The Devil's Pay (Dogs of War)

The Devil's Pay (Dogs of War) - By Dave Gross


PART ONE




Dawson pelted down Lantern Street yelling, “Crawley! Harrow! Pamuk! Burns! Lieutenant Lister! Devil Dogs!”

He tripped over a legless beggar gripping a pair of wooden blocks to walk on his hands. The man fell to his stumps. Cursing, he shook a muddy block after Dawson. “Watch where you’re going, you good-for-nothing—”

“Sorry!” Dawson plucked a few small coins from his purse and tossed them over his shoulder. They splashed into a puddle beside the beggar.

“Couldn’t be bothered to put them in my pocket?” grumbled the man. He planted himself beside the puddle to fish out the coins.

Dawson ran on, shouting up at the second-floor balconies. “Devil Dogs! Lieutenant Lister! Corporal Pamuk!”

Dawson tried to dodge out of the path of a trollkin vendor, but his shoulder knocked free two of the roast chickens hanging from the staff across her shoulder. They splashed onto the muddy street. “Sorry!”

“Four silverweight.” The trollkin thrust out a hand the size of a shovel. She glared down over her bulging blue chin at Dawson, who stood two inches under six feet tall and looked smaller compared to her.

This time Dawson stopped as he withdrew the payment from his purse. He placed the coins in the trollkin’s pebbled hand before resuming his search.

“Waste of perfectly good food,” grumbled the trollkin. Before she could bend down to retrieve the fallen chickens, the beggar tucked one between his chin and chest, hastening away on his blocks.

“Crawley! Harrow! Pamuk! Burns! Lieutenant Lister! Devil Dogs! Anybody?”

“Sweetheart, you looking for Smooth Pamuk?” A courtesan leaned over the railing of her balcony. A pair of the street’s eponymous lanterns glowed at either end of the railing, advertising her availability.

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“That depends,” she said. “Can you pay his tab?”

Dawson weighed his purse in one hand. “How much?”

“Twenty-six royals.”

“Twenty-six?!”

She shrugged and turned aside, waving at a man across the street.

“Wait! Wait! I’ll be right up.”

Dawson barged through the brothel’s salon, dodging a scantily clad woman riding on the back of a patron playing the part of a donkey. The man reared and brayed at Dawson as he pushed past.

“Sorry, sorry!”

The over-painted madam looked up from behind a counter on which she counted colored chits, each one painted with a different variation on a common theme of two – sometimes three, or more – entangled bodies. At the sight of Dawson, she laid a cloth over the chits and smiled. Her shoes clacked on the floor as she came around the counter.

“Such a hurry, young fellow? Why don’t you have a seat and tell me just what you had in mind—” She spotted the emblem painted on his pauldron. “Devil Dogs! I’ve been meaning to have a word with your sergeant about Smooth’s outstanding— Where do you think you’re going?”

“Sorry!” Dawson darted around the madam and ran up the stairs. The courtesan he had seen from the street awaited him in the hallway, her open palm extended.

Dawson counted out twenty-six gold coins into her hand. Her eyebrows rose in surprise, but she pointed down the corridor to the grand suite. Dawson doffed an invisible cap and said, “Thank you kindly.”

He ran down the hall and burst through the suite’s double doors. Inside, Corporal Pamuk sat in a steaming bathtub. The brown man’s body was a mass of muscles, almost too much for the tub to contain, yet a pretty young woman sat behind him in the water. She drew a silver straight razor across his scalp. At Dawson’s sudden arrival, she looked up. Pamuk hissed. A spot of blood appeared on the shining blade.

“Dammit, private!” said Pamuk, touching the wound. He tasted the blood and scowled. “You’d better have one hell of a good—”

“Emergency meeting, Sir,” said Dawson. “Captain said, ‘Fetch all the boys double-fast.’”

“But we haven’t—”

“She has a contract, Corporal. A paying job.”

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place? And don’t call me ‘Corporal.’ It’s Smooth.”

His barber stroked his shaved head and said, “It certainly is.”

Smooth rose, splashing the doxy with bathwater. He stood a good eight inches taller than Dawson. Apparently his head was the last part of him to be shaved.

“Don’t just stand there, Private–”

“Dawson, Sir! I signed on just last week”

“That’s fine, Dawson. Now hand me that towel.”

Dawson obliged. When he saw the woman glaring at him from the tub, he fetched another for her while Smooth donned his gear: thick leather pants, heavy boots, steel shoulder plates, elbow and knee guards. At last he snagged his leather jacket. On its back was painted a ferocious horned hound, Dog Company’s emblem.

The young woman wiped the razor carefully on a towel before handing it with a flourish to Smooth. He gave her a kiss and slipped the razor into a pocket inside his jacket. “Thanks, doll-face.”

Dawson turned to leave through the suite door.

“Not that way,” said Smooth. “Here comes the reckoning.”

An accelerating clack of footsteps came down the corridor. Dawson winced as he recognized the sound of the madam’s hard shoes. He peered out the door to see her approaching, shoulders squared, chin tucked, ready for battle.

“It’s all right,” said Dawson. “I paid your tab.”

“Did you bring a handcart?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“Then I assure you, you didn’t pay my tab.” Smooth slammed shut the suite doors. After a moment’s consideration, he pushed a vanity in front of them.

“Smooth!” bellowed the madam. She banged on the suite door with the strength of an ogrun berserker, rattling the vanity mirror. “I know you’re in there.”

Smooth and Dawson went over the windowsill, slid across the eave, and dropped down to the street.

“Where are the others?” asked Smooth.

“I was hoping you could tell me, Corporal,” said Dawson. “I mean, Smooth.”

Smooth stared and shook his head. “Why did the captain send you, then?” he asked. “All right, follow me.”

They ran down Lantern Street, heedless of the muffled shouts of the brothel madam.

Smooth led the way to the Rust Market a few streets away. Cool shadows began to pool at the base of the buildings. Clouds veiled the descending sun.

“Creepy!” shouted Smooth.

Sergeant Crawley glanced up from a table full of pistons. His goggles hung loose around his scrawny neck. The tip of his long cap fell limp upon his shoulder. He returned his attention to a warjack piston, one among many salvaged parts arrayed on scarred tables beneath the dealer’s tent. “Whaddaya want, Smooth?”

“Captain MacHorne wants the boys back double-quick,” said Dawson.

Crawley looked up, as if noticing Dawson for the first time. “Got any money?”

“Not much left,” said Dawson, shaking his purse. “But the captain has a new contract.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Crawley pushed the piston back across the table.

“That’s what I told him,” said Smooth.

“Better fetch the lieutenant,” said Crawley. “He’s around here somewhere, giving the junk boss an earful.”

The three men turned two more corners among the market’s confusing array of junk stalls before they heard the evidence of Crawley’s report.

Up on a wooden platform, two big men stood nose-to-nose, each trying to knock the other unconscious with harsh language thrown at high volume. Behind them stood two ranks of decommissioned warjacks covered in tarpaulins. Each steel giant was chained to huge stone anchors sunk into the ground. A rusty iron sign nearby read: “Buy & Sell.”

Smooth and Crawley winced at the argument and looked at each other before turning to Dawson.

“Deliver your message, Dawson,” said Smooth.

Dawson gulped before he approached the two combatants. “Lieutenant Lister, Sir!”

The bald and black-bearded man continued swearing into the face of the red-bearded ’jack dealer. A fat, unlit cigar bobbed with every syllable, threatening to tickle the vendor’s nose. “I never agreed to a thirty-five percent markup on the buy-back!”

“You take long enough, prices go up!” bellowed the dealer. “It’s no fault of mine you Dogs can’t pay your bills.”

“You don’t know a damned thing about the vicissitudes of contract employment, you grubby little junk picker.”

“Lieutenant, Sir!”

“Pipe down, Private. Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a delicate negotiation?”

“Captain’s orders, Sir! Double-fast assembly, Sir. JOB, Sir!”

Lister wheeled, turning his back to the vendor, who made a vulgar gesture beneath his chin.

“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” He jumped down from the platform, splashing mud on himself and the other Dogs. “Who’s missing?”

“Harrow and Burns, Sir!”

Lister waved a vague hand beyond the Rust Market to a row of shops. “Harrow’s over there, somewhere.”

They split up to peer into storefronts until Sergeant Crawley blew his signal whistle. Thus summoned, they piled into a shop beneath the sign of a brace of pistols.

Inside, a hard-faced man stood across the counter from the proprietor and peered into the fat barrel of a new slug gun. Both his eyes and his short-cropped hair were the color of fresh steel. Between him and the gunsmith sat a game board with most of the pieces set aside, captured.

Dawson stepped forward. Harrow turned and paralyzed him with a glance. Dawson retreated to stand beside Crawley. “If you don’t mind, Sergeant, perhaps you could be the one to tell the Corporal—”

“Harrow, job!” barked Lieutenant Lister.

Harrow laid down the gun and walked away without a word to his opponent.

As the men left the shop, Smooth slugged Dawson in the shoulder, just hard enough to leave a bruise. “You see? That’s the way to do it.”

“Now where’s Burns?” asked Crawley.

“Where else?” said Harrow. His voice was the sound of a shell loaded into a chamber.

“There’s one,” said Smooth. He nodded toward a tavern beneath the sign of a pig whistling under the skirts of a startled lady. “I think I hear his voice.”

They walked past a statue of Madruva Dagra. Gas flames licked up from each of her cupped palms. A trio of damp ravens perched on her arms, eyes scanning the street for food.

As they approached the Whistling Pig, the men heard Burns’ off-key rendition of “Blue Rose in Winter.” The big man sat on the windowsill, his curly blonde hair thrown back as he belted out the song. His arms were as thick and hard as Smooth’s. An audience of mill workers banged their tankards on the tables in rhythm to his song.

“Uh, oh,” said Crawley, his reedy voice cracking. “He’s doing his special version.”

“That’s fine,” said Smooth. “It’s not like we’re anywhere near the Khadoran border.”

“Tell it to those fellows.” Crawley pointed across the crowded tavern.

Two long-mustached mercenaries leaned against the bar. Their insignia had been torn away long ago, but their long coats were unmistakably Khadoran. Nearby, four more burly Khadorans sat at a table, not drinking their beers. Their scowls deepened as they listened to Burns’ revised lyrics. In his version of the song, the princess’ lover was a clever ogrun tinker.

As Burns came to the part where the princess professes her love in an obscene rhyming couplet, the foreigners’ hands moved to the hilts of their swords. As they stepped toward Burns, their countrymen rose from the table to support them.

“Get him out of there,” said Lister.

“Yes, Sir!” said Dawson. He ran after Sergeant Crawley, who was already shouldering his way through the crowded doorway. Eager to witness a fight, the patrons made no effort to get out of his way.

Burns appeared oblivious to both the approaching mercenaries and the shouts of his fellow Dogs. As one of the Khadorans drew his sword, Burns snatched up his steel helmet and swung it hard. The man fell back, clutching a nose that now looked like a crushed strawberry.

His partner’s hand left his sword and came up with a pistol from inside his coat. As he leveled the weapon at the singer’s face, Burns swung his helmet again. The pistol fired. A ricochet struck off the helmet to blast a chunk of the stone out of the hearth before finally shattering bottles behind the bar.

“No guns!” screamed the bartender before diving for cover.

Burns head-butted the second Khadoran, making the man’s nose a match for his companion’s.

The patrons cheered. Some stood up to grab the Khadorans’ bodyguards. Others threw punches at random targets.

“Stay away from my daughter!” somebody yelled before punching the man beside him.

“You never buy a round!” Another man leaped a table to strangle his drinking mate.

“I don’t even know you!” A burly fellow punched a stranger in the gut and looked around, grinning, for another foe.

The tavern erupted into a general brawl as patrons saw the opportunity to address simmering feuds or simply to let off some steam after a day’s labor in the mills.

Smooth leaped through the open window behind Burns. He wrapped his massive arms around Burns’ waist and pulled him backward. “We don’t have time for this.”

“What are you doing, Smooth?” bellowed Burns. He poked a finger through the bullet hole in his helmet and frowned in sorrow.

Smooth winced at the blast of beer breath. “We’re getting you out of here.”

“Job, Corporal!” shouted Dawson, trying to push his way back out of the tavern. “Captain has a job!”

“Oh, all right,” said Burns. As Smooth released him, he lurched back toward the brawl. “I just want to make one last point.”

As the belligerent Khadorans staggered to their feet, Burns swung his helmet in a wide, horizontal arc, dropping both with a single blow.

Crawley blew a piercing blast from his brass signal whistle. “Dogs, out now!”

“Well, hell,” said Burns. “I was just warming up.” Cradling his dented helm, he snatched up a stranger’s tankard and followed Smooth out the tavern window.

“That’s my beer!” yelled a man holding his unconscious foe by the collar.

The tavern keeper pushed his way through the mob of his customers. “You’re not going anywhere till you’ve paid for the rounds you bought.”

“How many this time?” asked Crawley.

Burns paused to burp. “Two or three, maybe.”

“Nine!” shouted the tavern keep. “You Devil Dogs owe me ninety-six royals, to say nothing of the damages!”

“That tears it,” said Lieutenant Lister. “Run for it, Dogs!”

“Stay together,” Crawley yelled. “Lead the way, Dawson.”

They pounded their way out of the market district and ran toward the Dragon’s Tongue River. One bloody-nosed Khadoran pursued them, two of his men at his back. A few streets away, the whistles and shouts of the Tarna Watch joined the hunt.

Turning away from the river walk, Dawson dashed through the crooked alleys of Mill Street, hoping to lose their pursuers in the smut of coal and dye vapor. Bleach stung their eyes, and the mechanical clatter of steam-operated looms overwhelmed the cries of their pursuers.

The Devil Dogs emerged dripping wet and blackened by soot, but no one followed them out of the steamy passage. The sky had grown darker. A cool breeze blew across Tarna from the Dragon’s Tongue.

Dawson led the way to the company’s rented warehouse. Beside the massive door, one of the men had chalked up the company’s horned dog emblem. A drizzle of rain struck up a rising patter on the building’s tin roof.

“Good job, Dawson,” said Crawley.

Dawson stood a little straighter until Burns added, “Yeah, we’ll know who to tap next time we need to run away from a fight.”

Harrow slid open the door and the others entered. Dawson began to follow, but Crawley barred his way. “Sorry, Dawson. Briefing’s for the ‘boys’ only. Go join the rest of the men. I’ll fill you all in during second briefing.”

Dawson didn’t know what it took to become one of the ‘boys’, but it obviously didn’t include grunts like him.

“But I...” Dawson’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, Sergeant.”

Crawley gave him a smile, but the stained pegs of his teeth were more frightening than comforting. He closed the door.



Captain Samantha ‘Sam’ MacHorne stood on a low wooden scaffold with one foot on a crate marked “#4 Quality Gear Grease.” Leaning an elbow against her knee, she looked down at her boys, the veterans of the Devil Dogs mercenary company. Her long blond hair fell recklessly across her face, except where the goggles on her forehead held it out of her eyes.

Behind her loomed the Nomad-model warjack Gulliver, twelve feet and seven tons of steam-driven mayhem. Its iron chassis resembled a muscle-bound caricature of an armored foot soldier. Instead of fragile human joints and ligaments, it stood on heavy gears and pistons strong enough to drive a river boat. Its massive battle blade and solid targa shield lay against the warehouse wall.

“The Old Man has a job for us,” she said. “It’s potentially lucrative.”

“It’s about time,” said Lister. The lieutenant sat on the edge of another scaffold, scratching his bald head just beside a Devil Dog tattoo. Behind him stood the Dog’s other operative warjack, a Talon named Foyle. Three feet shorter and half the mass of the Nomad, the Talon cradled a massive stun lance in one hand and a broad shield in the other. “It’s been a long time since we heard from him. I was starting to think he didn’t love us anymore.”

“It’s nothing like that,” said Sam. “You know he likes to match the unit to the job.”

The rest of the Dogs sat in a rough semicircle on crates and half-barrels. They leaned forward, looking up to their captain. Only Harrow seemed uninterested. Eyes closed, he sat on the floor with his arms crossed, back against a table loaded with heavy chain nets and pick axes.

“So he needs some ’jacks wrecked,” said Crawley.

“Not exactly.”

“Are we joining up with the Swans?” said Smooth.

“No, we’re on our own. The Old Man’s running his own op nearby. Between Khadoran units testing the borders and the Cryx sneaking through every swamp and hollow, he’s got his hands full.”

“Cryx.” Crawley shuddered as he pronounced the word.

“So which one is it this time?” asked Burns, stifling a beery yawn with his fist. “Reds or deads?”

“Could be both,” said Sam. “More likely neither. What we’re looking for is something new. The Old Man’s heard report of a strange ’jack in the Wythmoor.”

“Oh, no,” said Burns. “He’s sending us on a gobber hunt.”

“Stow it, Burns,” said Crawley. “That close to the border, isn’t that more likely to be somebody test-running new Cygnar tech?”

“New tech the Old Man doesn’t already know inside out?” said Sam. “I don’t buy it. Maybe somebody else got their hands on Cygnar schematics and made some modifications.”

“And now they’re ready to test this new ’jack on its own creators. Is that it?” Smooth ran his fingers over his head, frowning when he touched stubble from his unfinished shave.

“That could be, but it doesn’t matter. Our job is to go out there, find this thing, and bring it back. The Old Man can decide for himself what it is.”

“Outstanding,” said Burns. “We don’t know what it does or who’s controlling it, but we’ve got to take it down and deliver it. And us with most of our stuff in hock! I don’t mind if this is a gobber hunt. I just hope it’s not a dragon hunt.”

“What are you afraid of, Burns?” asked Smooth. “You’re still bulletproof, aren’t you?”

Burns put a finger through a hole in his helmet. “Not as much as I was. How’re we supposed to do our job with holes in our helmets?”

“We pull off this job, Burns,” said Sam, “you’ll have enough to buy ten new suits of armor, all in different colors.”

Burns brightened. “Yes’m” he replied smartly. In any other company, it would have just been a slightly informal acknowledgement of her rank. But in Dog Company, her company, it was also a contraction of “Yes, Sam.” It meant more to her, and the men who used it, than “Yes ma’am” ever could.

“What’s the contract structure?” asked Lister.

“Base rate for our time, with a bonus for delivery,” said Sam.

The Dogs muttered.

“A very hefty bonus. Now listen, we’re not going out there to stretch our legs and collect scale. I aim to find this new ’jack and deliver it. We collect this bonus, we’ll have all our big lugs out of hock, plus new gear. And shares will be more than enough to buy Burns his new wardrobe and to get Smooth out of trouble with Madame Jinty.”

Smooth cast a baleful eye around the room. The others avoided his gaze or shrugged at his unspoken accusation.

“Where are we supposed to take it? We can’t cart a ’jack all the way to Caspia, even on these rigs.” Lister pounded the side of one of the three iron-shod wagons parked in the warehouse. The wagon bed shuddered on its spring suspension.

“I know where to send a messenger when we’ve spied our target,” said Sam. She jumped down from the platform, turning to reveal a cute, puppy version of the Devil Dogs’ symbol painted on the back of her leather jacket. “Like I said, the Old Man’s not far away. We’ll arrange the hand-off depending on where we find our target. Is that it for questions?”

When nobody spoke for half a second, Lister said, “Yes’m.”

The boys saluted with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Harrow did so without opening his eyes.

“Then we’re good to go.” Sam nodded at Foyle and jerked a thumb over her shoulder to indicate Gulliver. “Crawley, I want these big lugs loaded along with two weeks’ fuel and supplies. Brief the men and put them to work before they have time to get drunk. We’ll celebrate after we collect our bonus. We set out first thing tomorrow.”

“Yes’m!” Crawley dispatched the corporals to gather the troops, mechaniks, and drivers.

Lister said, “How about the engineers?”

“We can afford two,” said Sam. “And I’ll need you to handle logistics on your own.”

Lister nodded. His eternally unlit cigar dipped as he considered the work ahead of him.

“It’ll be easier next time,” Sam promised. “After we turn the ledger black.”

“I know, Captain. It isn’t your fault. We’ve just had a bad run of luck.”

“Maybe it’s not my fault,” she said. “But it’s my responsibility. This is the one that’ll put us back on top. I just know it.”

Smooth, Burns, and Harrow stepped out into the rain. The warehouse door roared as Burns rolled it shut.

“I’ll fetch the mechaniks,” said Burns. “I saw them in the Rust Market.”

“No,” said Smooth. “Better no one sees your face near the market for a while. I’ll get them. You roust the drivers. Harrow? You’ll tell the men?”

Harrow nodded. Smooth went back toward the center of Tarna, while the others walked the other way.

As he rounded the warehouse corner, Harrow paused beside a stack of empty crates. He cleared his throat. Sheepish, Dawson emerged from hiding.

“I was just—” Whatever Dawson was about to say, one look from Harrow stuck the words in his throat.

Harrow stepped close to examine a knothole in the warehouse wall. The peep-hole provided a clear view of the warjacks, wagons, and Captain MacHorne.

“This don’t look too good for you, kid,” said Burns. He grabbed Dawson and shoved him against the wall. Dawson’s feet dangled inches above the ground. “What kind of man spies on our briefings? I’m thinking rival company or Khadoran spy. Which is it?”

“Neither!” said Dawson. “I was just curious.”

“Curiosity skinned the cat,” said Burns. “Or something like that.” He glanced back at Harrow, who studied Dawson’s face through slitted eyes. “What do you think, Harrow? We Dogs got ourselves a cat or a rat?”

Harrow shook his head. “Bring him,” he told Burns before walking off.

Burns dragged Dawson by the arm. Ahead of them, the rain made silhouettes of the buildings. Their peaked roofs turned blue-gray in the dusk.

Dawson tried to keep his feet in line as they marched through the mud. “Where are we going? Sergeant Crawley will miss me at the briefing.”

“Old Creepy don’t like to be bothered with cleanup details.” Burns said.

“Corporal Burns, I’m not a rat!”

At the end of the street, Harrow turned toward a row of boarding houses and cheap inns. At the other end stood the huge stable where the Devil Dogs’ drivers kept the draft horses required to transport the warjacks and the seemingly endless supply of coal needed to fuel them. Harrow spoke to a couple of the drivers smoking their pipes under the stable eaves. One of them nodded and hurried inside the boarding house.

Burns shoved Dawson under the overhang and leaned against the wall beside him. “Relax, pup. Spies are trained not to piss themselves under pressure. You’re obviously no spy.”

“I didn’t piss—” Dawson thought better of it and said, “Thanks.”

Burns stretched his neck. They stood there for a while as the patter of rain grew louder on the roof above. Soon it was joined by the sound of footsteps running down the boarding house stairs.

“Corporal, what’s a dragon hunt?” Dawson asked.

“You know what a gobber hunt is?”

“It’s when your friends send you after something that doesn’t exist, for a laugh. No matter how hard you look, you can’t find it.”

“Something tells me you had some first-hand experience.”

“It was years ago. I was only a kid.”

“You’re still a kid, Dawson. You should hope this is only a gobber hunt. In a dragon hunt, the difference is that you find what you’re looking for, all right,” said Burns. “Only then you wish you hadn’t.”



The Devil Dogs spent the first half of the day loading and driving their three great wagons to the Molhado River. They spent the second half crossing it.

The Talon, Foyle, went over without incident, an honor guard of eight Dogs escorting its supine figure on the ferry. Under Sergeant Crawley’s direction, and with the help of the drivers, mechaniks, and two bespectacled engineers, they levered the warjack up onto the iron-reinforced cart that had made the first crossing. At a signal from the drover, six heavy draft horses drew the wagon away from the riverbank.

Private Dawson watched the proceedings as the ferry returned to the Tarna side of the river. Beside him, Corporal Burns leaned over a hitching fence and spat a wad of brown tobacco on the ground. “If you were any greener, you’d have turned yellow by now.”

Dawson’s cheeks flushed with anger.

“I’m not calling you yellow, kid. You’re green as a leaf. It’s autumn. You’d turn yellow. Get it? Anyway, it was plenty gutsy spying on the Captain’s briefing.”

A relieved smile creased Dawson’s smooth face.

“Stupid,” said Burns. “But gutsy all the same. Did you notice how mad Harrow seemed?”

“No,” said Dawson. “He didn’t seem angry at all.”

“That’s how you know he was really mad. I’m surprised he didn’t cut your throat on the spot.”

Dawson gulped. “Yes, Corporal.”

“You do it again without an invite, I’ll take care of you myself. You wait with the rest of the men, or one day somebody will really take you for a Khadoran informant.”

Dawson’s face yellowed and greened. “Yes, Corporal. I mean, no, Corporal.”

Burns chuckled. “How old are you, kid? Seventeen?”

“Twenty!”

“With that smooth face? Or have you been sneaking out with Lucille?”

“Who?”

“Smooth’s lady.”

“I’d never even set foot inside the brothel before—”

“The razor, pup.”

Dawson winced at the dismissive term for rookies in Dog Company. “Oh, right.” Just as the irritation lifted from his face, a cloud of perplexity settled back down. “He named his razor Lucille?”

“He loves that blade. The pups Harrow doesn’t kill for spying, Smooth cuts their throats for looking at Lucille the wrong way.”

Dawson smiled, looked away, tried and failed to laugh. He swallowed hard and looked again at Burns. “You’re kidding, right?”

Burns shrugged. “I know I wouldn’t touch that razor if my life depended on it. Anyway, this is your first crossing, innit?”

“Yeah,” said Dawson. With another double-take on Burns, he added, “Yes, Corporal.”

Burns chuckled again. He stepped back to look Dawson up and down, shaking his head.

Dawson said, “Why didn’t we send over the warjacks in their wagons?”

“You haven’t figured it out?”

“I said it was my first crossing, didn’t I?”

“That you did,” said Burns. He inclined his head toward the approaching ferry. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough. All right, let’s get to it. You stand over there.”

Dawson moved to the spot Burns indicated, about ten feet to the side of the point where the Ferry docked with the riverbank.

“No,” said Burns. “A little to the right.”

Dawson took a few steps closer to the water’s edge.

On the path leading to the dock, Sam guided Gulliver toward the ferry. With every step of the heavy warjack, the earth shuddered. It left a trail of hound-sized divots in its wake. “A little to the left,” she said. “All right, crouch low. Step forward, careful.”

As Gully settled his full weight on the deck, the ferry tipped to the side, splashing the ferryman. He snatched the sopping-wet cap from his head and wrung it out.

“Gully, step on,” said Sam.

Gully moved his other foot onto the ferry. The sudden motion threw an ogrun-sized wave right where Dawson stood, drenching him from head to toe.

After Sam finished guiding Gully into a sitting position on the ferry, she shook her head at Burns, who lay on the ground holding his sides to keep them from splitting from laughter. “I told you to leave the hazing in town, Burns.”

“Yes’m,” gasped the big man. “I just couldn’t resist. This pup is too perfect!”

Sam turned to Dawson. “Don’t let Burns get to you,” she said. “Despite all appearances, he’s a good man in the field. Just think twice before letting him talk you into anything.”

“Yes, Captain,” said Dawson. He pulled off a boot and poured out a pint of river water. “Thank you, Captain.”

Sam nodded at him. “But seriously, don’t touch Lucille. If you do, even I can’t guarantee your safety.”

Only Sam and the boatmen traveled across with Gully. Even so, waves lapped up on deck, washing over their boots. As Dawson saw how heavily a single warjack weighed upon the ferry, understanding dawned on his face. “Ah!”

“Yeah,” said Burns. “You need a bigger boat to take the ’jack with the wagon. Now come on, kid.” Burns boarded one of the skiffs. Wary of another prank, Dawson followed. They and the remaining Devil Dogs reached the far side long before Sam reached the bank with Gully.

The rest was common labor, provided by soldiers, mechaniks, engineers, and drivers working side by side. The boys worked with the men until both ’jacks were secured in their wagons for transport. Four draft horses drew the supply cart, six drew Foyle’s, and eight drew Gully’s. Two riding horses followed the supply wagon, one saddled, one bareback. Dawson watched, brow furrowed, as the drivers removed the saddle from one and brushed him down while saddling the other.

Sam caught him watching. “Sometimes we need to send word in a hurry.”

“But we don’t have any reinforcements,” said Dawson.

“No. But there’s always the chance we’ll end up in a fight we can’t win,” said Sam. “When that day comes, I want people to know that the Dogs faced it with courage.”

Dawson looked at her, but her face betrayed no sign of mirth.

Except for the mechaniks, who rode with their warjacks, those who weren’t driving walked before, beside, or behind the wagon train. Even Sam, Lister, and Crawley went on foot.

The soldiers looped their chains around cleats on the wagon sides, their pick axes hanging beneath, leaving both weapons accessible in case of sudden action. They carried their rucksacks on their backs, slug guns cradled in their arms.

Dawson began walking beside Burns. After they crested a gentle hill, he turned to say something only to see Smooth standing in his place. Burns had jogged over to a stand of bushes to lighten his load.

Smooth ran his straight razor up his throat, angling it with care across the ridge of his jaw. He wiped the blade against his leather bracer and smiled at Dawson’s wet clothes. “I see you’ve been anointed.”

Dawson offered a game smile in return. He squinted, seeing hardly any stubble on Smooth’s neck. Still, the big man continued to shave. Dawson finally asked, “Aren’t we short one cart?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, we’re supposed to capture a ’jack. Where do we put it if we find it?”

“When” said Smooth. “Don’t let the captain hear you say ‘if.’”

“But where will we put it?”

“If we’re low on fuel, we’ll put it in the coal cart. If we have plenty of fuel, we’ll fire up Foyle and have him walk until we’re low on coal. It’s all a matter of balance.”

Dawson nodded. “Of course. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”

“You’re a pup, that’s all,” said Smooth. He squinted at the shorter man. “You have seen action, though. Right?”

“Of course. I did my service in the Ordic army. I liked it well enough, but the pay...” He rubbed his thumbs across his fingers and showed empty hands.

“So you figured you’d make your fortune with the Devil Dogs.”

“Something like that.”

“I bet you’ve been kicking yourself over that one.”

“No! I mean, not really. There’s been a lot more drilling than I expected. And a lot more waiting around. But now I can throw a net and hit more often than miss.”

“All you got to worry about is: follow your orders. When you don’t have any, watch what us boys do. Now that you been anointed, you won’t get much more razzing… as long as you keep your eye off peepholes.”

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

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