The Devil's Pay (Dogs of War) - By Dave Gross Page 0,2

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