The Devil's Pay (Dogs of War) - By Dave Gross Page 0,9

said Sam. “If there’s something unusual in the Wythmoor, we’re going to be the ones to find it. We move first thing in the morning. See Sergeant Crawley for your assignments. Some of you will be scouting tomorrow.”

The Dogs could see barely farther than a stone’s throw into the autumn mists, swamp gas, and various foul miasmas surrounding moldering tree stumps. The mingled vapors clung to the boggy ground or hung like spider webs between the trunks of alders.

Here and there the mists pooled into hollows. Elsewhere, dingy yellow stains upon the thick air suggested some hulking beast stared back at the intruding mercenaries.

Sometimes a vague light rose from the ground, its source obscured by haze and distance. When any of the Dogs stepped toward it, a comrade would put a hand on his arm and shake his head.

“Don’t follow the Cryxlight,” Smooth told Dawson. “Some of them are lost souls. They’ll drown you if they can.”

The cries of real birds came muffled through the fog, but none of them were songs. Crows creaked out hoarse complaints or warnings. Sparrows twittered their disquiet, rising suddenly from the naked branches of their perches when the Dogs came too near.

The most startling inhabitants of the bog were the sudden stenches. Some erupted when a wagon wheel burst a shallow pocket in the muck. Others seemed to drift in a breeze no one could feel, or to filter down from the withered leaves of a dying tree.

Voices low, Sam and Crawley directed the Dogs to unload Gully and Foyle. The mechaniks performed their last-minute inspections while the engineers loaded the fireboxes with coal. Crawley ignited the engines, and after warming the boilers the warjacks huffed into motion.

Gulliver stood erect, raising his monstrous battle blade only to rest it across the “shoulders” of his broad iron chassis. The heavy warjack stepped away from the wagon. In its left hand, its solid targa shield came to rest at its side.

Foyle grasped its stun lance and hefted its own, much larger shield before the lighter warjack stepped forward and stood at attention.

Black smoke rose from the single-stack chimneys of the ’jacks. It vanished almost immediately into the gray soup of the Wythmoor.

The first of the pickets arrived, out of breath. He saluted the captain but reported to Lieutenant Lister. “Sounds of battle, Sir. I tried to get closer, but then I saw green clouds and thought it prudent to return.”

“Damned Cryx,” said Burns.

“Did you see who they’re fighting?” asked Lister.

“Yes, Sir. I saw the outlines of their halberds through the mist. It’s got to be the Steelheads.”

“If they’re fighting Cryx, I say we move on.” Lister turned to Sam. “Let them fight their own battles.”

“Yeah,” said Burns. “No sense risking our lives—or our souls.”

Sam considered the matter. “There’s still the issue of professional courtesy.”

“Courtesy with Brocker?” Lister asked, incredulous.

“Screw Brocker,” said Burns. “He wouldn’t lift a finger to help a Dog.”

“When we want your opinion, Burns—” said Lister.

“No, he’s right,” said Sam. “Stannis Brocker gives mercenaries a bad name. Still, I want to know why he’s here. Maybe it’s true he’s hunting Cryx. Say what you will about Brocker, but he’s brave enough to be that foolish. Still, if he’s after our prize, we need to know.”

“I don’t like it, Sam,” said Lister. “Dog Company isn’t made for fighting Cryx. The Steelheads have range and speed, rifles and cavalry.”

“Unless something’s changed, Brocker has no warjacks. If the Cryx have even a single helljack, the Steelheads will be in trouble. They aren’t all bastards like Brocker. If nothing else, we don’t want dead Steelheads swelling the Cryx ranks, do we?”

Lister shook his head.

“Better them than us,” said Burns.

“We’ll take a closer look,” said Sam. “We move in ready for anything. If it looks like the Steelheads have things well in hand, we’ll congratulate them afterward. If we spot helljacks, well, we’re just the Dogs to bring them down. Either way, it’s a chance to find out why they’re here. Understood?”

“Yes’m,” said the boys.

“Full gear, ready to fight.”

The Dogs already had their heavy nets slung over their shoulders, their slug guns in hand. They moved forward in squads of four. Dawson went with Harrow, Burns, and a scar-faced Ordic army veteran named Morris.

“What’s wrong with Brocker?” asked Dawson. “I hear he’s one of the best.”

“He’s worked for Khador so much, he’s practically red himself,” said Burns.

“But the company charter says we’ll never work for Khador. Doesn’t that include helping companies who—?”

Harrow silenced them both with a dire glance.

Within