The Devil's Pay (Dogs of War)

PART TWO




“Gully, Foyle, left turn. Now, forward slow!”

Sam guided her warjacks through a labyrinth of scummy puddles and sluggish streams. The hanging fronds of willows were less a barrier than an annoyance, but she avoided the thicker trees after the Devil Dogs spent ten minutes hacking Foyle’s stun lance free from half a willow he’d pulled down.

Even as Sam maneuvered the Nomad and the Talon on a relatively firm strip of land, off to the side Morris cried out as he plunged into a soft patch.

Morris struggled to step out of the hole, but he couldn’t move his leg. He set aside the heavy slug gun and shrugged off his pack. Even with both hands free to push against the ground, he managed only to wriggle deeper into the soft mud. “Somebody give me a hand!”

Dawson was the first to reach him. He grabbed Morris under the arms and pulled, but the wet ground held the man in place.

“Move over, Dawson.” Setting down his gun and pack, Smooth took Morris by the left arm. Dawson took his right, and together they pulled. Morris grunted and cried out in pain, but he rose. With a deep sucking sound, his leg came up glistening black.

“Dammit,” grumbled Morris. “My boot is full of muck!”

“You’re welcome,” said Smooth. He tucked his gun back under his arm and walked on.

“It’s cold as ice.”

“At least there’s no wind,” said Dawson. He shivered in sympathy as he exhaled a plume of breath.

Morris hissed through chattering teeth. He scraped off a handful of mud, dead leaves, and a writhing red earthworm as thick as his index finger. “Ugh!”

“It could have been worse,” said Dawson. “Sergeant Crawley says there are hundreds of unwitting men buried in the Wythmoor.”

Morris shook his head. “Of course there are. The Cryx have murdered thousands in this moor.”

“The sergeant wasn’t talking about battle dead,” said Dawson. “He meant travelers and foresters who were just swallowed up by sinkholes like that one. They’re all around us, just a few inches beneath the ground, still standing upright where they sank straight down. We’re walking on their skulls.”

Morris scoffed. “He just says that to scare pups like you. That’s another reason they call him Creepy.” Despite his brave words, Morris shivered as he continued scraping muck from his leg.

“I don’t know. It feels like we’re walking through a graveyard. A little while ago, Robinson stepped on a ribcage.”

At the sound of a concealed hiss, both men looked around. Dawson clutched his gun tight but nothing was there.

The mist thickened as they drove deeper into the Wythmoor. Sunlight seeped down through the clouds. It offered little light and less warmth.

“Knock it off, Dawson. Now you’re giving me the creeps.” Morris looked away from the mist and down at his sodden boot before he released a heavy sigh. “Let’s go. They’re getting ahead of us.”

Dawson nodded at Morris’s blackened leg. “Just be careful.”

They soon caught up to the rest of the company and fell in beside the supply wagon. The iron-reinforced wheels squelched through the soft loam, the drivers following the lead of Gully and Foyle to stay on solid ground.

Lieutenant Lister led a squad about fifty yards ahead of the warjacks. He paused now and then to ensure they remained within visual range of those escorting the lead wagon. He vanished briefly into the thickening mist, only to reappear as they drew closer. Usually he materialized while peering at a map and compass, since the obscuring clouds made navigation by the sun uncertain at best.

Far ahead, lost in the mists, Devil Dog scouts led the company along the wake of the Cryx raiders. Every half hour, they returned to Lister within a few minutes of each other, giving their reports too quietly for the rest to hear.

The scouts searched for signs of ambush, not for the trail itself. It took no special training to see the trampled plants and churned earth the undead left in their wake. Even the men by the wagons could make out the iron boot prints of the thralls. Bigger three-toed prints marked the passage of bonejacks and helljacks, the latter twice the size of the former.

Morris whipped around, raising his slug gun at the sound of a snapped twig. Until she had stepped on it, Sam had moved silently through the moor. She reached over to turn aside the barrel of his gun.

“This place gives everyone the jitters,” she said. “The trick is to keep them inside.”

“Yes’m,” said Morris.

Sam looked at Dawson. Under his captain’s gaze, he relaxed his grip on the slug gun to carry it loose but ready at his hip. Her own eyes looked hard even in the muted light, but she gave him a confident nod.

As Sam walked on, checking in on the other Dogs, Morris turned back to look at Dawson, who offered him a sympathetic shrug.

Now and then, one of the Dogs bent down to retrieve an artifact from an earlier battle: shell casings, canvas straps, brass buckles, iron shrapnel, and ’jack nuts as big as apples. Most of the iron had long since rusted to flakes, but some of the debris looked new. Those items went to Sergeant Crawley, who peered at them before either tossing them aside or dropping them into his belt pouch.

“Fresh?” asked Sam as the sergeant looked over the newest trinket.

Crawley shook his head. “Not fresh enough to be from the lot Brocker’s chasing.”

Harrow returned from scouting to speak a few quiet words to Lister. The lieutenant nodded and sent Harrow back before approaching Sam.

“We’ve found something,” he told her. “A strange track.”

“Foyle, Gully, forward march!” Sam went with them, moving with cautious speed.

“Careful!” Lister shouted after her. The big man slipped as he hurried to catch up. Steadying himself, he pointed at the nearest men. “Dawson, Morris, Robinson, you’re with me.” As Sam jogged between the big Talon and the even bigger Nomad, Lister and his unit pushed to keep up.

Morris’s drenched leg squished with every step as the Dogs followed Sam and her warjacks. The sound of the wagons’ wheels fell back as the soldiers advanced.

A flare blazed through the mist ahead. As they drew closer, the Dogs saw Harrow kneeling to examine something on the ground. The crimson light of the flare cast his face in hellish shadows. When he looked up at the approaching mercenaries, Dawson and Morris averted their eyes.

Sam slowed and halted the ’jacks before moving up to join Harrow. Lister gestured for the men to take up guard positions with their backs toward the flare.

Sam and Lister examined a rectangular puddle slightly larger than a brick. One end was slightly wider than the other, and three parallel lines formed narrow bridges across its width. “I haven’t seen anything like this before,” said Sam, “but I’d bet it’s not Cryx.”

Harrow stood, gesturing with the flare to indicate more prints nearby. They were all identical, spaced out in wide, repeating patterns.

“That’s odd,” said Sam after a long look. “Get Crawley over here. I want his opinion.”

“Morris,” said Lister, jerking his thumb back toward the wagon train. “Double-quick!”

“Sir!” Morris set off at a run, squelching with every step.

Sam followed Harrow as he pointed out more and more of the prints. He indicated two parallel trails, one large path of over-trampled Cryx prints, the other the rectangular prints of the lone traveler.

Sam asked, “The Cryx were trailing whatever this is, you think?”

Harrow shook his head.

“You think it was shadowing them?”

He nodded.

Crawley arrived, breathless. Behind him, Morris braced his hands against his thighs, panting.

Sam took the flare from Harrow and showed Crawley the strange prints. The sergeant pulled the goggles down around his neck and squinted at the rectangular depression. His brow furrowed as he followed the pattern of its steps.

“What do you think?” said Sam. “Quadrupedal?”

“Definitely. And extremely regular. Too regular, if you ask me. Even with a new ’jack fresh out of the forge, you expect more variation in the strides depending on its weapon loadout, which way it’s turned, whether it’s carrying something, and all the rest. These steps, they’re perfect.”

Crawley knelt. He plunged his hand into the rectangular puddle to measure its depth. He stuck a thumb into the compressed dirt at its base, feeling the firmness of the ridges inside the print. His eyes half-closed as he performed a silent calculation, “Assuming four legs, I’d say about seven tons. Maybe eight.”

Lister whistled low. “Big as Gully.”

“How many were here?” asked Crawley.

“Just the one?” Sam glanced over at Harrow, who nodded confirmation. “Yep, just the one.”

“Any prints from a controller?” asked Crawley.

Harrow shook his head.

“Is this the thing we’re looking for, Sam?” asked Lister.

“The Old Man’s message said I’d know it when I saw it,” said Sam. “Now that I see it, I’m thinking yes.”

“My question is, are the Cryx looking for it too?”

“Could be,” said Sam. “But judging from the position of these tracks, I’d bet this thing saw the Cryx before they saw it. Maybe they didn’t even know it was here.”

“What about Brocker?”

Sam shrugged. “Could be he was telling the truth. Or maybe the Cryx just got in his way while he was searching for our mystery ’jack.”

“Do we follow these tracks or the Cryx?”

“For now it doesn’t matter. They might not intersect, but they go back in the same direction. Make sure the other scouts see these prints. Put one on either side of the trails, and then Harrow down the middle, between the paths.”

“Yes’m,” said Lister.

“I’m taking the big lugs back to the wagons. I want them fully loaded and ready for action.”

“You got it, Sam,” said Crawley.

“Let’s find this thing before anybody else does,” she said. Then, almost to herself, she added, “And let’s pray the Cryx don’t find us first.”



The third time the supply wagon became mired, Sergeant Crawley called a company-wide halt. After conferring with Lister and the captain, he directed the men to unload the water and food stores and divide the load equally between the empty ’jack wagons. A little more than an hour later, the march resumed with fewer stops for lagging wagons.

Scouts returned to report treacherous ground ahead. Sam directed the warjacks away from the most perilous terrain. Sometimes doing so required a detour, but Sam insisted on caution. Pushing a wagon through a rut was bad enough. No one wanted to pull a warjack out of a sinkhole.

By the time Sergeant Crawley blew the whistle to stop, the Devil Dogs were damp and weary to a man. Those chosen as pickets and sentries grumbled while the rest set to work making camp on the relatively dry patch of ground they had chosen.

Within an hour, the mechaniks, under the watchful eyes of Sergeant Crawley and the captain, were elbow-deep in Gully after Foyle had passed inspection and received a full load of coal and water. Crawley snatched a rivet gun from one of the men and re-secured the plate reinforcing Gully’s venom-burned chassis.

“Look at this,” said Robinson. A lean, ginger-bearded veteran, he lifted a concave object from beneath a litter of leaves. He brushed the detritus away to reveal the toothy upper skull of a bonejack. “This will keep my bedroll off the wet ground.”

“Don’t touch that,” warned Burns. “It’s bad luck.”

“Don’t be such a superstitious ninny.”

Burns showed him a fist. “If you don’t control that mouth of yours, your bad luck is coming sooner than you think.”

“You do what you want, Blondie,” said Robinson. “Nobody’s stopping you from sleeping on the damp ground.”

Morris returned from scavenging with a cloth full of mushrooms. “Hey, Corporal,” he called. “How about these?”

Harrow peered at Morris’s harvest. Picking through the cloth, he threw a pale green-capped mushroom to the ground and crushed it underfoot. When he was done, he took a few conical mushrooms to nibble as he walked away without a word.

“Thanks.” Morris tasted the mushrooms, squinted, and nodded approval.

“What was that?” asked Dawson.

“Before he joined the company, Harrow was CRS for King Leto.”

“The Cygnaran Reconnaissance Service!”

“Shh,” said Morris. “Keep it down. He doesn’t like us talking about it.”

“Why did he leave?”

“Nobody knows—and don’t even think about asking Harrow. He won’t like it. Anyway, they say you can abandon him for a year in any gods-forsaken place, and he’ll come back ten pounds heavier with the names and locations of every wretched thing living under a rock or up on a tree branch. He knows all the things that are good to eat and all the ones that’ll kill you.”

“Good man to have around.”

“Aye,” agreed Morris. “As long as he wants to have you around.”

Dawson winced. “Back in Tarna, he mistook me for a Khador spy.”

Morris studied Dawson’s face. “No, he didn’t.”

“What?”

“If he thought you were a spy, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Here, try this one.” Morris offered him a wedge of shelf fungus.

Dawson eyed the crimson-ridged mushroom with suspicion before taking a bite. As he munched, he began to smile. “It’s really good.”

Morris divided the mushrooms into two unequal mounds. The smaller he folded in a cloth and put in his belt pouch. The larger he brought to Sam, who sat on the open tailgate of the supply wagon, eating a cold supper beside Smooth.

She set aside her tin plate of corned beef, hard yellow cheese, and flatbread to accept Morris’s haul. “Did Harrow see these?”

“You know it, Captain.”

Sam took a nibble and nodded her approval. She put a couple on her plate and passed the rest to Smooth. “Share these around, Smooth. And tell everyone we have a fearless mushroom hunter in our midst.”

Morris saluted Sam and turned away before a foolish smile spread across his face. Dawson followed him to the supply wagon, where Morris signed out a stiff brush to clean his sullied boot.

“Make it two,” said Dawson.

They went back to the spot they’d claimed for their bedrolls. Dawson looked at the skull Robinson had laid beneath him to stay dry. He shuddered and glanced at Morris. By unspoken agreement they picked up their packs and moved away to another dry spot.

Morris removed his sodden boot, unclasped his knee guard, and shucked off his leather trousers. After a vigorous shake, he hung them from a nearby branch.

“Give me that,” said Dawson, reaching for the armor. As Morris scrubbed his boot, Dawson brushed the caked mud from his knee guard. Morris offered Dawson an appreciative nod.

They worked in silence for a while before Morris asked, “What did you do that you thought Harrow took you for a Red?”

With a grimace, Dawson described how he’d been caught spying on the boys’ briefing. Rather than admonishing him, Morris chuckled. “Rose did the same thing last spring. Burns had him so afraid Harrow would cut his throat while he slept that he almost deserted his contract. That happens now and then—not the throat-cutting, but sneaking a look at first briefing. Every new pup wants to be one of the boys.”

“What does it take?”

Morris shrugged. “I don’t really know. Lister and Creepy have been with the captain since before the game. I guess they were the first.”

“When I signed on, the sergeant told me all about how Captain MacHorne won the company’s charter in a game of cards. Before I heard his story, I wouldn’t have thought she was a cheat. Is that why none of the company will play cards with her?”

“Did you hear Lister’s version?”

“No.”

“It’s worth asking him sometime, assuming he’s in a good mood.”

“What about the corporals? They’re all one of the boys, right?”

“Most of them, but not all: Robinson, for example. And I’ve heard of privates who were considered one of the boys, but that was before my time. Anyway, it’s not a question of rank or seniority, as far as I can tell.”

Dawson nodded, but his expression remained perplexed.

“There’s no announcement or anything. One day Crawley tells you to show up for the first briefing, and everybody knows you’re not just one of the men anymore. You’re one of the boys.”

“Huh.” Dawson got a far-away look in his eyes.

“Don’t get too excited, kid. There’s no raise or anything.”

Morris set aside his boot and began brushing the drying mud from his trousers. As he leaned over, three talismans spilled out of his shirt. Two were polished bronze, the third gleaming gold.

“I didn’t know you were so religious,” said Dawson.

Morris stood up and took one of the bronze medallions between his thumb and finger. “No more than the next fellow. This one’s from my sister.”

Dawson stood up to squint at it the circular disc. Upon its face was stamped a sword enveloped in a banner inscribed with Caspian words. “Ascendant Solovin,” said Dawson. “The patron of healers.”

“Murdina’s a midwife back in our home village, just west of Carre Dova. Whenever she writes, she reminds me to stay close to the surgeon.”

“But we don’t have a dedicated field surgeon.”

Morris held a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell Murdina.”

He dropped the first bronze medallion and lifted the next. A sword against a crenellated wall was stamped on its face.

“Ascendant Markus,” said Dawson. He touched his breastplate. “I have one just like it.”

“Does it give you the courage to challenge fourteen barbarian chiefs to break a siege?”

“Well...maybe thirteen. Markus died as he slew the last one.”

Morris laughed. “You mean he ‘ascended’.”

“Well, sure. But first he died.”

“Don’t let Lister hear you talk like that. He’ll cuff you for blasphemy.”

“He’s that pious?”

“Mostly about Ascendant Markus. His best swears are in Caspian.”

“Who speaks Caspian these days?”

“The Primarch, his Exarchs, all their priests, and Lieutenant Lister,” said Morris. “But I think Lister’s more fluent, especially with the cursing.”

“That I’d like to hear.”

“You say that now, but you’d best pray you’re at a safe distance when it happens. He’ll blister your ears.

“What about the third medallion?”

“Ah, that one’s my treasure.” He raised the golden disc. “Ascendant Katrena, defender of the faith, patron of valor, knighthood, and nobility—far too good for the likes of me. And look here.” He turned the disc over to reveal a flake of ivory embedded in the metal. “A chip from her leg bone. I bought this from a man who traveled all the way to the Sancteum.”

“It must be worth a fortune.”

“Most of my first year’s earnings,” said Morris. “It’s for my daughter. You know, one day.”

Dawson nodded. “I didn’t know you had a wife.”

“I don’t.” His smile faded. “Her mother married another fellow. One with prospects.”

“Is that why you joined the company? To make your fortune and win her back?”

“Nah. I just wanted to get away. I was working in a village where any day I might see my little girl riding about on the fishmonger’s shoulders, calling him daddy.”

“What’s her name?”

Morris brightened. “Isla. Her eyes are the color of cornflowers.”

After supper, Dawson drew the next watch while Morris hit the sack. He sat south of the camp, shielded from the light of the banked fires by Foyle’s wagon, staring into the murk. After a light rain, the ghostly moons peeked down through keyholes in the clouds. Dawson listened to the rhythmic serenade of frogs until Parks relieved him. Then he returned to his bed and slept until the Sergeant’s whistle woke the company.