The Devil's Pay (Dogs of War)

by Gross, Dave

  “Bring it down!” thundered Lister. No sooner had he spoken but the strange warjack ran crablike past the front line, charging the Dogs standing between it and the depot entrance. “Stop it! Don’t let it escape.”

  “Wait!” cried Sam, and an instant later everyone could see what she had noticed. The rushing warjack left no mark in its wake, disturbed none of the crates in its path.

  It was nothing but an apparition.

  Behind them, barrels tumbled to the floor as the real warjack raced toward the passage into which the helljack had run.

  “After it,” called Sam. As if understanding her words, the enemy warjack paused just inside the shelter of the depot. It turned, adjusting the aim of its saw-flinger.

  “Cover!” shouted Lister.

  The Dogs scattered, but they needn’t have bothered. The warjack’s saw blade shot out not at a living target but at a crate marked MUNITIONS. Dozens of boxes of rifle cartridges scattered across the floor.

  Lister exploded in a litany of Caspian curses. Sam shouted, “Get out! Get out now! Get out!”

  The warjack continued to throw sawblades at the munitions crates as the Dogs scrambled to pour out of the depot. Its second shot ignited a string of reports as the sparks found powder.

  The third smashed another crate just as Foyle widened the entrance further, escaping just behind the Devil Dogs. The fourth exploded as the saw blade cut through the cartridges inside.

  Outside, the Dogs ran into a torrent of rain. The depot shook as explosions cascaded down its length. The skylights went first, showering the Dogs outside with glass and wire fragments. Flames washed over Foyle as the Talon’s bulk sheltered the men fleeing before him.

  The horses screamed. In their panic, those hitched to Gully’s wagon bolted as the drivers shouted for them to stop. The other teams barely managed to control their animals, turning them away from the exploding depot.

  An instant later, the entire building bulged and cracked as the chain reaction reached the largest charges. Within seconds, the entire building crackled with flames, and the rain hissed its displeasure as it fell upon the fire.

  Shaking their heads and slapping at their deafened ears, the Devil Dogs picked themselves up off the ground. Sam was the first to speak. “Get to the other side. That tunnel has to come out somewhere nearby this damnable knoll before it dips below the waterline.”

  Sam ran beside Dawson, who pointed at a gleaming shape rising up from a hole about eighty feet away. “There!”

  “Gully!” Sam cried out to the Nomad standing at the far end of the depot. She pointed at the retreating machine. “Stop that ’jack!”

  She ran after the Nomad, Dawson and a few of the other Dogs close on her heels.

  The chromium warjack ran after the foe who stole its arm, seemingly unaware of the massive Nomad charging to intercept, battle blade rising. The chromium warjack swiveled at the waist and shot a spinning sawblade just as Gully’s sword descended. Sparks exploded as blade met blade. The impact knocked Gully just far enough out of position that its body glanced off the enemy warjack and tumbled forward through a stand of saplings.

  Sam aimed he pistol but lowered it again as the chromium warjack disappeared into the gray veil of heavy rain.

  Gully strained to pick himself up from the ground. A massive dent creased his upper chassis, but all his limbs still functioned.

  Sam turned to face the burning depot. The orange light of the conflagration colored the lenses of her goggles. She looked up as something moved against the current of smoke and rain above her. Without hesitating, she raised her pistol and fired.

  All the nearby Devil Dogs crouched. Those with slug guns aimed generally at the sky, but they saw no target.

  Inside the burning depot, pine crates crackled. Another volley of explosions followed.

  “Get these wagons out of here,” Sam shouted. “Dogs, move away! I don’t want anybody taking a hit from a gods-damned munitions crate.”

  As she led the Dogs away, Crawley reported two men missing. Sam told him to send a quick reconnaissance around the fire, but not to lose any more men doing it.

  “What did you see, Sam?” Lister coughed. “What was that on the roof?”

  She pushed her goggles up, revealing a clean stripe where the smoke had failed to blacken her eyes. “I don’t know,” she said. “But I promise you we’re going to find out.”

  PART THREE

  The Devil Dogs found the corpses of the missing men not far from the smoldering ruin of the Ordic Supply Depot. The men had fallen nowhere near the fire, but their bodies lay burned and twisted on the far side of the structure.

  Against all advice, Smooth insisted on standing with the aid of a crutch Harrow had hewn from an ash branch. The other Dogs kept an eye on the heavy bandage wrapped around Smooth’s upper calf. Sergeant Crawley had issued a general order that the moment anyone saw blood seeping through, Smooth was to be dragged back to the wagon, no matter how many men it took to do so.

  Smooth raised his voice over the patter of rain. “They must have run into the iron lich while we were fighting inside the depot.”

  “There’s no worse way to go,” said Burns.

  “Not even burning?” asked Dawson. He and Burns sewed one of the dead men into a canvas bag, while Swire and McBride did the same for the other.

  Burns nodded, his face uncharacteristically sober. “Burning’s horrible, but it’s only pain. You die, it’s over. These Cryx, their iron liches and some of the other monsters, they don’t just kill you. They draw out your soul and use it to feed their wicked machines.”

  Dawson had nothing to say to that.

  Once the bags were sealed, Lister murmured a prayer over the bodies. Morris and about half the other men reached under their breastplates to touch their ascendant medallions as they added their own silent invocations to the impromptu ceremony.

  When Lister finished, Sam pulled off her goggles and stepped forward. “We’ll take good care of Bates and Hughes until we can get them home,” she said. “There’s more to say about each of them, but for now we have a job to finish. When we’re done, we’ll drink to their memories, and I’ll tell you pups about the time a gobber sold Hughes a half-share in a talking horse.”

  A few of the men smiled at the captain’s mention of the incident. Burns wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “He was so damned gullible.”

  “You want me to tell them who bought the other half?” asked Sam.

  “I don’t know what you mean, Captain.” Burns feigned innocence.

  A few of the men forced a laugh, but the mirth never reached their eyes.

  “Once the rain lets up enough to track it, we’re going to find that warjack. And this time we’re going to bring it down no matter how slippery its legs prove. We’re going to deliver it to the Old Man, and we’re going to collect the bonus, not just for ourselves, but for Robinson, Bates, and Hughes, and for their families.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Crawley. His eyes were red from smoke, but he didn’t rub them. Instead, he polished the lenses of his goggles and set them back in place. “Now, I need a look at those big lugs.”

  The Dogs bore the dead back to the wagon, where they lay the bags beside the one containing Robinson’s remains. As the others watched them go, Sam called Crowborough back. “I need you to deliver a message.”

  “Yes, Captain. Where to?”

  “Well, that’s the tricky part. Give me your map.” When he did so, Sam circled three locations on the other side of the Dragon’s Tongue River. She handed Crowborough a folded letter. “The Old Man’s eyes only. You’ll find him in one of these areas. Start with the closest first.”

  Lister handed Crowborough a coin purse. “Take the courser. Cross at the Calbeck Ferry if it’s open. Otherwise, you’ll have to ford at Oxbridge.”

  “Yessir,” said Crowborough, saluting each officer in turn. “Yes’m!”

  He ran to the supply wagon, sparing only a moment to nod his respect over the fa
llen before requisitioning a hooded rain cloak and the swiftest of the riding horses. Within minutes, he was riding away from the dying blaze of the supply depot.

  Sergeant Crawley had the mechaniks climbing over both warjacks, their efforts hampered by the driving rain. Once he could assure Sam that they were fit for marching, the captain led the Dogs south, the direction in which they had last seen both the Cryx helljack and the strange, chromium warjack fleeing.

  “You think the saw-flinger wants its arm back?” Lister asked Sam. They trudged side-by-side with Crawley ahead of the wagons. Burns, Morris, Dawson, and Smooth guarded them, their slug guns reloaded and held ready for sudden action.

  “It looked that way to me,” said Sam. “Just as it looked like the lich wanted to take home a piece of that warjack. If the Cryx learn its secrets before the Old Man has a chance to figure them out…” She left the rest unspoken.

  “I never saw a ’jack like that before,” said Burns. “It definitely isn’t Swans or Reds. Not the zealots, either. Could it be the elves?”

  “It was weird enough for the Iosans,” said Lister.

  “No, the way it moved, it didn’t seem at all like elf magic,” said Crawley. “It was a lot more mechanikal. This is something completely new. Did you see its smokestack?”

  “No,” said Sam.

  “Neither did I. That thing was running on some completely different form of energy.”

  “You sure it isn’t just some new arcanika?”

  “No, I’m not sure,” said Crawley. “It doesn’t seem like magic to me. Not just mechanika, either. This is something new.”

  “I’m starting to understand why the Old Man is so interested in this thing,” Sam added.

  The rain ebbed and flowed like the tide. At its heaviest, it steamed against Foyle and Gully’s hot smokestacks. When it was no more than a drizzle, it seemed to evaporate even before touching the hot iron.

  Distant thunder warned of fiercer rain to come, but Sam kept the Dogs moving through the early evening. She moved from unit to unit, praising the men for the courage they had shown, asking them how they wanted to spend their bonuses upon their return to Tarna. She threatened a few with a game of cards, a gambit that evoked a smile or a firm refusal from even the most traumatized of the men. When the combined twilight and rain made further tracking futile, she called a halt.

  Crawley directed Dawson’s unit in erecting a tarpaulin shelter over the warjacks. Imperfect as it was, it kept the rain off the mechaniks’ heads while they hammered out the dents the strange warjack had pounded into Foyle’s iron body.

  As they finished, the men stood under the shelter for a while, enjoying the refuge from the rain.

  “What I wanna know is what the captain saw up on the roof,” Crawley said. “Who was controlling that warjack? We were on the wrong side of that fight. What did you see, Morris?”

  “Just a shadow,” he said. “We were too busy trying to tip that ’jack. It didn’t matter how many nets we threw on it, the damned thing wouldn’t go down.”

  “We didn’t have much better luck with the slug guns,” said Dawson. “But at least it knows it was in a fight.”

  “It was bad luck we didn’t have both of the big lugs in there,” said Burns.

  “Sam did send Gully around,” said Smooth. “It would have been better if she’d been there to guide him. The big fellow’s not the brightest with anything more than simple directions. It took him forever to get around the other side of the depot.”

  “Say, you were outside, Smooth,” said Dawson. “What did you see on the roof?”

  “I wasn’t looking at first,” said Smooth. “Later, after the explosion, I could have sworn I saw something flying above it.”

  “Flying?” asked Morris.

  “I know, it sounds crazy. At first I thought it must have been a trick of the light in the rain. But I could have sworn I saw something with wings.”

  “Something like a bird?”

  “A big damned bird, maybe,” said Smooth. “But no, the shape was different. Its wings didn’t flap like a bird’s, either. It was more like it soared. It was almost like…nah.”

  “Come on, give,” said Burns.

  “Well, it was almost like a person with a great big set of wings on her back.”

  “A person?” said Burns. “Wings on her back?”

  “It was just the impression from a second of seeing something,” said Smooth. “The battle was distracting. Besides, I told you I didn’t really see anything.”

  “Ha!” Burns laughed. “Your near-death scratch has you seeing angels!”

  “Watch your mouth, Burns!”

  “I always thought it’d be the lieutenant who’d end up having divine visions.”

  “I’m warning you…”

  “I believe you,” said Dawson.

  “Don’t humor him, kid,” said Burns. “He’s run Lucille across that scalp of his a few too many times, nicked his brain.”

  “Don’t you talk about Lucille,” warned Smooth.

  “I’m just saying I thought I saw something, too,” said Dawson. “Something flying through the rain as the warjack ran away. It could have been…you know…shaped like an angel.”

  “That’s all I’m saying,” said Smooth. “Something with wings. That kind of shape!”

  “Angel-shaped,” scoffed Burns. “I’m going to leave you girls to your prayer meeting before you start holding hands and singing hymns.”

  After Burns had gone, Dawson looked to Smooth and began to ask a question.

  “I don’t even want to hear it,” said Smooth. The big man left the shelter.

  A few hours later, Dawson returned to camp after standing sentry duty. The constant patter of rain on his hood had threatened to lull him to sleep, but he kept his eyes peeled for any sign of green Cryxlight or the strange blue-white radiance he had seen on the chromium warjack.

  Once the mechaniks had done all they could for Gully and Foyle, the men took turns under the shelter to eat their meals of white beans and bacon. Soon after Dawson joined them, Lieutenant Lister trudged into the tent, leaning over his bowl to shelter it from the downpour.

  Dawson watched as Lister removed his ever-present cigar from his mouth and tucked it into a belt pouch. Streaks of gray in the man’s beard glistened in the light of the work lanterns. Unlike Smooth’s groomed scalp, Lister’s baldness appeared entirely natural. Where hair had once fringed his scalp, he now had only a pair of black hellhound tattoos on the back of his skull.

  He ate with mechanikal precision: spoon to mouth, six bites, swallow, repeat. With every bite his thick eyebrows formed a deep furrow between his brows, as though he were concentrating on the battle waged in his bowl.

  The other men lowered their voices slightly but otherwise ignored the lieutenant’s presence. They talked of which cobbler in Tarna made the best waterproof boots, whether King Baird or King Leto had the more talented kitchen staff, and whether the famous doxy Malvina came by her red hair naturally or purchased it from an alchemist. The latter dispute inspired a half-hearted round of boasts and denials until Burns arrived to settle the dispute with a pithy anecdote that caused even a few of the veterans to blush.

  Dawson waited until Lister scraped his bowl clean before clearing his throat. “Excuse me, Lieutenant. I was wondering…” He pointed at the back of Lister’s skull. When the big man raised a sinister eyebrow, Dawson lowered it again. “I mean, I hear you were present when Captain MacHorne won the company charter.”

  Lister turned to stare hard at the other men present. “Who’s been telling tales?”

  Craig and Bowie left without a word. Burns crossed his arms as he leaned against Gully’s knee, smiling like a man expecting to enjoy an entertainment. Smooth and Harrow came in out of the rain, the latter carrying two bowls while the former sat on a mechanik’s stool and put aside his crutch. As Smooth accepted his bowl, he looked up, raising his eyebrows at all the mute faces. “What’s going on?”

  Burns shrug
ged and made a half-hearted attempt to wipe the smile from his face.

  “All right,” said Lister. He shoved his empty bowl at Dawson and pointed past Burns. “Gimme that.”

  Burns tossed him another of the mechanik’s stools. Lister slapped it against his butt and sat down hard enough to sink its legs two inches into the ground. He removed the cigar from his pouch and jabbed it in Dawson’s direction.

  “A lot of wild talk goes on about that game. Every time some little gossip passes it along, it gets a little wilder. Some of the versions I’ve heard, well, they don’t bear repeating. The thing that all of them have in common is, the fellow telling the story wasn’t there – not unless it’s me.”

  “Wasn’t Sergeant Crawley there, too?”

  “Who’re you going to believe, me or him?” He popped the cigar into the corner of his mouth.

  “You, Sir.”

  “Yer damned right, me. Now listen tight, because if I hear one more tale about how Sam seduced that Khadoran dilettante or picked his pocket after getting him drunk on amberwine, I’m going to come looking for the minstrel responsible.

  “It was back in 603, on the Gilded Griffon, a gambling steamer cruising the Rohannor River from Merin to Berck. The festivities included an invitation-only card tournament, which is how we got involved.”

  “You and Captain Sam?” asked Dawson.

  “And Crawley. He and Sam knew each other from the Rust Market in Merin. They’d signed on together a few times for other companies, strictly as mechaniks. That’s the same way I knew Creepy, and he’d introduced me to Sam. Anyway, Sam was the one who got invited to the tourney. She didn’t like the idea of going alone, so she invited us along to watch her back.”

  Dawson nodded. The flash of a broad smile caught his eye. He turned just in time to see Smooth cover his expression with another spoonful of beans.

  “So there we are, Sam the gambler, me the muscle, and Crawley our spotter.”

  “Spotter?”

  “The one who keeps an eye on the spectators. Don’t you know anything about serious gambling?”