Speaker 1: The Scum Kings, a broad Sword Studio production, created and
written by Mike Daltrey. Chapter thirty four, The Horizon. I'm
sitting on the wall. My legs dangle over the edge,
thirty feet above the mud. It's a stupid place to sit.
A stray arrow could take me, a slip would end me.
But no one tells me to get down. The towers
are empty, the sentries are gone, or so is somewhere else.
And truth be told, it's a damn good wall. The
gate is shit, but the wall it's solid, probably the
only thing in this god forsaken place.
Speaker 2: I can rely on. I'm eating an apple. It's soft
and bruised, but it's sweet. I found it in the gutter.
A week ago I would have killed a man for
dropping garbage in my street. Today, I'm just grateful for
the taste. I watch the tree line. They come out
of the woods like oil, slow, thick, relentless burst. The
scouts men in gray cloaks, moving low. They don't look
at the walls. They look at the ground, checking for traps.
There are no traps. We didn't have the time, We
didn't have the wood dot. Then we didn't have the people.
Then the vanguard pikes a forest of lowered steel. They
march in perfect step, no shouting, no drums, just the
rhythmic crunch crunch, crunch of boots on hard dirt. Then
the horses, and finally the banners, the hounds. I've heard
stories about them, everyone has. They aren't the Sea's regular army.
They aren't the glorified town guards we butchered at the abbey.
The professionals. They don't fight for faith. They fight for
a paycheck, and they always earn it. I take another
bite of the bruised apple. I should be running, I
should be screaming for Orso. I should be rallying the men,
dragging stigand out of the brewery, putting a sword in
every hand that can hold one. But I just sit there, chewing.
They stop just out of bowshot formation, ripples and settles.
They don't charge, they don't scream challenges. They don't send
a rider forward to demand surrender. They just unpack. I
watch as they set up camp. It's mesmerizing. It's not
the chaotic sprawl of our camps. It's geometry. Pants go
up in straight lines, Fires are dug in orderly pits.
Trenches are cut with surveyor's precision. They aren't here for
a battle, here for a job, and they're going to
take their time to do it right. Finish the apple.
I toss the core over the edge. It falls for
a long time before it hits the mud. Why the
question floats in my head. Not fear, just confusion. Why
are they here for the gold, the gold that buys nothing,
the gold that sits in a pile in the square,
ignored by washerwomen. For the town, this rotting carcass of
a city with broken gates and empty silos, and people
who look through you for me, They really think I'm
worth this. I look down at my hands. They're dirty,
my fingernails are black, my knuckles are scabbed. I'm the
king of nothing. I'm the lord of a mud pit,
and they brought an army to take it from me.
I almost laugh. Down below, a rider's separates from the group.
He's wearing polished plate, a commander. He takes off his helmet.
He looks up at the wall. He's too far away
to see my face clearly with the sun behind, but
I can see his. He looks bored. He looks like
a man who just clocked in for a Tuesday shift.
He turns his horse and rides back to the tents.
They start cooking dinner. The smell of roasting meat drifts
up the wall. Pork, rosemary, real food. My stomach growls.
I lie back, I look up at the gray sky.
Let them come, let them take the gold, let them
take the mud. I close my eyes. I'll just wait
here until they do. To the