The Devil's Pay (Dogs of War)

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 only one on Dawson’s hip, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch it. Dawson peeled it off himself.

“Did you hear that?” asked Robinson.

Dawson made himself still. He heard a distant bird call and a few frog-sized splashes in the nearby puddles. Then he heard a faint sound of springs compressing and releasing. There was no accompanying chug and huff of a steam engine, but it was unmistakably a mechanikal motion.

“Should we get a closer look?” Dawson whispered.

“I don’t—” Robinson looked in the direction of the sound. More stagnant runnels and pools stood before them. “No, we’d better report first.”

When they reported what they’d heard to Lister, the big lieutenant squinted down his cigar at Dawson. “Are you sure that’s what you heard?” he said. “Some of you pups can’t tell the difference between a frog and a whippoorwill.”

“I heard something similar,” said Harrow, appearing out of nowhere. “And a ratcheting sound, more like a clocktower than a warjack.”

“Did you at least get a look?”

Harrow shook his head.

“More tracks?”

“None that I could see. Whole area’s flooded.”

Lister turned to Sam. “What do you say, Captain?”

“Whatever it is, it’s clever enough to hide its tracks.”

“Seems likely,” Lister agreed.

“I don’t like the idea of taking the big lugs wading. Still…”

She ordered the company to halt. “I want our six biggest men walking a line ahead of Gully and Foyle. Keep two men on rear guard with two more on either side. Keep one squad close at hand.”

“That doesn’t leave many scouts,” said Lister.

“Make do.”

“Yes’m. Sarge, you pick the flower girls.”

“Big ones, huh?” Crawley adjusted his goggles and peered up at Lister.

“All right, all right. Count me in.”

“Listen up, Burns, Smooth, Harrow! You three escort this strapping young groom down the aisle.” He knocked on Gully’s knee. “Fraser, Bowie, you’re walking the bride along with the lieutenant.” He indicated Foyle.

The Devil Dogs took their new positions, leading the ’jacks and wagons through calf-deep water. When Burns and Smooth plunged into a pool up to their hips, Sam halted the ’jacks until they found a shallower path.

“This is stupid.” Burns cut down a long branch and hacked off its twigs. With the stick he probed the ground as the Dogs proceeded. One by one, the others followed his example, except for Harrow, who glided through the scummy water without benefit of a probe, leaving barely a ripple in his wake.

Within minutes of each other, Robinson and McBride returned from scouting to report no unusual sightings. Robinson confirmed that their watery path peeled away from the trail left by the Cryx.

“Whatever was following them came from this direction,” said Crawley. He signaled for the scouts to go back out.

Sam agreed. “We’re moving closer to the Dragon’s Tongue. What do you think? Five, six miles?”

Crawley removed a compass and a map from his pocket. “Let me check the map.”

Without turning, Harrow held up five fingers on one hand, three on the other.

“Eight miles,” said Crawley. He left the map folded and returned the compass to his pocket.

“What would be out here, so close to the river?” Sam said to no one in particular. No one had an answer. They walked on, splashing through the mire.

“Here we go. Look.” Burns pointed with his stick.

He indicated a dark patch of water to the southeast. An iridescent sheen mingled with darker eddies beneath the water’s surface. Beyond the dark core of the stain the water glowed.

“Oil and Cryx venom,” said Lister. “Be careful.”

Feeling with their poles, Lister and Harrow moved forward. Soon they were hip-deep in the mire.

Burns jumped in to join them, but he slipped sideways, splashing under the water. He came up sputtering, “Help! Something’s—” He plunged under again, coming up to add, “Something’s got me!”

Lister and Harrow turned around. Lister aimed his slug gun but thought better of it. Harrow already had his pick-axe in hand. He swung it in an arc to strike near Burns’ foot. The point hit with a dull thunk under the water. Whatever it hit, the blow was enough to free Burns. Lister pulled him up.

Harrow struck again, but the water remained still.

“What is it?” said Lister.

“It grabbed my leg,” said Burns, not quite blubbering in alarm.

Harrow thrust his axe under the water, striking an object under the surface. When there was no reaction from it, he moved the weapon around, feeling the shape of the thing. With the barest shake of his head, he slung the axe back over his shoulder and thrust his hands under the water.

“Be careful, man,” said Burns. “It took my whole foot in its mouth.”

After feeling the sunken object, Harrow stepped back and reached out his hand. Lister gave him the pole he had dropped. Together, they used their poles as lever to lift up the skull of a ruined bonejack.

Beneath a fanged jaw, a pair of iron-reinforced tusks curved up to sharp points. Pistons connected them to mechanisms inside the brass heat sink forming a collar behind the ’jack’s “head.” The Dogs could see little more of the mechanism’s iron-clad body, but most nodded in recognition of the commonest form of Cryx war machine.

“Ripper,” said Crawley.

“Careful!” yelled Burns. “It’s slipping!”

He went down to one knee, but the bonejack didn’t sink with him. With a muted crack of iron and a gurgle of swamp water, the raised head of the Ripper came up above the surface, revealing the damage that had nearly separated its head assembly from the body.

The cut appeared perfectly straight except for a regular pattern of sheared points along the edge of the wound.

“That’s not from a battle blade,” said Lister. He tested the edge of the serrated cut with the finger of a gloved hand. Hissing, he brought it to his mouth but stopped himself before putting his tongue to the wound. Even at a light touch, the shorn metal sliced through the leather.

“It looks like somebody ran this thing through a lumber saw,” said Crawley. He examined the oil patch, first with his goggles, then squinting after he pulled them down around his neck. “Hasn’t been here long. I’d say whatever found this Ripper did so right before Brocker and his men first met the Cryx back to the northwest.”

“So,” said Sam, “it’s possible the Cryx were looking for it, found it, and then were drawn off into a fight.”

“Which could suggest Brocker was also looking for it, and that’s why he was here,” said Lister.

Sam looked back over her shoulder before nodding. “Maybe. Either way, we need to keep watching our backs.”

They resumed their march. The chatter dwindled to whispers, punctuated by hissed warnings to silence by the men farthest from the huff-and-grind of the warjacks.

“Did you hear that?” asked Morris.

Dawson closed his eyes to listen harder. “I think it’s just the trees. Wait—” He turned as he glimpsed unexpected movement out of the corner of his eye. “Look out, Burns!

Foyle stumbled forward. His shadow loomed over Burns as the Talon tilted toward him, raising it long stun lance in a desperate attempt to catch itself.

Burns turned, eyes widening as he saw the danger. He started to move, but the clutching mud held him fast.

Sam dashed toward him, leaping up to tackle the big man with all her weight. Even at half his size, she hit him at just the right angle to knock him out of the warjack’s path. They plunged into the mire. An instant later, Foyle came down beside them, splashing everyone within twenty feet.

Swamp water hissed as it touched the firebox on Foyle’s back. The warjack coughed as the flood reached its engine.

Sam emerged first, sputtering. “Foyle, steady up! Brace yourself!”

The Talon thrust out its stun lance and planted its butt in the ground. It did the same with its shield arm, pushing up from the side while pulling forward on its weapon. Its pistons surged and locked, its gears straining.

Burns stood up and moved to push the warjack from behind. All the nearby men sloshed into position to aid his efforts. Morris put a hand too close to the firebox, shouting as the hot metal burned his palm through his leather glove.

Lister unleashed a litany of obscenities in a head-spinning mixture of Ordic, Cygnaran, and Caspian. Dawson’s eyes grew wide, but no one else so much as cracked a smile.

At Sam’s direction, the men heaved in time with Foyle’s own efforts to step out of the sinkhole. As the alarm of the warjack’s fall subsided, their efforts became more coordinated. Strain as they might, the result remained the same: Foyle was stuck.

“All right, Dogs, let’s step back,” said Sam. The men backed away with care as Foyle tottered and stood still.

Sam pushed her goggles up on her forehead and wiped her eyes with the back of a hand. “This is going to take a little more thought. In the meantime, we can’t let down our guard. Crawley?”

The sergeant assigned two units to sentry duty while the rest he put at ease, awaiting further instructions.

“How the blazes did this happen?” demanded Lister. He paralyzed Burns with a glance. “You walked right over that hole!”

“I don’t know, Lieutenant. I didn’t feel a thing.”

“Said the actress to the Exarch,” Smooth added, grinning as he looked around for approval. Seeing none, he raised his empty hands like an actor apologizing to the audience. He stepped back out of an imaginary limelight.

“Ow! Son of a—” Smooth flinched away from a spot near Foyle’s left knee. Hissing, he raised his leg. Blood poured from a wound high on his calf, just below the bend of his knee. He clutched it tight.

“Grab him,” said Lister. He grabbed Smooth under the arms. Burns and Harrow took his legs, and with quick, short steps, they carried the big man to the nearest wagon. Another Dog lowered the tailgate, and they laid Smooth upon it.

Lister tore at the rent in Smooth’s trouser leg and pressed his hands against the wound. Blood poured out between his fingers. “That is one hell of a cut.”

“I barely touched it,” said Smooth.

“Then it was sharp as spite.”

One of the drivers was already on hand with water, clean cloths, and bandages. He cleared the wound with fresh water, blotted it with a clean cloth, and sprinkled clotting powder over the wound. Once they had the bleeding under control, Fleming broke out the suture kit and threaded a curved needle.

While Fleming stitched Smooth’s injury, Lister stomped back toward Foyle, chomping at his cigar.

“Look,” Sam said. She pointed as Dawson, Morris, and Harrow carefully lifted the sharp object out of the water.

It was a blued steel disc nearly two feet in diameter. Its outer edge bristled with saw teeth. Swamp weeds clung to a hole in its center.

“See?” said Burns. “It wasn’t my fault! That thing must have been caught up over the hole and some weeds or something. When Foyle stepped on it, his weight tipped it up.”

“Something tells me this isn’t from a laborjack,” said Morris. “Besides, we’d have seen signs if someone had been sawing down trees nearby.”

“No,” said Dawson. “This blade wasn’t made to cut wood. The teeth are all wrong, the gullets too shallow. There’s hardly any kerf. The steel has to be incredibly strong. And look at that fleam!” He stared at the blade in admiration until he realized that everyone else was staring at him.

Lister removed his cigar. “What language are you speaking, Dawson?”

“Sorry, Sir. I suppose lumber jargon does sound strange to others.”

“Did you grow up in a lumber mill?”

“Well, not exactly,” he said. “But I worked with my uncle at the village sawmill until my brother was old enough to take my place and I left home to join the Ordic—”

“I’m sure it’s a very touching story,” said Lister. “My question is this: You know about saws?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“What else can you tell us about this one?”

“Well, there’s not much wear near the hub. That hole was used to support it, but not to spin it regularly. But there is a scuff mark near the center. It was spun at least briefly, but then… I don’t know. It looks like it was shot out of its vice.”

“Either this blade or one like it is what cut that bonejack in half,” said Sam. “Does that seem right to you, Dawson?”

“Yes’m. These teeth are designed to cut through metal, not wood. Of course, spun fast enough, they’ll cut through wood, too…or darned near anything else.”

Burns mouthed the words “Dragon hunt.” Lister shot him a withering look.

Sam rubbed the back of her neck. “This just keeps getting more exciting. All right, somebody bring me Crawley. I want him to look at this. Lister, get the drivers to bring over the winch. I want Foyle back up within the hour. And Dawson?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Nice work.”

“But I only—” Dawson closed his mouth. “Yes’m.”

Sam smiled, tipped him a wink, and walked away.



In the end it took a little less than an hour to position the wagon, erect the tripod for the block and tackle, and lift Foyle out of the mire. Crawley inspected the warjack’s muck-encrusted foot and declared it serviceable. When Sam directed the Talon to walk, the ’jack did so with a slight limp at the ankle joint.

Dawson helped Morris disassemble and stow the tripod. They finished just as Harrow returned from ranging to the rear. Setting his pack and gun on the wagon tailgate beside Smooth’s bandaged leg, he reported no sign of pursuit: Cryx, Steelhead, or otherwise.

Moments later, McBride and Crowborough returned to report the all clear to either flank. Lieutenant Lister checked his pocket watch and scanned the mists ahead. “Where the hell is Robinson?”

Dawson’s eyes followed the second hand as it tick-tick-ticked its way around the watch dial. As it completed a circuit, Lister’s eyes met Harrow’s. The scout picked up his gun, leaving his pack behind, and slid silently through the mire.

Sam approached, her eyes on Harrow’s retreating figure. “Who’s missing?”

“Robinson. Forward scout.”

“Let’s get the company moving. Same configuration as before, but keep the pickets closer.”

The last of the chatter faded as the Dogs trudged forward. The creak of wagon wheels and the chug-and-hiss of steamjack engines seemed all the louder for the men’s silence.

When they first saw the flare, a few of the men hastened their pace.

“Stay with the company,” Lister cautioned them. “Keep formation.”

Crawley repeated the lieutenant’s order for emphasis, and the men passed it down the line as they came near Harrow’s flare and saw what he had found.

On a glistening mound of mossy earth, Robinson lay in pieces.

One of the strikes had bisected him from shoulder to hip. The other was a shallower wound, but still mortal. Together the injuries had spilled what appeared to be every drop of the man’s blood. Beneath a lacy red mask, Robinson’s face had blanched pale as a grub.

Silent, Crawley signaled two units to take up guard positions on either side of the corpse. The third he signaled to follow him. Dawson was the nearest as Crawley and the officers joined Harrow beside his gruesome discovery.

“Doesn’t look like another blade.” Sam said. Even her whisper seemed too loud.

Harrow pointed along the scorched wounds. “Some type of energy impact, maybe lightning. Two strokes.”

Lister retrieved Robinson’s slug gun. Its squat barrel had been sliced at an angle, the cut as clean and sharp as that of a dropped teacup. The metal at the edges of the cut were discolored as if from intense heat.

Crawley took Dawson by the shoulder and quietly relayed his instructions for dealing with the body. With measured haste, Dawson and Morris fetched a length of heavy canvas from the supply wagon and laid it beside Robinson. Burns and Craig helped them transfer the remains to the cloth.

As the Dogs worked, Lister reached inside his collar to hold an ascendant medallion between his fingers. He murmured a prayer in Caspian.

The men folded the ends of the body bag. They sealed it by weaving a cord through the brass eyelets on its hems. With reverent economy, they lugged the corpse to the supply wagon and lay it in the space beside Smooth. Favoring his injured leg, Smooth moved to sit up front with the drivers rather than sit beside the dead man.

“Whatever did this to him…” Lister growled around his cigar.

“We’ll bring it down, break it up, and deliver it in pieces for the Old Man,” said Sam. “We’ll fulfill our contract and get payback for Robinson in one stroke.”

“I’d like to get my hands on whoever’s operating this thing.”

Sam touched his arm. Against Lister’s massive biceps, her hand appeared small. “Be careful what you wish for, old friend. The important thing is we do the job, and we take care of our own, alive or dead. Still, if we have a shot at revenge, we’ll consider it a second bonus.”

Lister nodded. He kept his chin down and bit hard on the end of his unlit cigar.

The march resumed. Lister had Crawley equip all the scouts with flares. The sergeant sent them out in pairs along with a warning to keep the flares in hand and to signal at the first sign of danger.

The first of the scouts returned fifteen minutes later.

Fleming saluted Lister and Sam. “We’ve found a shelter.”

Ross added, “It has to be a supply depot.”

“So that’s what Baird’s men were doing out here,” said Sam. “Let’s have a look.”

As the scouts led the Devil Dogs out of the water, the company remained vigilant to anything approaching from the sides or rear. They passed through a light wood as the ground rose higher and drier.

The clouds parted enough to reveal the sun. Its golden light repainted the gloomy surroundings in vivid colors. A patch of startlingly yellow mushrooms climbed a fallen tree like a tiny stairway. A lichen-covered stone lay like a jeweled crown upon a jutting hill, and at its foot lay the hulk of a battered helljack.

The Slayer was nearly as large as Gully, and just as bulky. With its lobstered shoulders and heavy claws, it resembled nothing so much as a malevolent crustacean that once walked upright but now lay defeated upon the moss. One ridged tusk jutted from its armored head, the other severed less than a foot from its blank, iron face. Scorched brass spikes flared from its knees and shoulders, sharp claws at toe and nail. The barest wisp of venom flickered behind the ribs of its chest and smokestack, seeping from the severed tubes connecting its massive shoulders to its chest cavity. Serrated cuts, and the cleaner lines of energy burns, crisscrossed its black iron chassis.

“This fellow won’t be getting up any time soon,” said Lister. He waved away the foul odor of nectrotite fumes. “You want Crawley to have a look?”

Sam lowered the goggles over her eyes and frowned. “Let’s check the building, first. Whatever wrestled with this monster might still be nearby, or maybe worse, more of the Cryx we thought we’d seen the last of.”

The hemi-cylindrical structure stood twenty feet tall and lay sixty feet long. The building was composed of stout pine reinforced with iron bracings. Wire mesh covered skylights set high upon its walls and roof.

Someone had made an effort to conceal the sides with brush and uprooted saplings, but the creeping vines had risen barely more than a foot up the convex sides of the shelter. Except for a few mismatched spots, the entire structure was painted dun gray, excellent camouflage for the misty Wythmoor.

“See there?” said Lister. He pointed at a matte black section of wall. “This whole thing was built somewhere else. Then it was hauled here for assembly.”

Sam nodded. Her eyes followed Harrow and Bowie as they crept up to peer around the nearest corners. Harrow made the all-clear signal.

Sam marched Gully and Foyle up to the nearest end of the half-tube and set them to stand guard on either side of the entrance. Stenciled in light gray paint on either door was the broken sword of Ord. A heavy chain and padlock secured the doors.

The wagons pulled up behind. At a nod from Crawley, the drivers began fetching food and water for the horses, but left them hitched to their wagons.

Lister nodded at the symbols. “Your friend from the village gave us a good report,” he said. “Baird must be laying in supply depots. But why?”

“Let’s have a look.”

Lister shrugged the pick-axe from his back and called out, “Swire!”

A lean man with a pencil-thin mustache ran forward and saluted.

“Remember that little predicament Smooth got himself into? The one you helped him out of?”

“Yessir.”

“Do you have them on you?”

“Sir!” Swire set aside his gun and lay his pack down beside it. From a compartment inside his boot, he removed a slim leather parcel. He unrolled it and flipped over the felt inside cover to reveal a set of flat brass probes, each with a different shape at its tip. Some resembled waves, others a woman’s figure, and still others a barber’s picks.

Kneeling beside the lock, Swire removed his gloves and cradled the lock in one bare hand. He probed the barrel with a simple rake tool, listening as he felt the vibrations within. “Tsk,” he said, setting aside the rake. He took up a pick and a torsion wrench in its place. “I should have known it wouldn’t be so easy.”

As he worked, Sergeant Crawley approached and peered down at Swire’s tools. “What’s this, then? Why didn’t you ask me? I could have that open in—”

The padlock clicked. Swire left it hanging from the chain as he returned his picks to the case. “Done, Lieutenant.”

“That’s why, Creepy. Good work, Swire.”

Swire returned the kit to his boot and retrieved his pack and gun. Even as he did so, the sun retreated from its brief visitation. Swire looked up, shaking his head in disbelief. “I was just starting to think I might dry off.”

“Crawley, take charge of the men out here,” said Sam. “Lister, I want two squads inside.”

Lister chose his men, including Dawson, Morris, and all the boys except Smooth. The wounded man watched them from the driver’s seat of the supply wagon, scraping his beloved razor along his jaw in a nonchalant gesture belied by his intense gaze, directed at where he would surely rather be standing, among his fellows.

Mist crept through the assembled men, beasts, wagons, and machines. The air grew heavy with the promise of rain, and then the first few drops spattered on helms and pauldrons. Seconds later, a steady drizzle set in.

Lister led the way inside the building.

Blue-white fingers of light reached through the skylights to brush the crates along one wall, leaving the other side of the depot in shadow. More stacks of crates and barrels stood in the center of the spacious aisle. The wood of the crates was still fresh, the nails showing no trace of rust.

The Ordic crest was stenciled just above a pasted label indicating COAL, MUNITIONS, PARTS, or PROVISIONS. Some lazy soldier had left a dried paint bucket behind. Burns removed the splayed brush, holding it up to his face as a comical mustache.

“Sharpen up, Burns,” said Lister.

“Relax, Lieutenant. Can’t you see we’ve hit the jackpot here?”

“We’ll take only what we need,” said Sam. “Restock the coal bins. Crawley, you see if there are any parts you need for the big lugs. Other than that, we’re not looting the king’s supply depot.”