Savage Legion

Savage Legion

by Matt Wallace
Savage Legion

Savage Legion

by Matt Wallace


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An epic fantasy by Hugo Award–winning author Matt Wallace about a utopian city with a dark secret...and the underdogs who will expose it, or die trying.

They call them Savages. Brutal. Efficient. Expendable.

The empire relies on them. The Savages are the greatest weapon they ever developed. Culled from the streets of their cities, they take the ones no one will miss and throw them, by the thousands, at the empire’s enemies. If they live, they fight again. If they die, there are always more to take their place.

Evie is not a Savage. She’s a warrior with a mission: to find the man she once loved, the man who holds the key to exposing the secret of the Savage Legion and ending the mass conscription of the empire’s poor and wretched.

But to find him, she must become one of them, to be marked in her blood, to fight in their wars, and to find her purpose. Evie will die a Savage if she has to, but not before showing the world who she really is and what the Savage Legion can really do.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781534439207
Publisher: Gallery / Saga Press
Publication date: 07/21/2020
Series: Savage Rebellion , #1
Pages: 512
Product dimensions: 5.60(w) x 8.50(h) x 1.60(d)

About the Author

Matt Wallace is the Hugo nominated author of Rencor: Life in Grudge City and the Sin du Jour series, and he won a Hugo Award alongside Mur Lafferty for the fancast Ditch Diggers. He’s also penned more than a hundred short stories in addition to writing for film and television. In his youth, he traveled the world as a professional wrestler and unarmed combat and self-defense instructor before retiring to write full time. He currently resides in Los Angeles with his wife, Nikki.

Read an Excerpt

1. The Mourning After

AHEAD OF EVIE, DOORS OF rotting wood are flung open. The sun is a curse shouted into her eyes, and she is prodded by the impatient end of a club up the mucky membrane of the darkened tunnel and out into the light of day. She feels soft, mostly even terrain under her moccasin-covered feet. She holds up a dirty hand, saluting the void of sharp gold filling her vision, and blinking until the motion snaps the world around her into something akin to focus.

The space is vast and walled and forgotten. It must have been a training field for soldiers once, no doubt covered by green grass that is now just a memory made of yellow bladed husks. Broken wooden men slouch from their buried tree trunk bases, as if the hapless vague bipedal shapes are supplicating in defeat. Practice weapons dangle from rusty, loosened nails at the end of sticks mimicking an enemy’s sword arm.

There are stubby little men and women armed with blunt sticks prodding them along, Evie and the rest of the drunks and dregs and bandits from the Capitol’s dungeon, herding them like feed into the center of the field.

“Form a line!” a voice shouts with all the power and rage of a minor god burdened by their peers with mortal concerns. “Shoulder to shoulder and an arm’s span apart! I don’t care how you stand, but stand! Stand, I said, you miserable pickled jars of skin!”

The voice continues to boom and command. Evie steps between two equally ragged, unwashed bodies and plants her feet in the neglected earth. She hopes the fabled “line” of which the angered god speaks will form around her so she’ll be required to move no more. Her head feels like a melon pressed between two scorching boulders.

The demigod’s raging commands cease, and for a moment there is only blissful silence on the field, save for the steady, gentle rasping of hurried drunks.

Then he steps before their assemblage.

It’s him, the giant from the cells. He’s the one who took them all from the dungeon, loaded them onto a wagon, bagged their heads, and rattled them what felt like halfway across the countryside. He’s the tallest man she’s ever seen. His torso is like a hundred-pound sack of taro, bulging rolls of flesh pushing through the impossibly small vest he’s somehow managed to toggle together around them.

“I am your wrangler,” he announces. “My name is Laython. You will call me ‘Tasker’ or you will call me ‘Freemaster.’ And from now till your bloody deaths on the field of battle in service of Crache... your name... is Savage.”

Savage. Evie turns the word over in her mind, finding it offensive even by her standards.

“Look to the spires of this field,” Laython instructs them.

Evie tilts her head and squints through the harsh sunlight at the towers crowning the walls of the training field. They are each crewed by Skrain, the elite soldiers of Crache, resplendent in breastplates embossed with the ant, the nation’s symbol. Rich folds of leather extend from each shielded chest to cover their arms all the way to their wrists. They carry master-crafted Ancestor Hafts, long weapons crowned with horse-cutter blades. The faces of the Skrain aren’t visible to the rabble on the field, which seems appropriate.

“What you see are soldiers. What you see is the exact opposite of what you are. There will be no shining armor, oiled leather, or fine steel for the lot of you. Oh no, my friends. You’re Savages. The rags you’ve come here in and any rusted pieces of scrap you can scrounge from the armory wagon is all you’ll need on the battlefield.”

“What in the Fire Star’s light are you going on about?” Evie asks him.

Laython scowls. “Calling out the name of outlawed gods is exactly what landed your raggedy ass here, girl! Now shut it!”

Evie finds it easy enough to obey that command, as speaking hurts just as much as everything else right now.

“You will not loot,” Laython informs them, casually returning to his public address. “You will not pillage, you will not rape, and you will not take battlefield trophies of any kind.”

He walks up and down the first row of them, and by now Evie’s stomach has settled into the same perpetual numb state as her head.

“You will not desert your regiment. You will not quarrel with, nor kill your fellow Savage. These commands are sacred, and the violation of any of them will result in your immediate execution.”

“You expect us to fight?” another prisoner, older and portlier, asks.

“I expect you to cause the same chaos and mayhem on the field of battle that you so dearly love to cause in city taverns. You’re not soldiers,” he reiterates. “You, each of you, are weapons. You’ll be hurled at the front lines of Crache’s enemies in waves thick enough to smash them. And in that chaos our Skrain will wipe away what remains. That is how we win. That is how Crache prevails, by the blood of Savages. Your blood.”

“Why don’t you just kill us now?” the same portly old man asks, more meekly than defiantly.

“Because that would waste good, solid material. And Crache does not waste any of its resources.”

“We’re not the condemned,” Evie insists. “This isn’t right.”

“It’s service,” he says with finality. “It’s a service to which you’ve all been called. That call cannot be refused. If you choose death then you’ll choose it meeting our nation’s enemies.

“Welcome to the Savage Legion.”

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