of gnats that go for the eyes, mosquitoes the size
of wasps. Every step is a battle vine, snag our arms,
roots trip us and the ground. The ground is a lie.
I take a step onto a patch of ferns and
the world drops away. I fall to my waist in
an instant. The mud is cold and heavy, clamping around
my legs like iron shackles. I struggle and I sink
deeper to my chest ray or so lunges grabbing a
hanging vine with one hand and my collar with the other.
He pulls. I kick. The mud fights back, suctioning tight.
It smells of rot and duld death. Takes five minutes
of screaming effort to drag me free. I crawl onto
a tree root, gasping, covered in black slime that burns
my skin. Or So isn't doing better. He's slapping at
his neck, his face. The flies, he hisses, they bite.
His face is already swelling. Blood trickles from a dozen
tiny punctures. We sit there on the root, panting, the
jungle screaming around us with the sound of a million
unseen things. Vesper I wheeze, wiping mud from my eyes.
Just a nice stroll south. Or So spits out a
mouthful of gnats. He looks at his swollen hands. He
looks at the endless, impenetrable wall of green ahead of us.
Fuck the land, he says. Row back to the ship
is silent. We climb back onto the deck of the
River Demon. We are covered in mud, bleeding and smelling
of swamp rot. Brinn is there. She doesn't say a word.
She just looks at us, then at the shore, then
back at us. The corner of her mouth twitches. Where's
the water? Her twitch turns into a smile. Fuck you,
I reply as she laughs. I walk to the water cask.
I take a ladle of the brown boiled river water.
It tastes like mud and rust. I drink it all.
I look back at the shoreline, the green wall that
promised to escape. I hate it. I hate the trees,
I hate the mud, I hate the river. I hate
fucking everything. But mostly I hate that she was right.
We are trapped on the water. You want wh