Speaker 1: The Scum Kings created and written by Mike Daltrey, Episode eighteen,
The March of the Kings.
Speaker 2: The Silver changed us. It was an antidote to the
despair that had settled deep in our bones. For the
first time, and as long as I could remember, we
marched with our heads up. The sullen, shuffling silence was gone,
replaced by a current of restless energy. For the first time,
we were marching towards something, not just a way. The
change was most obvious in Cobb, the cook, who had
been a whimpering shadow for weeks, now walked with a
bounce in his step, chattering endlessly to anyone who would listen.
A real market, he'd say, his eyes wide with a
feverish dream. Imagine it gets carrots, onions, maybe a turnip,
a real mere pois. We could buy a bit of
salted pork, render the fat a stew so rich it
would make a bishop weep. Stigan had rediscovered his laugh.
To hell with stew. Cob, I want ale, they say,
the ale and gray mark is black as mud and
twice as thick, and the fighting pits. A man with
a strong arm can make a real name for himself.
There coin and glory, all for a few broken knuckles.
They were no longer just surviving. They were a band
with a purpose and for the first time, a pay roll.
They were dreaming of the future. That night, we made
a proper camp. We lit a fire, not just for warmth,
but for comfort. Its cheerful light pushed back the darkness,
and for a moment we were not hunted animals, but
travelers resting on a journey. Stiggin raised his waterskin as
if it were a horn of prize winning mead to
gray Mark. It boomed to beds that don't have roots
in them, and women who don't smell of the farm.
From across the fire, the soft rhythmic sound of a
whetstone on steel was the only reply. Orso didn't look
up from sharpening his dagger, his scarred face a mask
of concentration in the firelight. To Graymark, he said, his
voice a low, cutting murmur, to the corrupt city watch
that will happily slit your throat for the rings in
your beard, To the cutthroat guilds who control every drop
of that ale you're dreaming of, And to the spies
in every tavern who are already marking you as a
loud mouthed northerner with more muscle than sense. Stigin just laughed,
completely untroubled by Orso's grim accounting you worry too much,
or So. A strong arm and a heavy axe are
worth more than a fat purse in any city. Sharp
knife in a dark alley beats a strong arm in
a bar brawl every time, or So countered, pausing to
test the blade's edge with his thumb. The city is
not a fighting pit, stiggened. The rules are quieter and
all the referees are on the take. It's a different
kind of brawl. He looked up, then, his sharp eyes
sweeping over all of us. We are walking into a web.
Don't be the fool fly that gets himself caught. The
first night, the march continued for two more days, the
excitement of the city pulling us forward. On the final afternoon,
the woods began to thin, the trees giving weight to
rolling open hills. We were moving through a landscape that
felt tamer, more touched by the hands of men. Brynn
had been scouting ahead, a silent ghost flitting through the trees.
She reappeared as suddenly as she had vanished. She didn't speak,
she just stopped in our path and pointed. We followed
her gesture. Through a gap in the trees. Miles in
the distance, but clear as a carving against the horizon,
we saw them. The high stone walls of Gray mark
a city, a real city. It was no longer a
half believed story on a cracked leather map. It was
a destination. The promise of the Silver was now a
fortress of stone waiting for us.