Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey.
Speaker 2: Chapter thirty six, The Prison They're Leaving starts as a trickle.
A family with hand carts moving toward the gate, A
couple carrying blankets toward the river. The facade of the
gate being closed was exposed when a man simply threw
his body against it and fled through the opening. Then
more pushed through, and the gate was open. And now
families are just walking through, and the hounds they just watch.
The citizens aren't even running, they're just walking. Stand on
the balcony of the Mayor's Hall. I watched them. They're
walking toward the cookfires, toward the smell of pork and rosemary,
toward the hounds. Where are they going? I ask? Or
So is behind me. He doesn't look out the window.
He knows they're surrendering, dre They're trading their freedom for
a hot meal. They live here, they can't just leave.
Or So just laughs. I want to turn and punch him,
but instead I grip the railing bah.
Speaker 1: Let them leave.
Speaker 2: As soon as I say the words, I realize the
catastrophic problem such a thing would create. If they leave
who works the forge or cooks the food. I say
the words to myself, but or So answers no one.
I don't say anything, and or So adds, and there
is no food. I watch a woman drag a cart
with one broken wheel towards the gate. The rage starts
in my stomach. It's colder than the hunger. Stop them,
I say, how close the gates. Pray close the gates.
I spin around. Or So is looking at me. His
face is unreadable. If we close the gates, he says, slowly.
We aren't keeping them out, we're locking them in. Do it.
We march to the main gate, me or So and Gis.
The crowd is thick here, pushing toward the exit. Get back,
I scream, drawing my sword, this gate is closed. They
ignore me. They push past, step forward.
Speaker 1: I roar.
Speaker 2: It's a hollow sound, but it's loud enough. I swing
my sword, it passing within inches of a young girl.
Her mother screams. The crowd flinches. They step back, Push
it shut. I order sewing gigs put their shoulders to
broken gate. Or So hesitates, but only for a moment.
The groan the doors swing inward. It close, not with
a boom, but a pathetic creek. Grab some timber, I
say or So, and I pull in large, partially hewn
trunks of trees and bar the gate. We add more
and more thick pieces of lumber. It won't stop an army,
but it will stop hungry citizens. I walk back through
the crowd. They're looking at me hatred, pure distilled hatred.
I stop in the middle of the square. I look
up at the mayor's hall. I wanted a kingdom. I
wanted walls. I wanted subjects. I have them. I have
walls that keep people in. I have subjects who can't leave.
I have a throne I can't vacate. I'm not a king,
I'm a jailer, and I've just locked myself in the
prison with the animals. I starved. I look at Orso.
He's standing by the gate, hand on his crossbow. He's
looking at me, and for the first time in months,
I see something in his eyes. It's not respect, it's
not even friendship. It's pity. Welcome to the castle, your majesty,
he says. He shakes his head and wanders off. I
turn away. I walk to the pile of gold in
the center of the square. I sit down on it.
A bar digs into my hip. It's cold and hard
and uncomfortable sit there anyway. The sun sets, The smell
of the hounds cookfires drifts over the wall, taunting us.
The vault is locked and I'm here with my gold.
U