Speaker 1: The scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written
by Mike Daltrey.
Speaker 2: Chapter seven, A feast of scraps. Didn't even wait for
the sun to go down. That was their first mistake.
They were hauling the wagon through a narrow defile, the
wheels grinding over tree roots, when the brush exploded. A
dozen men in rags painted with mud and ash, screaming
like demons. It was adorable. They thought we were exhausted.
They thought we were beasts of burden, broken by the
weight of the cart. They saw stigand and me in
the yoke, sweating and grunting, and they saw meat. I
didn't realize that beasts of burden are strong.
Speaker 1: Drop it.
Speaker 2: I roared, and I didn't unhitch. We just stopped pulling.
The wagon's momentum carried it forward another foot, the sudden halt,
jarring the frame. The first Bandit reached me, he had
a rusted wood axe and a desperate look in his eyes.
He swung. I didn't bother drawing my sword. I stepped
inside his guard, grabbed his throat with my free hand,
and slammed his head against the iron rimmed wheel of
the wagon. His skull gave way with a wet crunch.
Stiggin was even less subtle. He didn't have his axe
in hand. He was still strapped to the yoke, so
he used the yoke. He pivoted his massive body, swinging
the heavy wooden beam like a club, dragging the wagon
tongue with him. He caught two bandits in the chest,
shattering ribs and sending them flying into the briers or
so flank. I barked, finally drawing my blade. It wasn't
a battle, it was a pest control up. These weren't soldiers.
They were starving tangle rats who would believe the rumor
of easy gold. They fought with desperation, flailing and stabbing wildly.
We fought with the cold bored efficiency of men who
had just butchered the stern guard. Brinn put an arrow
through a man's eye from ten paces dicks was a
blur weaving through the melee, hamstringing men, just to watch
them fall. In two minutes, eight of them were dead
in the dirt. Remaining four dropped their weapons. They fell
to their knees, weeping, begging for mercy. Hands raised to
the sky. I wiped my blade on a dead man's tunic.
I looked at the survivors. They were pathetic, scrawny, stinking,
shaking with terror mercy. One of them sobbed, Please, lords,
we were starving.
Speaker 1: We didn't know.
Speaker 2: You didn't know we were lions, I said, looming over him.
You thought we were sheep because we were pulling a cart.
I looked at Gis. He was vibrating. He was bored
with the walking board, with the hauling. He needed to play, Dix,
I said softly. They need to learn a lesson, and
they need to teach the rest of the forest. Dix's
painted face split into a wide, terrible grin. He sheathed
his main knives and pulled out a small, curved skinning blade.
A lesson, he chirped, Yes, a story. Stories need to
be memorable. I walked away. I didn't want to watch.
I needed to eat. He rated the bandit's camp a
pathetic hideout just fifty yards into the tree line. They
had nothing of value except food, salted pork, dried apples,
a cask of decent ale. He sat on the wagon
tongue the scum kings eating the band its own dinner
while Gigs worked. In the background. Sounds were wet and
high pitched. There was screaming at first, then just whimpering,
then a strange, bubbling silence. Bob was cooking the pork
over a fire made from the bandit's spears. He was humming,
happy to be cooking real meat again, studiously ignoring the
horror happening ten feet away. Stiggan tore into a loaf
of bread, washing it down with the stolen ale. His
mood improved by the brief violence. This pork is tough,
Stiggin grumbled, chewing loudly. It's free, I said, savoring the
salt on my tongue. It tastes like victory. An hour later,
Gigs emerged from the bushes. He was wiping his hands
on a rag. He looked refreshed. They're ready to go,
he announced, happily, stood up and walked over to inspect
his work. He hadn't killed them, that would have been
a waste. He had altered them. It had taken their clothes.
He had shaved their heads and into the flesh of
their chests and backs. He had carved a single word,
deep and jagged, the letters weeping red blood pray. That
wasn't the worst part. He had cut the tendons in
their hands, so they hung uselessly like paws, and he
had sown their mouths shut with rough twine. They couldn't speak,
they couldn't hold weapons. They could only run. They were living,
breathing billboards of our cruelty. I looked at the four
trembling wretches. Run, I said, They ran. They stumbled into
the forest, a silent, bleeding pack of warnings. I walked
back to the fire. I took a bite of an apple.
It was crisp and sweet. The forest will be quiet tonight,
or so said staring into the flames, I, I said,
looking out into the darkening woods. The jackals know better now.
I looked at the wagon. It wasn't a burden anymore.
It was a trap, and we had just snapped it
shut on the first fools to test it. Eat up,
I told the crew. Tomorrow we haul