Savage Legion

by Matt Wallace

  Ahead of the line, trampling and pulling down the flaming and smoking remnants of several tents, Savages a hundred strong are slowly approaching the center of the camp. Most are wielding their rusted, secondhand melee weapons, but others have appropriated the finely forged blades of fallen soldiers. Even in the sparsely firelit dark of night, even amidst the mass and chaos of bodies, Evie can see Lariat striding ahead of the Savage pack. Beside the walrus-mustached fist fighter, Bam’s mallet is held high above his head, almost like a standard for an army that carries no banners.

  With half a hundred yards separating the two forces, Lariat spreads his leather-strapped arms, blooded katars held in both fists, and the Savage Legion halts.

  Other than the scattered shout or order given, the Skrain line is silent. They’ve never faced a horde of Savages across a field of battle before. They’ve never seen what the face of chaos fueled by bloody desperation looks like, let alone stared into its maw as that maw opened to swallow them all whole.

  On the Legionnaire side, Lariat begins to laugh. It echoes throughout the center of the camp, an ugly sound like the gleeful braying of some animal in heat. The other Savages soon join in, filling the burning encampment with noxious, twisted laughter.

  Evie can almost feel the tension and fear radiating off the Skrain soldiers. They don’t know what to make of anything that’s happening. They’ve had their whole world torn asunder in a matter of moments, very much like every Legionnaire when they were plucked from a dungeon cell or directly off the street and flung through rotted doors onto a dying field of grass to be told that their new name is Savage.

  Evie, on the other hand, knows exactly why and at what the Legionnaires are laughing, and why they’re holding their position.

  In the next moment black-masked Sicclunan soldiers are swarming into the middle of the camp from every path and opening between tents. The long, curved blades of their swords seem on fire as the steel traps the light of the burning landscape. Among them are B’ors warriors issuing their whooping, taunting, and challenging battle cries as they brandish their axes and war clubs and long knives.

  “It’s time,” Evie says, and Mother Manai nods in both agreement and assent.

  Evie and Mother Manai quickly divest themselves of their Skrain armor, lest they be mistaken for the enemy as the tri-force converges on what’s left of the Crachian soldiers. Beneath the steel scales they’re both wearing light leather breastplates over thick woolen tunics woven to slow a blade’s penetration or deflect its slash. Evie briefly recalls thinking that begetting an impossible revolution was a fair price to pay for burning her filthy, torn Savage rags.

  The two women join the surge of Sicclunans and B’ors warriors. By now the rogue Legionnaires have also begun their charge. The Skrain don’t know which way to turn, and their remaining commanders begin issuing conflicting orders as each beholds a different attack from a completely different angle than the others. When the combined forces converge on the Crachian soldiers it is less a skirmish and more a massacre. It is their own Savage Legion strategy evolved. Rather than using human artillery to precede the main attack, they have become the main attack.

  Evie fights until eventually she can no longer find a Skrain soldier to face down. She turns wildly in every direction, certain more are coming, certain they can’t have suppressed the entire base camp. What she sees is her own forces standing over the armored bodies of the fallen, only the occasional death blow upsetting the blood-soaked calm that’s draping across the field of battle.

  Evie looks down at her sword. She can’t see a single glint of steel for the blood bathing the blade.

  One of the black-masked Sicclunans approaches, peeling away their hood. Sirach smiles at Evie, her dark violet eyes making a black reflection of the flames all around them.

  “I believe the day is ours,” she says.

  “The night,” Evie reminds her. “The night is ours.”

  Sirach laughs, sheathing her sword. “I guess you just turn day and night upside down for me, my dear.”

  Evie looks down, flushing slightly at those words, the red hidden beneath her Savage runes.

  Several dozen black-masked warriors have gathered behind Sirach. She turns to them without missing a beat.

  “Search every tent for survivors!” she commands.

  Evie grunts. “What about the Skrain that have no doubt fled?”

  “We have archers surrounding the perimeters, night-trained, just like us. They’ll pick them off to a soldier.”

  Evie hears Lariat approaching before she ever lays eyes on him, as loud and brash and exulting as ever. She’s barely turned around before he scoops her up in a bear’s hug, squeezing the life out of her. She can feel the blade-encumbered leather straps encircling his body threatening her flesh.

  “I ’aven’t felt this since I knocked my first man cold in the prize ring!” Lariat announces directly into her ear. “Ya surely were sent by the God Stars themselves, little Sparrow!”

  “Put her down before you crush our godsend, Lariat,” Mother Manai bids him.

  He does, laughing all the while.

  “She’s tougher’n she looks by miles,” he says, gripping her shoulder and shaking her in that way he does.

  Evie is too tired to protest, and in a strange way his levity makes the killing normal and tolerable for her.

  Lariat is joined by Bam, who has already replaced his deep hood, and is flicking bits of entrails from the face of his mallet, and another Savage Evie has never seen before. He may be even older than Lariat, but his physique is that of a much younger, fitter man. He’s more slender than Lariat, right down to his graying mustache, which is thinner by half, and almost a head taller. He’s swinging the haft of a lengthy mace in one hand, its head a fist-size knot of hard, polished wood.

  “Sparrow!” Lariat announces, grandly. “I want ya ta meet a foundin’ member of the Elder Company! This is Diggs! He’s markin’ thirty-one battles, countin’ this’n here.”

  “This is the little girl Lariat speaks of like she could topple the Spectrum with her bare hands?” Diggs marvels, scrutinizing Evie up and down.

  “This is the young woman whose plan just made you a free man,” Mother Manai corrects him.

  Diggs bows, deeply. “Meaning no offense.”

  “Thank you for joining us,” Evie says gratefully, the rest mattering little to her.

  Diggs laughs, reaching up and grasping the back of Lariat’s neck as if collecting the scruff of a misbehaving pup.

  “I had little choice! It was that or I would’ve had to kill this crude old gasbag. And I’ve never cared for the killing of friends.”

  Lariat laughs and presses his forehead against Diggs’, the two of them growling nose-to-nose like feral boys.

  “Pay ’em no mind, love,” Mother Manai says. “It’s my belief they were parted at birth. Diggs just learnt to talk prettier, that’s all.”

  Lariat turns back toward Evie. “You make one helluva general, little Sparrow,” he declares. “This is a night fer celebratin’!”

  “This is only the beginning,” Sirach interjects. “And this is the last time we’ll surprise them, I promise you.”

  Lariat stares down at the Sicclunan captain distastefully, lips tightening beneath his mustache.

  “She’s right,” Evie insists. Then, gazing at the expectant and bloodied faces all around her, her voice lightens, “But you did well this night! And this night is ours!”

  Scattered cheers arise from the battle’s survivors.

  Mother Manai turns to the hodgepodge of warriors, soldiers, and Savages gathered around them.

  She raises the fist of her empty gauntlet, her words like thunder. “Let’s hear it for the Sparrow General!”

  Now the cheers are unified and deafening, arms and fists and blooded weapons rising to the sky as they begin chanting the title of Evie’s abrupt battlefield promotion.

  Again she moves her gaze across their faces, dirty faces and bloody faces a
nd masked faces, some marked with runes and others painted with battle decoration. She listens to her name on their hungry lips. It’s the first sound to drown out the pounding in her ears. She feels herself smiling despite everything that’s happened and is continuing to happen around her.

  The smile lasts only until Evie glances once more at the blade of her sword. It’s still sheathed in Crachian blood, blood no amount of chanting, no matter how loud or resplendent or devoted, will ever wash away.

  THOUGH IT BE HARSH, COME BACK TO THE LIGHT

  “ARE THEY STILL OUT THERE?” Lexi asks.

  Taru latches closed the tower doors, turning to face the Te of Gen Stalbraid waiting at the top of the first flight of steps.

  “The small round one left for a goodly while, but I believe it was simply to use the facilities. One of them always remains.”

  Lexi frowns. “I suppose we should simply be thankful neither of them followed Spud-Bar.”

  Taru nods. The retainer is carrying a basket filled with goods retrieved from the Gen Circus’s bazaar.

  “You’ve been busy,” Lexi observes.

  “I have, Te-Gen. I took the sky carriage to the Spectrum. Copies of all ship manifests and schedules are required to be submitted for their records daily.”

  Lexi descends several steps. “And so?”

  “The Black Turtle is scheduled to arrive one week from today.”

  Lexi nods, that steely resolve falling over her expression like a curtain. “Then you will meet them one week from today and retrieve whatever Brio left with its captain.”

  “Are you certain, Te-Gen? I do not like leaving you unattended.”

  “I am never unattended. The Protectorate Ministry is erecting a colony on my doorstep.”

  “That is the reason I do not like leaving you unattended.”

  “It cannot be helped,” Lexi insists. “I can’t leave Daian in his condition. Speaking of which, how went the other half of your task?”

  Taru raises the basket. “We will find out momentarily.”

  The retainer begins stalking the steps to join Lexi.

  “You might wish to wait in the parlor, Te-Gen.”

  Lexi shakes her head, following the retainer up the spiraling steps. “You may need help.”

  They have installed Daian in one of Xia Tower’s disused servant’s quarters, just up the steps from the entrance hall. Lexi and Taru stripped him of his uniform, baldric, and other tools. Lexi did her best to wash and stitch Daian’s tunic, hoping he’ll eventually need it again. It was too dangerous to summon a surgeon, so Taru did their best to field treat the Aegin’s wound, cleaning and sewing and wrapping his torso in fresh bandages that both Lexi and the retainer have taken turns changing twice a day.

  He hasn’t opened his eyes since the night he scaled the tower and toppled down its steps with half the blood drained from his body. Taru still insists it was only by the grace of a force beyond the retainer’s reckoning that they were able to keep his heart beating. Taru also insists that if he remains unconscious any longer they risk him never opening his eyes again.

  “What are you going to do?” Lexi asks.

  “As little as possible.”

  “I don’t find that particularly comforting, Taru.”

  “Forgive me, Te-Gen, but I very seriously doubt anything that is about to happen in this room will be comforting. That is why I invited you—”

  “I’m fine. I simply want to know what to expect.”

  “As do I,” Taru mutters almost inaudibly.

  “What was that?”

  The retainer shakes their head. “Nothing, Te-Gen.”

  Lexi frowns as Taru sits on the edge of Daian’s sickbed, placing the basket between his motionless ankles. Taru removes a small stone well the size of their palm. It is tamped with a balled-up bit of cloth. The moment Taru removes that piece of cloth Lexi finds herself backing away toward the wall. She throws a hand over her mouth and nose to prevent her retching.

  “What is that?” she demands.

  “Many different substances that together have no single name.”

  “Why is it that I can both smell and taste it from here?”

  “Execution,” Taru answers simply.

  The retainer passes the well under Daian’s nose. The nostrils of the unconscious Aegin flare and quiver, driven by his body’s natural senses. Taru continues waving the foulness back and forth, and a moment later Daian’s head turns to one side to avoid the unbearable smell.

  Lexi steps forward excitedly. “Is he—”

  “Not yet, Te-Gen. A moment, please.”

  Taru chases the well after Daian’s nostrils, continuing the smell’s assault on them. His head spasms again, and his closed eyelids begin trembling. Daian’s lips part, and his breathing intensifies. It appears as though his eyes are trying to flutter open, but it is as though his eyelids are straining against a great weight they cannot overcome.

  Eventually Taru relents with a sigh, taking away the well.

  Lexi deflates. “I thought you had him.”

  “That was only the initial volley,” Taru explains. “The attack has yet to commence.”

  The retainer tamps the well and returns it to the basket. Taru’s hand reemerges holding dozens of slender strands of vegetation wrapped in a swath of rice straw mat to bind them together. Taru stands and turns to the nearest wall, touching the end of the bouquet to the flame of the torch there, igniting it. All the strands burning together create a large flame from which tendrils of white, acrid smoke drift.

  Taru turns back to the bed, hovering over Daian’s comatose form.

  “What is that?” Lexi asks. “Is the smoke strong enough to rouse him?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Taru says. “In point of fact, the smoke has nothing to do with anything.”

  Without further warning, the retainer shoves the burning end of the bouquet into Daian’s side, above his bandages. Taru grinds the flaming stems into his skin, letting the fire eat and smolder his flesh.

  Lexi claws at her neck in horror, opening her mouth to order Taru to stop.

  Daian awakes with an agonized scream, arching his back and balling his fists. His eyes are wide open without yet seeing.

  Taru pulls the fire away and drops the bouquet to floor, stamping it out with a booted foot. The retainer reaches for a cloth on the bedside table and dunks it in a basin of water there before pressing the cloth to Daian’s sudden scorch wound.

  Daian blinks, his head snapping from side to side as he wildly scans his surrounding. He begins attempting to rise from the bed in earnest.

  Lexi rushes forward, taking him by the shoulders and easing him back down on the bed. Fortunately, he hasn’t the strength to fight her.

  “You are just fine,” she promises him with a perturbed sidelong glance at Taru. “You are in Xia Tower in the Gen Circus. You came here after you were attacked. We’ve been tending to you.”

  Daian gradually eases, his wordless protests quieting and his shallow breathing returning to normal. He continues blinking the world around him back into focus, finally looking up at Lexi and Taru and actually seeing them.

  He nods, attempting to speak and finding it only sparks a fit of painful coughs.

  Lexi quickly fetches him water, permitting him only small sips until the wave of hacking passes.

  “Go slow,” she bids him. “Go gently.”

  Daian nods once more, sipping the water eagerly and relaxing against the soft sheets.

  When he’s regained his breath and soothed his throat, he again attempts to speak, whispering something inaudible.

  Lexi leans her ear close to his lips. “Again, please.”

  “What’s he saying?” Taru asks.

  A moment later Lexi grins inexplicably. She leans away from Daian’s weary lips, looking at Taru.

  “He asked if you tried shaking him awake first.”

  Taru is visibly not amused.

  “Well,” the retainer says, “at least his tenuous grasp o
f humor is intact.”

  THE NEW DEVOURING THE OLD

  DYEAWAN’S FIRST MEETING AS A planner is surprisingly ill attended. In fact, almost half of the other planners she met during her initiation into their ranks are absent. Edger is seated at the center point of the table that mimics the concentric circles of their pendants. There are five other planners spread throughout the interior of winding stone slab, all whom greet her with bright eyes and welcoming smiles. Dyeawan can’t help noticing they are all among the youngest members of the planners.

  “We welcome the freshest fowl to our brace,” Edger announces. “It seems a perfect time for a new planner, as we appear to be shorthanded today.”

  The rest of them giggle or snicker or guffaw while Dyeawan stares about in confusion. She doesn’t understand the comedy of the moment.

  Dyeawan falls into silence as Edger commences the meeting. He sparks a lively discussion concerning the Gens involved in various operations of Crachian docks and seaports, and how their practice and philosophy differs from other Gens nationwide. Corruption and misuse prevail heavily among Gens invested in seafaring trades and port functions, far more than levels deemed “acceptable” among other Gens.

  It is strange for Dyeawan to hear these things spoken about so openly and honestly, without pretense or concealment. What Aegins spend their every day attempting to hide from the goodly citizens of the Capitol, these people treat as just another feature of the city.

  “Perhaps the problem is that people who live and work in places like the Bottoms are taught to see themselves as existing outside Crache,” Dyeawan finds herself chiming in. “Perhaps this would not be a problem if the people allowed to live and starve in those streets were better tended to.”

  Dyeawan expects her words to be met with reprimand and scorn, perhaps even attack. Instead the faces surrounding her are alight with curiosity.

  “Please continue, Dyeawan,” Edger bids her.