The Devil's Pay (Dogs of War)

by Gross, Dave

  Dawson winced. “Does the whole company know about that?”

  Smooth grinned and slugged him on the shoulder, just hard enough to bruise.

  The rain had left the ground soft but not impassable. The Devil Dogs’ wagon train followed dirt roads when it could, once crossing a fallow field to reach a trail leading east into the Wythmoor. When he spied the local farmer emerging from a cellar, Lister sent over a runner with a gift from the provisions to assuage any hard feelings

  At dusk, the Dogs began setting camp without a word from their sergeant. Crawley saved his breath to harangue the mechaniks as they checked and double-checked the warjacks and their wagons. When he set the goggles over his eyes and grimaced to reveal his peg-like teeth through a blast of steam, Dawson finally understood how the man had earned the nickname “Creepy.”

  Despite their rank and role in Sam’s inner circle, the “boys” worked side-by-side with the “men.” Dawson found himself clearing mud from the wheels of Foyle’s wagon across from Burns. If the big man harbored any remaining suspicions about Dawson’s loyalties, he made no sign of it.

  Lister conferred with Sam. They took turns peering through a spyglass and scratching marks on a map they lay on the tailgate of the supply wagon.

  Smooth supervised the preparation of a meal of salt pork and loaves bought fresh in Tarna that morning. He and another man filled four iron pots with barley, dried vegetables, and diced beef. They left the pots to simmer until morning.

  Lister sent out sentries in a picket around the wagons, between which the Dogs settled in around the fires. Burns let them in on his version of “The Roundabout Girl,” which somehow he had made even more profane. Dawson hesitated to join in until he heard Sam’s voice belting out the most vulgar refrains. After three songs, the captain said, “Sleep tight, my Dogs.” Minutes later, the camp was silent but for the crackling of the fire, a shush of autumn breeze, and rhythmic snoring.

  The next afternoon, Sam halted the wagon train near a village at the edge of the Wythmoor. The clouds had parted just enough to reveal a sliver of blue sky between endless banks of pewter clouds. A lone bar of sunlight draped a golden veil across the heath that lay between the village and the edge of the swamp.

  “Harrow, Lister, and you—ah, Dawson. You’re with me. The rest of you stay here with the big lugs. Crawley, get these horses watered.”

  The sergeant repeated Sam’s orders for form’s sake, but the drivers were already in motion, eager to stretch their legs after sitting for the past two hours.

  The soldiers shrugged off their packs. About a third of them stood watch while the rest sat down to rest, shared a smoke, or drank from their leather canteens.

  Sam led the way to the village. Beside one of the thatched cottages, a man and his wife secured a rocking chair to the top of a cart already full of furniture and other belongings. They glanced nervously at the Devil Dogs before hurrying inside for another load.

  The village headman and a few teenage boys walked out to meet the Dogs. The man greeted Sam with a two-handed shake.

  “Why if it isn’t Samantha MacHorne. How long has it been?”

  “Too long, Wilkie,” she said. “I can still taste Rona’s shortbread. Melted on our tongues.”

  “If we’d known you were coming, she’d have made a big batch.”

  “It was a sudden thing. We won’t be staying.” She threw a meaningful look toward the couple abandoning their house.

  “Not everyone likes living so close to the Wythmoor.” Wilkie shrugged, but he also swallowed nervously. “Hunting Cryx, are you??”

  Sam nodded at the departing couple as they hitched a pair of donkeys to their wagon. “Something’s scaring them off. I take it there’s been sign?”

  “None that I’ve seen with my own eyes,” said Wilkie. “Every time someone spies a dark shadow in the Wythmoor or smells a foul stench, there’s talk of Cryx.”

  “That kind of talk isn’t enough to send folks packing.”

  “No, that’s so,” he said with some reluctance. “A forester came through yesterday. He told a few stories of Cryxlight and lost souls, and maybe he saw something that spooked him. Whatever it was, he ran until he stumbled upon a group of Steelheads.”

  “Brocker?” asked Sam.

  “Aye,” said Wilkie. “Him and that great horrible horse of his.”

  Lister turned his head and spat without dislodging his unlit cigar.

  “How many?” said Sam.

  Wilkie shrugged. “Enough rifles and halberds that they camped around four fires.”

  “Where were they?”

  “Maybe six miles east by southeast.”

  “Which way were they headed?” asked Sam.

  “The forester couldn’t say. They sent him away before they broke camp.”

  “Is this forester still around?”

  Wilkie shook his head.

  “Did this forester seem to be in a hurry to move on?”

  Again, Wilkie nodded with some reluctance. “If I think too much about it, I start thinking I should move my own family to Tarna.”

  “And he said the Steelheads were looking for Cryx?”

  “He didn’t say as much, but he kept hinting there were worse things out there than mercenaries. Along with the campfire tales, some folks got it into their head… Well, you know how it is.” Curiosity creased his brow. “What exactly did you say your lot is looking for?”

  Sam shrugged. “I’ll know that when I see it. Do you know anything else that might help us?”

  “Well, King Baird’s men rode into the Wythmoor a few months back. They went in with six big wagons like yours, some full of building materials, the others full of enough provisions to last a winter siege. They came back less than a week later, wagons empty. Didn’t look like they’d come under fire, but they didn’t stop to chat.”

  Sam nodded. “That’s good to know. Are you short of any necessaries?”

  “Now that you mention it…”

  After a short, informal barter, Sam sent Dawson back to fetch a few spare tools and one of the company’s spare pick axes. Sergeant Crawley quizzed him on what the locals had told Sam. As he approved the release of the company’s materiel, he said, “You look confused, Private.”

  “I understand the captain wants to question the locals, but why barter with them?”

  “It creates goodwill,” said Crawley. “They’re apt to tell us much more than they’d confide to a brute like Stannis Brocker. Besides, look what we get in return.”

  Sam was headed back toward the wagons with a basket of colorful, late-season vegetables in her arms. Harrow carried a leg of mutton, and Lister hefted a sack of grain over his massive shoulder.

  “There’s store we didn’t need to haul from Tarna,” said Crawley. “And look at those fresh peppers!”

  After the exchange, the captain ordered the company west. They stopped only after they were well out of sight of the village, Burns said, “To put the minds of all the young girls’ fathers to ease.”

  Sam ordered the fresh food prepared that night. Before releasing them to sleep, she stood before the assembled soldiers. “The bad news is that we may have competition for our prize,” she said. “The good news is that it’s Stannis Brocker.”

  “That’s good news?” asked Burns.

  “He may be a terror on that warbeast he calls a horse, but he doesn’t have our talent for taking down a warjack.”

  “That won’t matter if he finds it before we do,” said Lister. “He’ll bring it back in pieces and whistle all the way to the bank.”

  “You think he got the same contract we did?” asked Crawley.

  “Of course not,” said Sam. “The Old Man came to us for a reason, and he’d never deal with a bastard like Brocker.”

  “Somebody else could have hired him,” said Burns.

  The Dogs muttered about Khadoran fingers poking into Ordic territory.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Sam. “If there’s something unusual in t
he Wythmoor, we’re going to be the ones to find it. We move first thing in the morning. See Sergeant Crawley for your assignments. Some of you will be scouting tomorrow.”

  The Dogs could see barely farther than a stone’s throw into the autumn mists, swamp gas, and various foul miasmas surrounding moldering tree stumps. The mingled vapors clung to the boggy ground or hung like spider webs between the trunks of alders.

  Here and there the mists pooled into hollows. Elsewhere, dingy yellow stains upon the thick air suggested some hulking beast stared back at the intruding mercenaries.

  Sometimes a vague light rose from the ground, its source obscured by haze and distance. When any of the Dogs stepped toward it, a comrade would put a hand on his arm and shake his head.

  “Don’t follow the Cryxlight,” Smooth told Dawson. “Some of them are lost souls. They’ll drown you if they can.”

  The cries of real birds came muffled through the fog, but none of them were songs. Crows creaked out hoarse complaints or warnings. Sparrows twittered their disquiet, rising suddenly from the naked branches of their perches when the Dogs came too near.

  The most startling inhabitants of the bog were the sudden stenches. Some erupted when a wagon wheel burst a shallow pocket in the muck. Others seemed to drift in a breeze no one could feel, or to filter down from the withered leaves of a dying tree.

  Voices low, Sam and Crawley directed the Dogs to unload Gully and Foyle. The mechaniks performed their last-minute inspections while the engineers loaded the fireboxes with coal. Crawley ignited the engines, and after warming the boilers the warjacks huffed into motion.

  Gulliver stood erect, raising his monstrous battle blade only to rest it across the “shoulders” of his broad iron chassis. The heavy warjack stepped away from the wagon. In its left hand, its solid targa shield came to rest at its side.

  Foyle grasped its stun lance and hefted its own, much larger shield before the lighter warjack stepped forward and stood at attention.

  Black smoke rose from the single-stack chimneys of the ’jacks. It vanished almost immediately into the gray soup of the Wythmoor.

  The first of the pickets arrived, out of breath. He saluted the captain but reported to Lieutenant Lister. “Sounds of battle, Sir. I tried to get closer, but then I saw green clouds and thought it prudent to return.”

  “Damned Cryx,” said Burns.

  “Did you see who they’re fighting?” asked Lister.

  “Yes, Sir. I saw the outlines of their halberds through the mist. It’s got to be the Steelheads.”

  “If they’re fighting Cryx, I say we move on.” Lister turned to Sam. “Let them fight their own battles.”

  “Yeah,” said Burns. “No sense risking our lives—or our souls.”

  Sam considered the matter. “There’s still the issue of professional courtesy.”

  “Courtesy with Brocker?” Lister asked, incredulous.

  “Screw Brocker,” said Burns. “He wouldn’t lift a finger to help a Dog.”

  “When we want your opinion, Burns—” said Lister.

  “No, he’s right,” said Sam. “Stannis Brocker gives mercenaries a bad name. Still, I want to know why he’s here. Maybe it’s true he’s hunting Cryx. Say what you will about Brocker, but he’s brave enough to be that foolish. Still, if he’s after our prize, we need to know.”

  “I don’t like it, Sam,” said Lister. “Dog Company isn’t made for fighting Cryx. The Steelheads have range and speed, rifles and cavalry.”

  “Unless something’s changed, Brocker has no warjacks. If the Cryx have even a single helljack, the Steelheads will be in trouble. They aren’t all bastards like Brocker. If nothing else, we don’t want dead Steelheads swelling the Cryx ranks, do we?”

  Lister shook his head.

  “Better them than us,” said Burns.

  “We’ll take a closer look,” said Sam. “We move in ready for anything. If it looks like the Steelheads have things well in hand, we’ll congratulate them afterward. If we spot helljacks, well, we’re just the Dogs to bring them down. Either way, it’s a chance to find out why they’re here. Understood?”

  “Yes’m,” said the boys.

  “Full gear, ready to fight.”

  The Dogs already had their heavy nets slung over their shoulders, their slug guns in hand. They moved forward in squads of four. Dawson went with Harrow, Burns, and a scar-faced Ordic army veteran named Morris.

  “What’s wrong with Brocker?” asked Dawson. “I hear he’s one of the best.”

  “He’s worked for Khador so much, he’s practically red himself,” said Burns.

  “But the company charter says we’ll never work for Khador. Doesn’t that include helping companies who—?”

  Harrow silenced them both with a dire glance.

  Within fifty yards, they spied brief yellow flashes in the distance. An instant later, they heard the muffled report of rifle fire. Soon the Dogs could make out the cries of human voices, the grind of ’jack gears, and horrible, belching explosions.

  Harrow raised his hand to stop the others, then ran forward, light on his feet. He knelt and touched something on the ground before waving the others up to join him.

  An armored man lay on the ground. His dead eyes stared straight up, the blanched irises the color of sour milk, his skin the color of mold. Dawson’s eyes widened as he saw the ragged bottom of the man’s cuirass. The rest of his body was gone, only a mess of ravaged guts spilled on the ground.

  Burns rapped on the man’s steel breastplate and looked at Dawson. “Definitely Steelheads.” He grimaced at the devastating wound. “Definitely Cryx.”

  Dawson nodded, gaping. A moment later, he closed his mouth against the revolting taste of the mutilated body’s rising stench.

  “Tell the captain.” Harrow nodded at Morris, who took off at a run.

  Harrow unslung his pick-axe. He began to raise it above the dead man’s head but stopped, turning to Dawson. “You haven’t done this before,” he said. He handed his pick to Dawson. “Finish him.”

  “But— But he’s already dead.”

  “Make sure he stays that way,” said Harrow.

  Dawson hesitated, but after one look in Harrow’s cold eyes he swung the axe and split the dead man’s skull in half. He retched at what he’d done, but he managed not to vomit.

  Harrow took back his weapon without another word.

  The three remaining Dogs continued their advance. Twice they paused to return the hand signals of the squads to their left and right.

  Morris returned at a run. “They’re coming through.”

  A panicked fox darted past Dawson’s leg, fleeing the clamor approaching from the rear.

  Harrow signaled them to move aside as a sound of giant iron footsteps neared. Saplings splintered beneath the warjacks. The strain and sigh of pistons grew faster with each step. Steam and coal smoke darkened the already misty atmosphere of the Wythmoor.

  Foyle emerged from the mist, striding straight toward the battle. Sam followed, the massive Gully at her side. Lister jogged along close behind with a squad of his own.

  Harrow increased the pace. The others strove to keep up, even as they craned their necks for a better look at the obscured battle ahead. The shouts of Steelhead infantry grew louder, first in bloodlust, then in retreat, as the deep voice of their commander ordered a tactical retreat.

  The Dogs saw the men running from a pair of hulking figures as big as Gully. In silhouette, their limbs appeared both more graceful and more angular than those of the heavy Nomad. In churning clouds of smoke and steam, their only distinct features were their armaments: the bubbling reservoirs of green venom above their crustacean pincers on one arm, and the obscene bulb of their necrosludge cannons on the other.

  “Corruptors,” said Harrow. “You see green hit the man beside you, get away from him double-quick.”

  Gaunt mechanithrall foot soldiers pushed forward between the helljacks. Once human, these things were now nightmares of flesh and metal.
With every bound, their mechanical joints squealed for thirst of grease. Their fleshless jaws clacked as they raised iron fists above their skulls, poised to smash through armor and the living bodies that would one day join their undead legion.

  “Move, move, move!” The voice of the Steelhead commander boomed over all other sounds. The Dogs saw him atop a beast too thick and tall to be a horse, and yet it danced among the retreating infantry with the grace of a thoroughbred. “Move, move... Cover! Cover! Fire!”

  Rifle fire punctuated the cacophony. The volley seemed to clear the field of thralls, but a few rushed on, and a few more rose again. Braced for the charge, the halberdiers cut down the fiends before their mechanikal fists could reach their skulls.

  Behind them came another wave of mechanithralls, this time supported by corpulent figures gripping thin, corroded cannons trailing green vapor.

  As if excited by the carnage, the helljacks burped out their vile distillations. One green blob enveloped a tree, melting the wood as it sank down around its trunk. Another landed among a cluster of riflemen. One managed to flee before their comrade’s body burst in a shower of gore and poison. The other fell, shredded by the shrapnel of his compatriot’s shattered bones.

  “Rifles retreat!” shouted the commander. “Move, move, move!”

  Intent on pursuit, the Cryx followed the retreating Steelheads, moving past the Dogs without seeming to notice their approach. They were intent on the kill.

  Sam gave the sign. Lister barked an order. Sergeant Crawley sounded a shrill whistle.

  Harrow pointed at the nearest helljack. “Our target.”

  Foyle went first. The swift Talon intercepted the Corruptor. Just as the helljack began to turn, Foyle thrust its lance straight into the gap between its cowl-shaped armor and its tusked head. Lightning cracked in the dark hollow as the helljack’s head jerked in spastic distress.

  “Pull it down!” bellowed Burns. He flung his net, trapping the Corruptor’s pincer arm against its spiked knee joint. “Damn it! No good.”

  Dawson, Morris, and Harrow did the same. Together, their nets bound the helljack’s legs. The stunned Corruptor teetered.