Savage Legion

by Matt Wallace

  The decapitated bodies of those Elder Company members Laython slaughtered and whose heads he sent to the upstart rebellion have been impaled on towering wooden spikes. The spikes are planted in the middle of the Savage Legion camp inside the keep walls. They’re arranged in a perfect row, the headless corpses elevated high enough to be seen from every edge of the ward. As the heads were intended to be seen by Evie and her forces, the bodies are a message to the remaining Legionnaires who might be tempted by their fellow Savages’ betrayal.

  Her eyes drift down from the atrocity to the base of the spikes. She sees him for the first time since the day of her inaugural battle as a Savage. Laython is reclining in a bamboo chair draped with thick and perfectly tanned furs, stripped to the waist and enjoying the thickly redolent smoke of a long bone pipe. His massive, doughy torso is a mess of strange scars at whose origins Evie can’t even guess, but she refuses to let them evoke even the scantest wraith of sympathy within her.

  Laython is staring up at the grotesque remains of his victims like a grandfather enjoying the warmth of the evening’s hearth on his weary bones. A scrawny Savage little more than a boy of thirteen or fourteen kneels beside his chair, carefully oiling Laython’s night-black leather armor pieces. In one moment the boy’s hand slips, and he compresses the oilskin too hard, drenching one of Laython’s pauldrons.

  As Evie looks on, the chief tasker of the Savage Legion kicks the boy in the face with his bare foot. There’s no outrage in the strike, no emotion, there is only detached impulse. The boy falls onto his back, and Laython uses the same foot to press the side of his face into the grass.

  “I’m sorry,” the boy squeaks. “I’m so sorry!”

  Evie’s hand seems to move on its own, delving inside a special patch of fabric sewn into her blouse. Its purpose is concealing the cloth scabbard there and the small dagger it cradles. Her hand closes around the dagger’s smooth, worn, welcoming handle, and an inch of steel clears the sheath before Evie realizes what she’s doing and stays her hand.

  You could do it, a voice very much like Sirach’s whispers inside her head. You could kill him. Right here and now. You know how to do it.

  She does. Evie has certainly killed, but she has never murdered anyone in cold blood. She’s no assassin. But she was trained in the knife. She knows how to creep up silently from behind and clear his chin with her defending hand, knows where and how to apply pressure with the dagger’s edge, and how to slash so the blade opens his throat wide. He wouldn’t make any sound. He would simply wriggle like a fish for a few moments until the cold hand left in the wake of his fleeing life’s blood claimed him.

  Laython lifts his foot away from the boy’s cheek and returns to smoking his pipe and gazing fondly at his macabre artistry. The boy pushes himself up from the grass, wiping the crushed green blades and rich black earth from his face with one hand.

  Watching, Evie’s brief and murderous reverie is broken. She slips the exposed steel of the dagger’s blade back inside its sheath and lets go of the handle, removing her hand from the secret pocket.

  This is not what she came here to do.

  She leaves him there, walking in a direction just out of Laython’s periphery until she can duck behind a tent.

  He never even looks away from those headless corpses.

  It takes Evie another few minutes of searching the camp before she finally reaches the true objective of her mission. The sight of the armory wagon overburdened with its hundreds of rusted and jagged steel and iron limbs transports Evie back in her mind to the first time she met Spud-Bar. She remembers sorting through the junk pile of secondhand weapons remaindered for the Legion, just hoping to find one solid instrument that might see her through her first battle.

  That day seems like a lifetime ago from where she stands now.

  Spud-Bar squats on a stubby tree stump in front of one of the wagon’s wheels, sharpening swords against a small grinding wheel the armorist has placed in front of the stump. There’s an array of mostly shoddy, poorly forged blades splayed out across the grass around the wheel.

  Evie approaches the armory wagon as silently as possibly without appearing as though she’s trying to be stealthy. Before Spud-Bar takes notice of her presence, Evie has slid onto the grass beside the armorist, sitting halfway under the wagon to conceal her face and most of her body from sight.

  “What do you need, Savage?” Spud-Bar asks disinterestedly.

  “The same thing I always seem to need from you,” Evie says, “a favor I have no right to ask.”

  The moccasin-covered foot of Spud-Bar’s powering the grinding wheel stops, but only for a few moments. Nothing else about the armorist’s outward demeanor seems to change, and soon that foot is working the wheel twice as fast as it was before.

  “You can’t be here,” Spud-Bar whispers, each word as cold as a winter burial plot.

  “I have to be,” Evie insists.

  “They will tear you apart if you’re discovered here. Laython knows exactly who you are, Sparrow General. You tend to leave an impression. If they find you here he will give you to the worst scum in this camp as supper. Do you know that?”

  “Then I advise you to keep doing precisely what you’re doing and not draw attention to us. As I said, I have to be here. There was no other choice. I have a lot of people ready to die tomorrow when this battle begins who are looking to me for a way to survive. And I can only think of one.”

  Spud-Bar places the newly sharpened sword aside and takes up another place, putting its edge to the revolutions of the stone.

  “I’m not involved in that.”

  “You have to be if we’re to succeed.”

  Spud-Bar’s emotions finally threaten to froth over. “I delivered your damn message!”

  “Quietly, please,” Evie calmly reminds the armorist.

  “I delivered it,” Spud-Bar reiterates, wrangling their self under control. “You said it would be a simple thing. It didn’t feel simple.”

  “You returned unharmed and without any further incident, didn’t you?”

  Spud-Bar sighs. “Yes.”

  “And I thank you. I trusted you because you’re worthy of trust, and strong enough to act in its service. I need those qualities now more than ever.”

  “Why?”

  “We can’t defeat the Legion and the Skrain on the open field.”

  “You’ll turn no more Savages to your cause, I tell you. Executing the Elders would’ve been warning enough. Laython is offering gold now, and battles taken away from the required hundred for every rogue Savage ear or nose claimed by a Legionnaire before the Skrain take the field tomorrow. He’s convinced the whole camp that they can win their freedom and walk away from the Legion rich at the end of a single battle.”

  “There have to be Savages here who are smarter than that,” Evie insists. “You are. I am. I know there are others.”

  “And if there are? What would you have me do, Evie? Or whatever your true name is? Are you and your new friends going to raze the whole garrison? Do you even have any siege weapons between you?”

  “No,” Evie admits. “We can’t attack the garrison. We have to face the Skrain on the open field tomorrow.”

  “The whisper from the Skrain scouts is you’ve less than a thousand fighters. Is that true?”

  Evie hesitates, then slowly nods. “Close enough to only be slightly untrue.”

  Spud-Bar’s every muscle seems to tense at once. It’s clear the armorist wants to scream their frustration and anger in Evie’s face, but the dire circumstance surrounding Evie’s presence precludes Spud-Bar drawing any attention to them.

  “You’re mad,” the armorist hisses at her. “If you were ever in possession of your senses, they’ve abandoned you altogether!”

  Evie’s expression hardens. “Lariat, Mother Manai, and the others saw fit to join me. They believed in my plans, and they believe in what we’re doing.”

  “They’re mad, too!” Spud-Bar maintains. “And their madness
got the rest of their ilk killed!”

  “Laython and the Skrain did that, not us!”

  Spud-Bar turns away from her, frantically moving their gaze around the wagon, searching for any eyes aimed at them and finding none.

  “I’m not asking you to lead an uprising here, Spud-Bar. I’m not asking you to risk instigating a slaughter within these walls.”

  “Then what are you asking of me? What now?”

  “You’re as known and respected among the Legion as any member of the Elder Company. You know the Legion, you know the experienced warriors remaining among them. Most importantly, you know whom you can trust and whom can influence others on our behalf.”

  “I tell you that knowledge is useless now,” Spud-Bar maintains.

  “And I tell you that knowledge is worth more than every blade and every soldier who’ll take that field tomorrow, if you’ll just help me.”

  “Why did you have to do this?” Spud-Bar demands, miserably. “Any of this? Why? Why couldn’t you just let… let…”

  Their words sputter and die pitifully, and their foot ceases to work the grinder pedal.

  Evie leans away from the shadows, seeking Spud-Bar’s eyes with her own. She holds the armorist’s gaze with as hard and as serious a shine in her eyes as she’s ever offered anyone.

  “If you can’t finish that thought,” she says, “then you know exactly why I’ve done everything I’ve done. I’m sorry if you feel this isn’t fair to you, but I don’t care. Do you understand? You’re either going to let us all die tomorrow knowing you could’ve prevented it, or you’ll risk your life to help us win. Choose. Now.”

  Evie can see the hateful words of refusal brewing behind the armorist’s eyes. She can see the angels and devils wrestling in her mind. A desperate voice implores her to say more, to convince Spud-Bar, but Evie remains silent. She’s put the armorist to the final test, and any more words would only muddy the waters she’s attempted to purify.

  In the end, Spud-Bar’s entire being seems to deflate like a punctured bellows. The armorist stares back at Evie with tragic, defeated eyes.

  “What do you want me to do?” Spud-Bar asks.

  SLEEP, AND HIS BROTHER DEATH

  LEXI GENTLY STRUMS THE THREE strings of Brio’s old reed-of-the-stone-lake, making every effort to focus on the tune she’s attempting to elicit from the classical instrument and not the memory of smashing her own childhood reed on the skull of a blue-veined assassin sent to murder her in her home. It’s the first time she’s played since Brio’s disappearance, or rather the first time she’s been able to contemplate such an action without the pangs of loss and fear crippling her.

  Daian watches her play from his sickbed, the sight inspiring a tired smile. His wound has closed and appears to be healing. The color has returned to his skin, and he’s remained conscious since he first woke, but he still can’t stand under his own power. In fact, beyond turning his head and raising his arms, both of which seem to require immense effort, Daian hasn’t been able to move much at all. He claims he can still feel his legs all the way down to the tip of his toes and his strength will return in time, but with each passing hour Lexi’s concern rises.

  She finishes the song with a subtle flourish, her fingertips dancing briefly against the trio of taut strings and for a moment it sounds like rain falling on rose petals.

  Daian claps his hands together, able to produce only the barest applause.

  “You were right,” he says, still sounding impossibly weak. “You really are terrible at that.”

  Lexi laughs, and it’s the flavor of the spontaneous laughter that surprises her with its unabashed volume and intensity. She raises a hand to her mouth, almost embarrassed by the outburst.

  “Does laughter violate your formal training?” Daian asks.

  Lexi nods. “Entirely.”

  “We could do with less formality in this nation.”

  “I agree.”

  Lexi removes her hand, a silent smile left in the wake of the unrestrained burst of laughter.

  “Can I bring you anything?” she asks.

  “You’ve done more than enough for me.”

  She frowns. “That might be true if we ignored the fact that I caused your current condition. I have to believe those other Aegins attacked you because you took up Brio’s investigation.”

  Daian shakes his head. “This wasn’t your fault. You only asked for my help. You couldn’t know how deep and how vile the corruption among my own people was.”

  “But I’ve cost you so much—”

  “You only asked me to do my duty. You reminded me what that duty is. I’m grateful to you for that.”

  Lexi doesn’t know what to say to that. Her hand travels across the bed sheets and lays over his, almost hovering rather than touching.

  Daian turns his palm up and clasps his fingers around hers. His grip surprises Lexi with its strength, but she’s more taken with the direction of the moment. She deftly slips her hand from his and sets her reed aside.

  “When you’ve fully healed,” she says quickly, “I promise you we’ll make certain you’re able to return to—”

  The loud and unexpected echo of a heavy wooden creak rising from the bottom of the tower interrupts her next words. They can both hear heavy footfalls clacking against the stone floor in the silence that follows.

  “That must be Taru,” Lexi reasons.

  “It’s too soon,” Daian says. “Far too soon.”

  Lexi stands. “I will go see to it.”

  “No,” Daian insists.

  He tries to lean forward, to rise from his sickbed, but the first inch of movement sees him grimacing in pain and falling back against the sheets.

  “Stop that!” Lexi commands. “You are in no condition. This is my house. Just rest.”

  “Go carefully” is the best he can manage through the haze of pain and exhaustion.

  Lexi nods. Leaving the room, she gathers the hem of her wrap and descends the tower steps quickly.

  The first thing she sees is a mass of black boots awaiting her. She takes the last flight of stairs at an even faster pace. The lamps of the entrance hall make their uniforms look like oil slicks. The three Protectorate Ministry agents with their gaping eagle eye pendants have shut the doors behind them.

  Their leader is the bone-white woman with the close-cropped hair to match who interrogated Lexi.

  Ginnix bows formally. “Good evening, Te-Gen.”

  “What are you doing in my home?” she demands. “No one granted you permission to enter here as you please.”

  The two absurdly contrasting agents who’ve been surveying Lexi’s every move since after the attempt on her life are flanking the pale woman.

  “You are by now familiar with my colleagues, Agents Jindo and Nils.”

  Ginnix waves a black-gloved hand at each man as she says his name. The bald scarecrow is Jindo and the one as round as a wheel of cheese is Nils, it seems. Jindo remains a skeletal monument during the brief introduction, but Nils bows to her, his slick of dark hair flopping forward like a fish on a dry dock.

  “Stalking my door doesn’t give them the right to enter it unwelcome, either,” Lexi maintains.

  “I’m afraid we’ve finally reached the end of civil pretense in this… situation.”

  “I do not take your meaning.”

  “Of course you do,” Ginnix casually insists. “Your Undeclared retainer left your side for the first time since the disappearance of your husband. I can only imagine that the reason must be dire. We know you are colluding with an Aegin and that he was asking a great many questions in the Bottoms about your husband’s activities. That same Aegin murdered two of his comrades in an alley shortly thereafter. We discovered their bodies, but of him we found only a great deal of blood. He’s here now, isn’t he? Did he survive? Perhaps long enough to inform you of the location of certain articles?”

  “I have not the slightest notion about anything to which you are referring.”

&nb
sp; Ginnix waves a hand dismissively. “It’s of no consequence,” she says. “We will soon have your retainer and whatever they’ve unearthed in our custody.”

  Lexi feels the acid edge of panic rising from her guts. She subtly balls her fists and forces a quenching calm over it.

  We are not flowers. We do not wilt.

  She sidles slowly to her left, taking care to appear to be the exact opposite of a person who is running away.

  She bows to them. “I must apologize. However inappropriate, you are in my home. May I invite you into the parlor for refreshment? We can discuss these matters further in comfort there.”

  She backs through the archway leading into the parlor, then turns and walks slowly past the receiving sofas and chairs to the buffet upon which many bottles of wine and spirits are kept.

  Ginnix follows her, the other two agents keeping a respectful distance from her heels.

  “I appreciate the offer of hospitality, but I’m afraid there’s nothing left to discuss. You’ll be coming with us now.”

  Lexi, her back to them, caresses the long neck of a large bottle with fingers that are beginning to tremble.

  “Am I under arrest?” she asks in an even tone.

  “Again, we’ve reached the end of civil pretense,” Ginnix reiterates. “You are coming with us. We will utilize you as needed. It’s that simple.”

  “I am not a thing,” Lexi says, barely above a whisper.

  Her hand closes tightly around the bottle’s neck.

  “You are a national resource. And this is how that resource serves your nation at this time.”

  Ginnix steps forward, leaving Jindo and Nils in the archway. She strides past the ornate and lavish furniture, black-gloved hand coiled around the handle of her dagger in its scabbard.