The Devil's Pay (Dogs of War)

The rain had left the ground soft but not impassable. The Devil Dogs’ wagon train followed dirt roads when it could, once crossing a fallow field to reach a trail leading east into the Wythmoor. When he spied the local farmer emerging from a cellar, Lister sent over a runner with a gift from the provisions to assuage any hard feelings

At dusk, the Dogs began setting camp without a word from their sergeant. Crawley saved his breath to harangue the mechaniks as they checked and double-checked the warjacks and their wagons. When he set the goggles over his eyes and grimaced to reveal his peg-like teeth through a blast of steam, Dawson finally understood how the man had earned the nickname “Creepy.”

Despite their rank and role in Sam’s inner circle, the “boys” worked side-by-side with the “men.” Dawson found himself clearing mud from the wheels of Foyle’s wagon across from Burns. If the big man harbored any remaining suspicions about Dawson’s loyalties, he made no sign of it.

Lister conferred with Sam. They took turns peering through a spyglass and scratching marks on a map they lay on the tailgate of the supply wagon.

Smooth supervised the preparation of a meal of salt pork and loaves bought fresh in Tarna that morning. He and another man filled four iron pots with barley, dried vegetables, and diced beef. They left the pots to simmer until morning.

Lister sent out sentries in a picket around the wagons, between which the Dogs settled in around the fires. Burns let them in on his version of “The Roundabout Girl,” which somehow he had made even more profane. Dawson hesitated to join in until he heard Sam’s voice belting out the most vulgar refrains. After three songs, the captain said, “Sleep tight, my Dogs.” Minutes later, the camp was silent but for the crackling of the fire, a shush of autumn breeze, and rhythmic snoring.



The next afternoon, Sam halted the wagon train near a village at the edge of the Wythmoor. The clouds had parted just enough to reveal a sliver of blue sky between endless banks of pewter clouds. A lone bar of sunlight draped a golden veil across the heath that lay between the village and the edge of the swamp.

“Harrow, Lister, and you—ah, Dawson. You’re with me. The rest of you stay here with the big lugs. Crawley, get these horses watered.”

The sergeant repeated Sam’s orders for form’s sake, but the drivers were already in motion, eager to stretch their legs after sitting for the past two hours.

The soldiers shrugged off their packs. About a third of them stood watch while the rest sat down to rest, shared a smoke, or drank from their leather canteens.

Sam led the way to the village. Beside one of the thatched cottages, a man and his wife secured a rocking chair to the top of a cart already full of furniture and other belongings. They glanced nervously at the Devil Dogs before hurrying inside for another load.

The village headman and a few teenage boys walked out to meet the Dogs. The man greeted Sam with a two-handed shake.

“Why if it isn’t Samantha MacHorne. How long has it been?”

“Too long, Wilkie,” she said. “I can still taste Rona’s shortbread. Melted on our tongues.”

“If we’d known you were coming, she’d have made a big batch.”

“It was a sudden thing. We won’t be staying.” She threw a meaningful look toward the couple abandoning their house.

“Not everyone likes living so close to the Wythmoor.” Wilkie shrugged, but he also swallowed nervously. “Hunting Cryx, are you??”

Sam nodded at the departing couple as they hitched a pair of donkeys to their wagon. “Something’s scaring them off. I take it there’s been sign?”

“None that I’ve seen with my own eyes,” said Wilkie. “Every time someone spies a dark shadow in the Wythmoor or smells a foul stench, there’s talk of Cryx.”

“That kind of talk isn’t enough to send folks packing.”

“No, that’s so,” he said with some reluctance. “A forester came through yesterday. He told a few stories of Cryxlight and lost souls, and maybe he saw something that spooked him. Whatever it was, he ran until he stumbled upon a group of Steelheads.”

“Brocker?” asked Sam.

“Aye,” said Wilkie. “Him and that great horrible horse of his.”

Lister turned his head and spat without dislodging his unlit cigar.

“How many?” said Sam.

Wilkie shrugged. “Enough rifles and halberds that they camped around four fires.”

“Where were they?”

“Maybe six miles east by southeast.”

“Which way were they headed?” asked Sam.

“The forester couldn’t say. They sent him away before they broke camp.”

“Is this forester still around?”

Wilkie shook his head.

“Did this forester seem to be in a hurry to move on?”

Again, Wilkie nodded with some reluctance. “If I think too much about it, I start thinking I should move my own family to Tarna.”

“And he said the Steelheads were looking for Cryx?”

“He didn’t say as much, but he kept hinting there were worse things out there than mercenaries. Along with the campfire tales, some folks got it into their head… Well, you know how it is.” Curiosity creased his brow. “What exactly did you say your lot is looking for?”

Sam shrugged. “I’ll know that when I see it. Do you know anything else that might help us?”

“Well, King Baird’s men rode into the Wythmoor a few months back. They went in with six big wagons like yours, some full of building materials, the others full of enough provisions to last a winter siege. They came back less than a week later, wagons empty. Didn’t look like they’d come under fire, but they didn’t stop to chat.”

Sam nodded. “That’s good to know. Are you short of any necessaries?”

“Now that you mention it…”

After a short, informal barter, Sam sent Dawson back to fetch a few spare tools and one of the company’s spare pick axes. Sergeant Crawley quizzed him on what the locals had told Sam. As he approved the release of the company’s materiel, he said, “You look confused, Private.”

“I understand the captain wants to question the locals, but why barter with them?”

“It creates goodwill,” said Crawley. “They’re apt to tell us much more than they’d confide to a brute like Stannis Brocker. Besides, look what we get in return.”

Sam was headed back toward the wagons with a basket of colorful, late-season vegetables in her arms. Harrow carried a leg of mutton, and Lister hefted a sack of grain over his massive shoulder.

“There’s store we didn’t need to haul from Tarna,” said Crawley. “And look at those fresh peppers!”

After the exchange, the captain ordered the company west. They stopped only after they were well out of sight of the village, Burns said, “To put the minds of all the young girls’ fathers to ease.”

Sam ordered the fresh food prepared that night. Before releasing them to sleep, she stood before the assembled soldiers. “The bad news is that we may have competition for our prize,” she said. “The good news is that it’s Stannis Brocker.”

“That’s good news?” asked Burns.

“He may be a terror on that warbeast he calls a horse, but he doesn’t have our talent for taking down a warjack.”

“That won’t matter if he finds it before we do,” said Lister. “He’ll bring it back in pieces and whistle all the way to the bank.”

“You think he got the same contract we did?” asked Crawley.

“Of course not,” said Sam. “The Old Man came to us for a reason, and he’d never deal with a bastard like Brocker.”

“Somebody else could have hired him,” said Burns.

The Dogs muttered about Khadoran fingers poking into Ordic territory.

“It doesn’t matter,” 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 fifty yards, they spied brief yellow flashes in the distance. An instant later, they heard the muffled report of rifle fire. Soon the Dogs could make out the cries of human voices, the grind of ’jack gears, and horrible, belching explosions.

Harrow raised his hand to stop the others, then ran forward, light on his feet. He knelt and touched something on the ground before waving the others up to join him.

An armored man lay on the ground. His dead eyes stared straight up, the blanched irises the color of sour milk, his skin the color of mold. Dawson’s eyes widened as he saw the ragged bottom of the man’s cuirass. The rest of his body was gone, only a mess of ravaged guts spilled on the ground.

Burns rapped on the man’s steel breastplate and looked at Dawson. “Definitely Steelheads.” He grimaced at the devastating wound. “Definitely Cryx.”

Dawson nodded, gaping. A moment later, he closed his mouth against the revolting taste of the mutilated body’s rising stench.

“Tell the captain.” Harrow nodded at Morris, who took off at a run.

Harrow unslung his pick-axe. He began to raise it above the dead man’s head but stopped, turning to Dawson. “You haven’t done this before,” he said. He handed his pick to Dawson. “Finish him.”

“But— But he’s already dead.”

“Make sure he stays that way,” said Harrow.

Dawson hesitated, but after one look in Harrow’s cold eyes he swung the axe and split the dead man’s skull in half. He retched at what he’d done, but he managed not to vomit.

Harrow took back his weapon without another word.

The three remaining Dogs continued their advance. Twice they paused to return the hand signals of the squads to their left and right.

Morris returned at a run. “They’re coming through.”

A panicked fox darted past Dawson’s leg, fleeing the clamor approaching from the rear.

Harrow signaled them to move aside as a sound of giant iron footsteps neared. Saplings splintered beneath the warjacks. The strain and sigh of pistons grew faster with each step. Steam and coal smoke darkened the already misty atmosphere of the Wythmoor.

Foyle emerged from the mist, striding straight toward the battle. Sam followed, the massive Gully at her side. Lister jogged along close behind with a squad of his own.

Harrow increased the pace. The others strove to keep up, even as they craned their necks for a better look at the obscured battle ahead. The shouts of Steelhead infantry grew louder, first in bloodlust, then in retreat, as the deep voice of their commander ordered a tactical retreat.

The Dogs saw the men running from a pair of hulking figures as big as Gully. In silhouette, their limbs appeared both more graceful and more angular than those of the heavy Nomad. In churning clouds of smoke and steam, their only distinct features were their armaments: the bubbling reservoirs of green venom above their crustacean pincers on one arm, and the obscene bulb of their necrosludge cannons on the other.

“Corruptors,” said Harrow. “You see green hit the man beside you, get away from him double-quick.”

Gaunt mechanithrall foot soldiers pushed forward between the helljacks. Once human, these things were now nightmares of flesh and metal. With every bound, their mechanical joints squealed for thirst of grease. Their fleshless jaws clacked as they raised iron fists above their skulls, poised to smash through armor and the living bodies that would one day join their undead legion.

“Move, move, move!” The voice of the Steelhead commander boomed over all other sounds. The Dogs saw him atop a beast too thick and tall to be a horse, and yet it danced among the retreating infantry with the grace of a thoroughbred. “Move, move... Cover! Cover! Fire!”

Rifle fire punctuated the cacophony. The volley seemed to clear the field of thralls, but a few rushed on, and a few more rose again. Braced for the charge, the halberdiers cut down the fiends before their mechanikal fists could reach their skulls.

Behind them came another wave of mechanithralls, this time supported by corpulent figures gripping thin, corroded cannons trailing green vapor.

As if excited by the carnage, the helljacks burped out their vile distillations. One green blob enveloped a tree, melting the wood as it sank down around its trunk. Another landed among a cluster of riflemen. One managed to flee before their comrade’s body burst in a shower of gore and poison. The other fell, shredded by the shrapnel of his compatriot’s shattered bones.

“Rifles retreat!” shouted the commander. “Move, move, move!”

Intent on pursuit, the Cryx followed the retreating Steelheads, moving past the Dogs without seeming to notice their approach. They were intent on the kill.

Sam gave the sign. Lister barked an order. Sergeant Crawley sounded a shrill whistle.

Harrow pointed at the nearest helljack. “Our target.”

Foyle went first. The swift Talon intercepted the Corruptor. Just as the helljack began to turn, Foyle thrust its lance straight into the gap between its cowl-shaped armor and its tusked head. Lightning cracked in the dark hollow as the helljack’s head jerked in spastic distress.

“Pull it down!” bellowed Burns. He flung his net, trapping the Corruptor’s pincer arm against its spiked knee joint. “Damn it! No good.”

Dawson, Morris, and Harrow did the same. Together, their nets bound the helljack’s legs. The stunned Corruptor teetered.





“Stand back!” yelled Sam.

Gully charged in, shoving the tangled helljack off its feet. The Corruptor crashed into the swampy earth, the impact throwing up wet divots of earth and fetid vegetation.

The Nomad swung down its battle blade, shearing through the Corruptor’s chassis. Black oil and green venom gushed from the wound.

“Gully, out,” yelled Sam. “Boys!”

“Take it apart!” Burns raised his pickaxe and leaped onto the fallen behemoth.

Like beetles over a dead rat, the Devil Dogs swarmed the fallen Corruptor. While two squads covered them with slug guns at the ready, the rest used their picks to pry up armor plating and expose the vulnerable parts beneath. They smashed the gears and cut off the tubes supplying venom to the cannon and the pincer claw’s injector.

Sam drew her sword and thrust it twice into the helljack’s chassis. The second time, coruscating energy on the blade showed she had found its cortex. The Corruptor jerked one last time and lay still.

By the time they were done, the second Corruptor had vanished into the mist in pursuit of the retreating Steelheads.

“Keep your eyes peeled for the helljacks’ controller,” yelled Crawley. “Just because you don’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t standing right behind you.”

“Morrow’s teeth, Creepy!” cried Burns. “Quit trying to scare the pups.” Burns was the first to look over his shoulder, eyes wide in fear.

“All right,” said Sam, pointing her sword. “Same again.”

The Devil Dogs ran hard to catch up. Sam led them at an angle to avoid the Steelhead rifles’ line of fire. Every thirty yards or so, the Steelheads paused in their retreat.

The Dogs soon caught sight of their mutual foe. The thralls were locked in melee with the halberdiers while the riflemen reloaded and took aim, awaiting the next command to fire.

Crawley’s whistle sounded three short blasts. From the Dogs’ left flank, a mob of Cryx thralls lumbered out of the mists. These were not the gaunt foot soldiers, but bile thralls. The corpulent figures gurgled and sloshed with every step. Pumps churned inside their once-living bodies, feeding their own corrosive fluids to the noxious cannons locked in their deathless grips.

Sam uttered a curse. “Advance and fire!”

Lieutenant Lister and Sergeant Crawley echoed her command. Some of the newer Devil Dogs blinked to hear the order, but they obeyed it. The veterans had already closed to short range and begun firing.

The shells from their slug guns roared at the bloated undead. Thralls struck by the barrage burst into steaming gobbets, the toxic gasses in their bellies magnifying the force of the explosions.

The Cryx returned fire. Most of their pestilent loads fell behind the Dogs as the mercenaries advanced after each barrage. By the time the bile thralls adjusted for range, the Dogs fired again.

Crawley spotted for the men around him, directing them to fire on to the thralls that waddled closest. “Don’t let them near you, Dogs!”

The remaining thralls also fired, but their target wasn’t the Devil Dogs. They turned their weapons toward the warjacks. Sam turned Gully and Foyle to face the Cryx just as a barrage of pulsing bile arced toward them.

“Shields up!” Sam ordered. She leaped behind Gully, taking shelter behind the heavy warjack.

The corrosive loads splashed on Foyle’s broad shield and across Gully’s plated shoulders. As the pernicious liquid boiled, the warjack’s chassis grew red-hot, its extreme edges limned in white.

Sam jumped away, surveying the damage. “Not too bad,” she decided. “Gully, Foyle, charge!”

The sight of two warjacks rushing toward them seized the thrall’s attention. While the waddling monstrosities struggled to adjust their range, the Devil Dogs blasted them with their slug guns. The instant the shelling ceased, Foyle impaled one while Gully bisected another, spilling the foul contents of their corpulent bodies upon the swampy ground. Within moments, all that was left of the Cryx was a nauseating stench and a seeping field of heavy, green-yellow gas.

“We’re not done yet,” called Sam. “Lister, get me a casualty report. Crawley, reform on me. Gully, Foyle, about face!”

By the time the warjacks once more faced the retreating battle, Lister reported no serious casualties.

“Right, then,” said Sam. “Let’s take down that other Corruptor.”

As they caught up once more, the remaining helljack had a screaming halberdier in its pincer. With its other arm, it blasted a squad of retreating riflemen with its necrosludge cannon. The viscous shell struck one of the Steelheads bursting the man’s body into a cloud of bloody gore and yellow-green corruption. The nearby men screamed as the infernal vapors melted the flesh from their bones.

“Foyle, charge!” called Sam, running beside Gully. The Dogs followed.

Before the ’jack closed half the distance, the Corruptor held up its wriggling prisoner. The man’s mouth opened wide. Instead of a scream, bilious vapor escaped the opening. He shook his head from side to side, arms shaking as they rose into twisted claws. Black energies crackled around his fingers, shriveling the flesh even as they conjured dark magics.

“Move back!” boomed the voice of the Steelhead commander. “That’s the work of an iron lich!”

Black flames leaped from the captive’s hands, shooting in an arc across the misty battlefield. They fell near a mounted figure, barely visible through the haze. His horse danced away from the necromantic fire, but the evil flames struck a nearby rifleman. The man howled as an ashen specter rose out of his body to fly back toward the source of the spell. His emaciated carcass fell to the ground.

“Oh, Morrow,” muttered Burns. “It’s a soultaker.”

Foyle reached the Corrupter, his stun lance skating off the helljack’s smooth breastplate. The Talon reached back for another strike, but the Corruptor turned.

“Dammit,” cried Sam. “Gully, charge! Dogs, with me!”

This time she ran ahead of the heavy Nomad, raising her sword as she charged.

The Corruptor dropped its captive’s spent carcass and reached for Sam.

Foyle slammed the helljack with his targa shield, but the Cryx ’jack stood fast. It shoved the Talon back with its cannon arm, pincers clacking in anticipation of a deadly embrace.

Just before the helljack reached her, Sam darted to the side and dove through Foyle’s legs. Tucking her sword in a deft and practiced move, she tumbled forward to come up from below. The Corruptor turned, but the light warjack raised its lance, parrying to protect its marshal.

Sam thrust her sword upward, the blade crackling with electricity as its point stabbed just beneath the helljack’s yellowed tusks.

An instant later, Gully’s battle blade swept down, severing the helljack’s necrosludge cannon from its reservoir. The Corruptor struck back by clamping its pincers around the Nomad’s sword arm.

With a shout, the Devil Dogs threw their remaining nets. Most hit their mark, binding the Corruptor’s legs together and locking its equilibrium to a single point. The helljack tipped. The first of the Devil Dogs leaped upon its body before it hit the ground.

“Mind the venom!” Crawley warned Dawson as the private smashed the glass containers. The corrosive fluid hissed as it burned deep into the loam.

“Yes, Sergeant!” Dawson raised his pick to strike again, stabbing deep into the seams of the helljack’s armor.

Nearby, Steelhead rifles fired in the opposite direction. As the Cryx thralls withdrew, their sergeants ordered the riflemen to regroup behind the halberdiers. One called out that the main body of the Cryx forces had withdrawn to the north. Another whistled for silence and pointed at the Devil Dogs swarming over the fallen Corruptor.

Sam wiped her blade clean of oil and sheathed the weapon. “Casualties?” she asked Lister.

The big lieutenant counted with his thumb upon his fingers. “Where’s Swire?”

“Here, Sir,” said a soldier standing up from behind the Corruptor’s boiler.

“All present and ambulatory, Captain.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Thunderous hoof beats approached. A huge man rode out of the mists from the east. Over one shoulder he carried a battle blade nearly large enough for Gully. From his other hand hung a scalloped black bowl containing three skulls and a mass of flesh and metal viscera, or so it appeared at first glance. As the man rode closer, it became apparent that his prize was really a cluster of the severed heads of the iron lich overseer that had been commanding the Corruptors. Three iron-rending blows had cut them from the top of the creature’s armored body.

Burns whistled low. “I heard Brocker was a monster with that blade, but I’ll be damned if I thought he could do that.”

The Steelheads who could still stand did so, cheering as their commander returned triumphant, but their voices were tempered with loss. Too many of their fellows tended the wounded or lay helpless on the ground.

“Why Stannis,” said Sam. “You always bring me the most charming gifts.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Stannis Brocker kneed his horse toward her. As it came closer, the Dogs could see that it was the size of the draft horses in their wagon train. Only its gigantic rider made it seem smaller from a distance.

“You mean apart from saving you from those Corruptors?”

“I had it under control.”

“If you’d retreated any faster, by now you’d be shoveling snow in Korsk.”

After pronouncing the hated name, Sam turned her head and spit on the ground. All of the boys and most of the men did the same in perfect unison.

A surprised laugh escaped Dawson. Brocker glared at him until he covered it with a feigned cough.

The other Steelheads looked to their leader, holding their breath as they awaited his reaction.

“You drill them in that spit thing, don’t you?”

“We all have our little indulgences. Those smudges on your lip, for example. Has anyone ever mistaken them for proper mustaches?”

Brocker showed his teeth. In contrast to his tanned and battle-scarred face, they were very large and very white. When he grimaced, his brush-stroke mustaches appeared all the more ridiculous. “You’re funny, MacHorne,” he said. “For a woman. I don’t usually like my women funny, but in your case I’d make an exception. After we finish running down those thralls, you can come into my tent and tell me some bad jokes.”

The Dogs bristled. Burns stepped forward, but Lister put a hand on his big shoulder.

“A bad joke is about all I’d find in your tent, Brocker.” Sam covered the grip of her sword, leaving only two inches between her hand and the butt.

Even the Steelheads chuckled at that, at least until Brocker silenced them with a look of death.

“But enough about your shortcomings,” said Sam. “Who hired you to hunt Cryx?”

“The better question is, who the hell would hire your band of rejects? Or are you out here on your own, scavenging for parts? I see you’ve found enough to make two puppet-show warjacks.”

“You mean the big lugs who just saved your asses?” said Sam. “You didn’t answer my question. It’s Baird, isn’t it?”

Brocker shrugged. “I can’t think of a reason to tell you anything.”

“I can,” she said, raising her voice. “Think of how many more of your men those Corruptors might have turned inside out if we hadn’t showed up. At the very least, you owe me thanks.”

A few of the Steelhead troops nodded until they saw Brocker watching. He scowled and considered before answering. “King Baird is very careful where he commits his own troops, especially in spots like the Wythmoor. Yes, we’re collecting bounties on Cryx infiltration units, and would have been fine without ‘help’, but this run was different, like they were after something other than the standard grave culling.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard. Any day now, you’re going to work your way up to, ‘Thanks for saving my skin, Sam.’”

“I’d sooner put you across my knee,” he said. His sneer vanished, replaced by a naked leer. “And teach you to like it.”

“Why you red, boot-licking son of a—” Burns lunged forward. This time it took the combined weight of Lister, Smooth, and Crawley to hold him back.

Sam held her gaze on Brocker. “While I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed our little chat, I can see you’re in a hurry. If you don’t leave now, you’ll never catch up with the rest of those Cryx.”

“You never said what you’re doing in the Wythmoor,” he said.

“That’s right.”

“But I told you—”

“And I appreciate it. Let me show you my appreciation.” She bowed and made a flourish with her hand. “Thank you, Stannis. See how easy that is?”

As Brocker glowered at her, Sam continued. “Come along, Dogs. Let’s leave the Steelheads to bless their dead and gather their bounties.”

Sam called to Foyle and Gully, the latter of whom had developed a shrieking whine with every other step. The Dogs headed back toward their wagons, past the bodies of Cryx thralls and Steelheads.

When Sam paused to look back, so did those nearest her. Behind them, the Steelheads combed the fields to retrieve their dead. They collected hands from the dead thralls and cut out cortexes from the helljacks.

“You know he’s 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.”