The Devil's Pay (Dogs of War) - By Dave Gross Page 0,14
probably lying,” said Lister. “That bounty collection could be just for show.”
Sam nodded. “Probably. Still, his story makes sense. While he chases down those Cryx, I want to backtrack, find out where they came from. Even if Brocker isn’t going after our quarry, there’s every chance the Cryx are. They’re always on the hunt for— Son of a bitch!”
The boys turned to see what had caused their captain to curse. The Steelheads stacked the corpses of their fallen comrades along with deadfall and kindling. As the Dogs watched, Brocker’s men threw flaming brands on the hasty pyres.
“That’s no way to treat a comrade,” growled Lister.
“Why are they burning the bodies?” asked Dawson.
“To keep the Cryx from scavenging them for parts,” said Burns. He shuddered. “And souls.”
“Souls?” said Dawson. “I thought that was just—”
Burns pulled him away and spoke quietly, his eyes on Sam as her shoulders hunched and she stared daggers at the Steelheads burning their comrades. “We take your fallen home,” said Burns. “And we bless their bodies to preserve their souls against the Cryx. We never burn them. Sam’s rules. No exceptions.”
The Devil Dogs watched in silence while Sam clenched and released her fists.
At last, Lister broke the silence when he turned to Sam. “Your orders, ma’am?”
“Have Crawley and the mechaniks give the ’jacks a close look. Gully needs attention. Once they’re ready, we’ll let the big lugs walk for a while. Keep half the troops on the wagons, the others supporting the ’jacks. Also, send two men to scout our rear, reporting every half hour. I want to know if the Steelheads are following us. Could be they have the same job we do.”
“I can’t believe the Old Man would hire a beast like Brocker.”
“He wouldn’t,” said Sam. “But somebody else might have. The Old Man might not be the only one who’s heard of this strange ’jack in the Wythmoor.”
“That’s just great,” said Burns. “We get to dance with Steelheads, Cryx, and who-knows-what-else, and we still don’t know whether we’re on some damned gobber hunt.”
“I don’t think that’s likely,” said Sam. “With this much competition in the moor, I’d bet even odds it turns out to be we’re chasing a dragon.”
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