The Devil's Pay (Dogs of War) - By Dave Gross Page 0,3

anywhere till you’ve paid for the rounds you bought.”

“How many this time?” asked Crawley.

Burns paused to burp. “Two or three, maybe.”

“Nine!” shouted the tavern keep. “You Devil Dogs owe me ninety-six royals, to say nothing of the damages!”

“That tears it,” said Lieutenant Lister. “Run for it, Dogs!”

“Stay together,” Crawley yelled. “Lead the way, Dawson.”

They pounded their way out of the market district and ran toward the Dragon’s Tongue River. One bloody-nosed Khadoran pursued them, two of his men at his back. A few streets away, the whistles and shouts of the Tarna Watch joined the hunt.

Turning away from the river walk, Dawson dashed through the crooked alleys of Mill Street, hoping to lose their pursuers in the smut of coal and dye vapor. Bleach stung their eyes, and the mechanical clatter of steam-operated looms overwhelmed the cries of their pursuers.

The Devil Dogs emerged dripping wet and blackened by soot, but no one followed them out of the steamy passage. The sky had grown darker. A cool breeze blew across Tarna from the Dragon’s Tongue.

Dawson led the way to the company’s rented warehouse. Beside the massive door, one of the men had chalked up the company’s horned dog emblem. A drizzle of rain struck up a rising patter on the building’s tin roof.

“Good job, Dawson,” said Crawley.

Dawson stood a little straighter until Burns added, “Yeah, we’ll know who to tap next time we need to run away from a fight.”

Harrow slid open the door and the others entered. Dawson began to follow, but Crawley barred his way. “Sorry, Dawson. Briefing’s for the ‘boys’ only. Go join the rest of the men. I’ll fill you all in during second briefing.”

Dawson didn’t know what it took to become one of the ‘boys’, but it obviously didn’t include grunts like him.

“But I...” Dawson’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, Sergeant.”

Crawley gave him a smile, but the stained pegs of his teeth were more frightening than comforting. He closed the door.

Captain Samantha ‘Sam’ MacHorne stood on a low wooden scaffold with one foot on a crate marked “#4 Quality Gear Grease.” Leaning an elbow against her knee, she looked down at her boys, the veterans of the Devil Dogs mercenary company. Her long blond hair fell recklessly across her face, except where the goggles on her forehead held it out of her eyes.

Behind her loomed the Nomad-model warjack Gulliver, twelve feet and seven tons of steam-driven mayhem. Its iron chassis resembled a muscle-bound caricature of an armored foot soldier. Instead of fragile human joints and ligaments, it stood on heavy gears and pistons strong enough to drive a river boat. Its massive battle blade and solid targa shield lay against the warehouse wall.

“The Old Man has a job for us,” she said. “It’s potentially lucrative.”

“It’s about time,” said Lister. The lieutenant sat on the edge of another scaffold, scratching his bald head just beside a Devil Dog tattoo. Behind him stood the Dog’s other operative warjack, a Talon named Foyle. Three feet shorter and half the mass of the Nomad, the Talon cradled a massive stun lance in one hand and a broad shield in the other. “It’s been a long time since we heard from him. I was starting to think he didn’t love us anymore.”

“It’s nothing like that,” said Sam. “You know he likes to match the unit to the job.”

The rest of the Dogs sat in a rough semicircle on crates and half-barrels. They leaned forward, looking up to their captain. Only Harrow seemed uninterested. Eyes closed, he sat on the floor with his arms crossed, back against a table loaded with heavy chain nets and pick axes.

“So he needs some ’jacks wrecked,” said Crawley.

“Not exactly.”

“Are we joining up with the Swans?” said Smooth.

“No, we’re on our own. The Old Man’s running his own op nearby. Between Khadoran units testing the borders and the Cryx sneaking through every swamp and hollow, he’s got his hands full.”

“Cryx.” Crawley shuddered as he pronounced the word.

“So which one is it this time?” asked Burns, stifling a beery yawn with his fist. “Reds or deads?”

“Could be both,” said Sam. “More likely neither. What we’re looking for is something new. The Old Man’s heard report of a strange ’jack in the Wythmoor.”

“Oh, no,” said Burns. “He’s sending us on a gobber hunt.”

“Stow it, Burns,” said Crawley. “That close to the border, isn’t that more likely to be somebody test-running new Cygnar tech?”

“New tech the Old Man doesn’t already know inside out?” said Sam. “I don’t buy it. Maybe somebody else