The Scum Kings: Vol. 15 [Uncut] - Chapters 4-8

The Scum Kings, a Broadsword Studio production created and written by Mike Daltrey. Chapter four, The Mark of the Sun found a hollow deep in the gut of the tangle, a natural bowl shielded by a thicket of thorns that would stop a bore let alone a patrol horse. It was the first time in two days we felt safe enough to breathe, safe enough to count. Delaane had demanded it. I cannot manage what I do not know, She'd hissed, her hands shaking. So we unhitched the exhausted horses, lit a covered lantern, and we opened the wagon. It was a religious service. Slaine was the priestess, and the ledger was her scripture. We laid the canvas on the damp moss and began to load the horde, stack by stack, chest by chest. The sheer volume of it was sickening. It was enough wealth to make a man vomit. There were bars of bullions stacked like firewood, chests of heavy silver, solari, leather sacks bursting with gemstones that caught the lantern light like cat eyes. For an hour, the only sound was the clink of metal and the scratch of Selaine's charcoal on parchment orso stood watch his back to us, but I saw his shoulders tense with every scratch. He was doing the math in his head, calculating the risk against the reward. Finally, Selaine sat back on her heels. She looked at the total she'd scrawled at the bottom of the page. Her face was pale, drained of blood. Well stig and grunted, leaning on his axe. Are we rich or are we gods? It's a dutchy, Selaine whispered, it's a fleet of ships. It's Drey. We could hire the Concord's entire Southern Mercenary army for a year and still have enough to pave a road in silver, Its giggled, tossing his crown in the air and catching it. I'll buy a zoo with only dangerous animals. I felt a surge of heat in my chest. This was it, the proof we had won. But Selaine wasn't smiling. She picked up a heavy gold ingot. She held it up to the lantern light, turning it slowly. But we can't spend it, she said. Her voice was flat dead, A hollow went silent. What are you babbling about? I snapped, stepping forward. Gold is gold, it spends everywhere. Not this gold, she said. She shoved the ingot into my chest. Look at it, Dray, look at the stamp. Looked pressed deep into the soft yellow metal was a seal. It wasn't the generic sunburst of the Sea's treasury. It was a face, severe, judgmental, the heavy brow, the downturned mouth, a stern visage. I dropped the ingot and picked up a chalice stamped on the base. I grabbed a handful of coins from a chest stamped. Every single piece of gold in the wagon bore the face of the god we had robbed. It's a mint mark, Selaine said, her voice rising in panic, A specific, restricted mint mark. This isn't currency, dre It's consecrated treasury gold. It's never meant to circulate. It sits in vaults to back the Sea's currency. Or So turned around his face grim he had known, or he had guessed. It's poison, or So said, walking into the circle of light. If you walk in to a tavern and slap one of those coins on the bar, you aren't buying ale. You're signing a confession. Every merchant, every fence, every banker from here to the coast knows that mark. It screams, I raided the abbey. He kicked a pile of coins. They scattered with a mocking jingle. It's worthless or so spat unless we melt it down. And to melt two tons of gold, we need a foundry, We need smiths, we need months of work in a secure location. We have none of that. We are hauling dead weight that will get us hanged. Stigan looked at the gold, then at his axe, confused and angry. Gold is gold. If a man won't take it, I'll split his head. And then the watch comes or so countered, and then the sea's inquisitors. We can't fence this dre not in this quantity, not with these marks. We're carrying the world's heaviest suicide note. Selene nodded, tears of frustration welling in her eyes. He's right. We have to bury it, hide it. Take small amounts, melt them down in campfires over years. It's the only way they looked at me, the practical ones, the smart ones. They saw a problem. They saw a wall. I looked at the gold. I saw the face of the stern visage staring up at me from a thousand coins, judging me, and I smiled. You're thinking like merchants, I said, my voice low. I picked up an ingot. It was heavy, cold, solid. You're thinking about how to buy things, I said, how to trade this for bread, or horses or safety. You are thinking about spending it. I tossed the ingot back onto the pile. It ended with a heavy thud. I don't intend to spend it, or so, stared at me, exasperated. Then what is the point of it, dre It's metal. You can't eat it. We don't spend the foundation of a house, I growled, You build on it. I walked around the pile, looking at my crew. If I take one of these coins to a shop, I'm a thief, I said. But if I pile all of this in the center of a room, if I sit on top of it, I'm not a customer. I'm a bank I'm a power. I pointed at the wagon. We don't need to melt it down to hide who we are. We use it to show them exactly who we are. We don't trade this gold. We use it as leverage. We use it to buy loyalty, not with payment. But with the promise of payment, we use it to prove we have the capital to rule. Rule what, Selaine asked, her voice trembling. We're in the woods, not for long, I said. I looked east, toward the edge of the forest. We find a place, a stronghold. We put this gold in the middle of it, and we dare the world to come and take it. We don't hide the mark, Slaine. We let them see it. Let them know we broke a god's nose and took his teeth, or so rubbed his face with his hands. This is arrogance, stray, pure suicidal arrogance. It's a kingdom, I said. And kingdoms are built on gold that stays in the vault. I kicked the canvas back over the pile, pack it up. Chapter five. The mud and the wheel skies were as angry as the sea. It wasn't rain. It was a solid curtain of gray water that turned the tangle into a drowning pool. The ancient rowed, packed hard by centuries of use, dissolved in minutes. It became a slurry, a soup, a mouth, and the wagon was a heavy golden tooth that the earth wanted to swallow. It happened fast. We were pushing for a higher ground when the front left wheel hit a soft patch. The crust broke. The wheel dropped two feet with a sickening thunk, dragging the axle down into the muck. The momentum died instantly. The wagon slipped sideways, the rear swinging out toward the drop off on our right, a steep, jagged ravine leading down to a frothing creek. Push, I roared, spitting mud. Put your backs into it. We were in the shit. Literally. The mud smelled of ancient rot and sulfur. For six hours, we fought the earth stigand was a mud gullum his shoulder rammed against the tailgate, roaring with effort. I was at the wheel, slim up to my waist, trying to lever it up with a tree branch. Dixon cob were slipping and falling, useless in the chaos. The rain was freezing. It turned our hands to claws and our skin to ice. But the sweat was pouring off me. It's not moving, or so shouted, wiping sludge from his eyes. It's settling. The vibration is shaking the bank loose. He was right. The edge of the road, five feet from the rear wheel was crumbling. Chunks of earth were sloughing off into the ravine. The wagon groaned, tilting further. The center of gravity was shifting. The gold was pulling us into the void. The horses, the two massive drays we'd stolen from the abbey, were screaming. It's a terrible sound, a horse screaming, high, human and full of terror. They were scrabbling for purchase, their hoofs churning, the mu cut into a froth, their eyes rolling white. The weight of the wagon was dragging them backward toward the edge. They're going over. Brin yelled. She was at the heads of the horses, trying to calm them, but she was sliding too dre The bank is going They're going to fall. Cut the traces, or so commanded, reaching for his knife. Cut them loose. We lose the wagon, but we saved the transport. We can come back for the gold. It was the logical choice, the humane choice. Without the horses, we were stranded anyway. If they went over the edge, they'd drag the wagon with them and we'd lose everything. If we cut them, the wagon might slide, but the animals our engine would live. I looked at the wagon. It was tilting precariously. If we cut the tension now, if we released the horses, the wagon wouldn't just sit there without the counterpull of the team, gravity would take it. It would slide backward, tip and spill the abbey's hoard into the ravine. We'd never get it back. I looked at the horses, panic stricken, exhausted, foam dripping from their mouths, mixed with blood where the bits cut them. No, I roared. I lunged out of the mud, knocking Orso's hand away before he could slash the leather traces. Dray, you fool, or So screamed over the thunder. If they go over, we lose it all. Cut them, we don't cut, I snarled. I snatched the long leather whip from the driver's seat. Dray, don't, Brynn shouted, stepping between me and the animals. They can't do it. Look at them, they're broken. Shoved her into the mud. I didn't have time for mercy. I didn't have time for logic. I had will stiggind I bellowed, lift now. Stigan didn't question He jammed his shoulder under the rear corner of the wagon. He roared, the veins in his neck bulging like cables. I turned to the horses. They were scrambling backward, hind legs slipping over the crumbling edge. I raised the whip. Didn't use it to guide them. I used it to hurt them. I brought the lash down with everything I had across the flank of the near horse. Crack. The animal shrieked, a sound of pure agony. It didn't think about the weight anymore. It didn't think about the mud. It thought about the pain. It lunged forward. Crack. I hit the other one. Crack again. Crack. Pull, I screamed, my voice shredding my throat. Pull, you bastards. Pull. It was brutal, it was ugly. I was flaying the skin from their backs. I was driving them past panic, past exhaustion, into the realm of biological failure. They lunged their hooves found a patch of stone beneath the mud. Muscles tore, tendons popped audibly. Stigand roared. As he lifted the back end an inch. The wagon groaned, it shuddered. For a second. We hung in the balance, gold against flesh, and with a sucking schluck sound, the wheel broke free of the vacuum. The horses, driven by the absolute terror of the lash, threw their weight forward. They dragged the wagon five feet ten feet onto the solid rock of the upper track. We were safe. The horses didn't stop because I told them to. They stopped because they died. Near horse simply collapsed. Its front legs buckled, and it hit the ground with a heavy, wet thud. It shiver. I heard once foam and blood bubbling from its nostrils, and then went still. Its heart had burst. The other horse stood trembling, its head hanging low, blowing bloody froth. Its left hind leg was hanging at a sickening angle. Ruined stood there in the rain, the whip still in my hand, my chest heaving. The gold was safe. The wagon was on solid ground. I dropped the whip. Silence was heavy, even the rain seemed to quiet down. Bren was on her knees by the dead horse, her hand on its neck. She looked up at me. I've seen hate and eyes before, but this was different. This was revulsion. Or so walked over. He looked at the dead animal. He looked at the crippled one that would have to be put down. He looked at the wagon. He turned his eyes to me. There was no anger, just a cold, profound, too disgust. We are footsloggers now, he said quietly. We have a two ton wagon and no horses. Was it worth it, dre to torture them to death for metal? I walked past him. I put my hand on the side of the wagon. I felt the gold inside, heavy and eternal. I looked at the dead horse. It was just meat. It was just a tool that had served its purpose until it broke. We can steal more horses, I said, wiping the rain and mud from my face. I patted the wood of the wagon. Chapter six, The Lions of the Tangle. We were the mules now, with the horses dead in the mud, the harnessed leather cut into our own shoulders. Stigand and I took the yoke, dragging the two ton obsession through the sludge dixon orso pushed. From the rear. It was a humiliating, backbreaking crawl, moving at the speed of a dying man. The gray Tangle was supposed to be empty. It wasn't for two days. The hair on the back of my neck had been standing up. The woods were too quiet, and yet they felt crowded. Branches snapped when there was no wind, Shadows stretched long and then vanished when you turned to look. Brynn dropped from a tree branch ahead of us, landing silently in the muck. She didn't look tired. She looked spooked, and bryn doesn't get spooked. Stop, she hissed. I dropped the yoke my shoulders, screaming in relief. What is it? The sea worse, she said, her eyes darting to the dense undergrowth on our left. Everyone else She moved closer, lowering her voice. I found tracks, rags, bone charms, tied to trees. It's not just the soldiers anymore, dre The story traveled fast, faster than the wagon. Imagine the legends forming the Golden Wagon. The abby ghosts, every scavenger, bandit, clan and starving throat cut her in the tangle knows we're here. She pointed into the gloom. They aren't attacking, they're hurting us. They're waiting for us to collapse, or for the sea to catch us so they can pick the bones of whoever loses, we are surrounded by invisible eyes. The crew went still. Cob whimpered. Selaine looked at the gold, our savior, our burden. With a look of pure nausea. Or So walked to the side of the wagon. He ran his hand over the wood. We stop, he said, It wasn't a question. He turned to me, his face grim, dre Look at us. We are pulling this thing by hand. We are making a mile an hour. We are surrounded by jackals, and we are bleeding into the underbrush. He pointed to a dense thicket of briers near a large rock formation. We bury it, or So said, right here, we dig a pit, we bury the gold, We mark the trees. We leave the wagon as a decoy. We walk out of here light and fast. We survive the winter, and we come back with fresh horses and men to reclaim it. It was smart, a small delay to secure riches beyond belief, and I hated it. I felt the rage spike in my chest, hot and blinding. Bury it put my kingdom in the dirt. Hide it like a dog hides a bone. Across the distance between us. In two strides, I grabbed or So by his tunic and slammed him against the side of the wagon. The wood groaned. We do not bury it, I snarled, my face inches from his ray. Be reasonable, or So shouted, not fighting back, just staring at me with those cold, calculating eyes. It's a tactical retreat. If we keep hauling this, they will swarm us. We are prey. That's exactly why we don't hide it, I roared, throwing him back. I turned to the others. They were looking at me like I was mad. Maybe I was, but I saw something they didn't. You bury things you're ashamed of, I yelled, pacing in front of the wagon. You bury things you're afraid to lose. If we put this gold in the ground, we are admitting that we are weak. We are admitting that we are thieves running from the law. I drew my sword. I walked to the nearest tree, where a shadow seemed to linger. I slashed at the branch, severing it. They are watching us, I shouted into the silent woods. Good let them watch. I turned back to Orso, breathing hard Jackal circle the w the wounded, or so, they circle the things that are bleeding and afraid. I slammed my sword against the iron rim of the wagon wheel. Clang. The sound rang out, sharp and defiant, echoing through the trees. We don't hide, we don't bury. We light the torches, We make noise. I glared into the dark, challenging the invisible eyes I knew were there. If the jackals come, I growled, we show them that we are the lions. We show them that we are the biggest, meanest things in this forest, and we go exactly where we please. I picked up the yoke. The leather bit into my skin. Pick it up, I ordered. We walk, and if they want it. Chapter seven, A feast of scraps didn't even wait for the sun to go down. That was their first mistake. We were hauling the wagon through a narrow defile, the wheels riding 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 in me in the yoke, sweating and grunting, and they saw meat. I didn't realize that beasts of burden are strong, drop it, I roared, Stigan, 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. Stiggan 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 operation. These weren't soldiers. They were starving tangle rats who would believed 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, Dix 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. We didn't know. 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 Maine 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 bandits 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 bandit's 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. Stiggin tore into a loaf of bread, washing it down with the stone an ale. His mood improved by the brief violence. This pork is tough, stig and 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 are 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 Chapter eight. The crossroads road, if you could call it, that, died at a split stone. We stopped the wagon. The wheels settled into the dirt with a heavy, exhausted groan that matched the sound of my own joints. We stood at a wide junction, a scar in the wilderness where the ancient pavers had disagreed on where to go. To the left, the path wound westward, disappearing into the dense, dark heart of the deep wilderness. The trees there were thick, the shadows long. It was the path to the unforged lands, to places where no map maker from the sea had ever bothered to walk. To the right, the road widened. It sloped downward, toward the distant shimmer of the Muddy Fork River valley, toward civilization, toward the smoke of chimneys. Or so didn't wait. He walked to the left fork and pointed west. He said, his voice ragged with fatigue but firm with conviction. We go deep. There are caves in the foothills of the stone fence. We stashed the wagon, we built forge. We spend the winter melting this, this evidence down into generic bars. He looked at me, his eyes pleading for sanity. It's the only way, Dre we vanish. We become ghosts again. In the spring we walk out rich and anonymous. I looked at the western path. It looked cold, It looked quiet. It looked like a long, slow year of hiding in a hole, scrubbing the face of a god off of gold coins one by one. It looked like the life of a frightened rat. Then I looked east, held out my hand. Let me see the map. Or So stood there, staring Dre be reasonable. I didn't reply, and he pulled the map out of his pack, practically throwing it at me. I unrolled it on the side of the wagon, smoothing the vellum against the rough wood show me, I said, or So sighed and stabbed a finger at a cluster of inclines near the river. There Vance's Folly, a trade town logging some river commerce. It has a wall, a garrison, and a mayor who pays his taxes to the concord. If we go there with this wagon, we are hanging ourselves. I stared at the ink. Or So saw a threat. He saw a garrison and laws. I saw geometry. I traced the line of the river. It curved around the town on three sides, a natural moat. I traced the road. It ran straight through the town gates, the only viable trade route for fifty miles. It has a smithy, I asked. It's a trade town, so yes, or So snapped, probably three, and a constabulary and eyes. It has cellars, I asked, stone foundations. Hey listen to me. Or So slammed his hand on the map. It has people. You can't just roll a stolen treasury into a town square. We need to hide. I looked up from the map. I looked at the miserable, shivering crew. Stiggand was leaning against the wheel, picking his teeth with a splinter, looking bored. GX was braiding grass. I'm done hiding, or So, I said quietly. I looked back at the map. Vance's folly. It wasn't just a dot of ink. It was a choke point. It was a cork in the bottle of the river trade. You see a town I said, my voice rising. I see a fortress. I see a smithy to reforge our armor. I see cellars to hold our vault. I see walls to keep the world out. I straightened up, rolling the map tight. We aren't melting this gold down in a cave like goblins, I said. We aren't spending the winter shivering in the dark. I walked to the front of the wagon. I grabbed the yoke. We go east, or so stepped in front of me. That is suicide. You are declaring war on the world. No, I smiled, and it was a cold, sharp thing. I'm declaring myself. I looked at stiggand Northman. Do you want to sleep in a cave for six months? Or do you want to sleep in a feather bed and drink a Mayre's wine. Stigan didn't hesitate. He spat out the splinter. I hate caves too damp. He grabbed the other side of the yoke. Turn it, I ordered. The crew hesitated for a second, looking at the dark safety of the western woods. Then the greed took hold the promise of soft beds, hot food, and the power we had tasted at the abbey. The wheels groaned in protest, biting into the dirt as we forced the heavy wagon around. We turned our backs on the safety of the wilderness. We turned our backs on obscurity. It pointed the tongue of the wagon down the slope, toward the smoke and the river. We aren't going to hide the gold, or so I said, leaning into the weight as the wagon began to roll. We're going to put it on a throne.