The Blame Game

The Scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written by Mike Daltrey. Episode forty nine, The Blame Game. The words hit the small cold camp like a hammer blow. The land is dead. Brynn's words, a final bitter snarl of defeat, extinguished that the last tiny ember of hope I had been peddling. The lie I had told of water and game over. The ridge was now exposed, leaving me a fool and the crew with nothing. We sat there in the deepening twilight, a collection of failures, huddled among the gray rocks. The silence that followed was worse than the wind. It was the sound of seven kings giving up their pathetic crowns. It was Stigand who finally broke it. He was on his feet, his massive frame shaking, but not from the cold. He was a volcano of quiet, simmering rage that had finally found its moment to erupt. He wasn't looking at Bryn. He was staring at Orso, who sat calmly inspecting the edge of his dagger. You, Stigand growled his voice, a low, gravelly thing that promised murder. Or So didn't look up me. This, all of this Stiggins's arm, his hands still wrapped in dirty, weeping bandages, swept out to indicate the barren hills, our starving crew, the whole of our pathetic failure. This is your doing. Or So finally raised his head, his scarred face impassive in the gloom. I'm listening your clever plan. Stigan spat the word like it was a curse. Your whispers. We make them fight each other. You said we burned the latter. You said we're not kings, were just rats in a ditch, and you let us here. He took a heavy, menacing step toward Orso. My way, my way is simple, I fight, I take. We would have died like men, or we would have been rich. But this, that, this slow, smart death, this is your gift to us. The accusation hung in the cold air, thick and undeniable. Orso stood up slowly and deliberately. He was a head shorter than stigand and half his weight, but he didn't flinch. He met the big Northman's gaze with a cold, dead certainty that was more dangerous than any berserker's rage. My plan worked, or So said, his voice a sharp cutting blade. We won, We beat their enforcers. We killed their king, and we had our hands on his entire treasury. My plan accounted for everything. He paused, and his eyes flickered down to Stiggins's burned, bandaged hands. Everything, Orso repeated, his voice dropping to a hiss, except your colossal animal stupidity. My plan was to take his throne. You were the one who had to burn the whole kingdom down around us. The truth of it, so cold and so precise, was more than Stigand could bear. It was a truth he could not argue with, only destroy. With a roar that was more beast than man, Stiggan drew his axe. I'll kill you for that, you scarred faced snake. In the same instant, Orso's dagger was in his hand. He didn't raise it in a challenge. He held it low, like a surgeon, ready to gut the giant. The moment he stepped close try the crew was on its feet. The fragile pack instantly split in two. I saw Silain and Cob take a half step back, their lot cast with Orso's cold logic. Brenn and Gix stood apart, their eyes wild, drawn to the promise of violence, like moths to a flame, the scum king's. My entire world was about to tear itself apart over a truth we couldn't swallow. I was done. My leadership was a joke, my authority was ash. But I would not let this be the end. I drew my own sword, the sound of steel and leather screaming in the quiet. I stepped between them, the tip of my blade level, unwavering. The next man who moves, I snarled, my voice raw with a fury that matched both of theirs. Dies