The Devil's Pay (Dogs of War) - By Dave Gross Page 0,18
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.
After a morning of scouts reporting strange sounds in the mist, Lister assigned Dawson and Robinson to go out as two pairs of fresh ears. They were barely ten minutes away from the company before they encountered another runnel of still water barring their path.
Dawson crossed first, holding his gun and ammo pouch above the waist-deep water. He climbed out on the other side and turned to see Robinson doing the same. As the corporal emerged from the water, his shirt rode up, revealing fat, brown leeches covering his body.
“Pull up your shirt,” said Dawson. “Don’t move.” He pinched the leech just below either of its tapered ends, forcing its suckers to open, before peeling it off. Two bloody wounds leaked from Robinson’s skin.
“Oh, Morrow,” said Robinson. “Get them off. Get them off now!”
“Don’t be such a baby. They’re just leeches.”
“Gah! I can’t stand them.”
“You can sleep on a bonejack’s skull, but this bothers you?”
“They’re eating me alive!”
Dawson tossed another leech aside and turned Robinson to examine the rest of his torso. “Drop trou.”
“What?”
“They might have gotten into your clothes.
Shivering, Robinson peeled down his leather pants. Dawson gave him the once over. “You’re clear. Now, check me.”
Robinson re-secured his belt before checking Dawson for leeches. He found