The Devil's Pay (Dogs of War)

PART THREE




The Devil Dogs found the corpses of the missing men not far from the smoldering ruin of the Ordic Supply Depot. The men had fallen nowhere near the fire, but their bodies lay burned and twisted on the far side of the structure.

Against all advice, Smooth insisted on standing with the aid of a crutch Harrow had hewn from an ash branch. The other Dogs kept an eye on the heavy bandage wrapped around Smooth’s upper calf. Sergeant Crawley had issued a general order that the moment anyone saw blood seeping through, Smooth was to be dragged back to the wagon, no matter how many men it took to do so.

Smooth raised his voice over the patter of rain. “They must have run into the iron lich while we were fighting inside the depot.”

“There’s no worse way to go,” said Burns.

“Not even burning?” asked Dawson. He and Burns sewed one of the dead men into a canvas bag, while Swire and McBride did the same for the other.

Burns nodded, his face uncharacteristically sober. “Burning’s horrible, but it’s only pain. You die, it’s over. These Cryx, their iron liches and some of the other monsters, they don’t just kill you. They draw out your soul and use it to feed their wicked machines.”

Dawson had nothing to say to that.

Once the bags were sealed, Lister murmured a prayer over the bodies. Morris and about half the other men reached under their breastplates to touch their ascendant medallions as they added their own silent invocations to the impromptu ceremony.

When Lister finished, Sam pulled off her goggles and stepped forward. “We’ll take good care of Bates and Hughes until we can get them home,” she said. “There’s more to say about each of them, but for now we have a job to finish. When we’re done, we’ll drink to their memories, and I’ll tell you pups about the time a gobber sold Hughes a half-share in a talking horse.”

A few of the men smiled at the captain’s mention of the incident. Burns wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “He was so damned gullible.”

“You want me to tell them who bought the other half?” asked Sam.

“I don’t know what you mean, Captain.” Burns feigned innocence.

A few of the men forced a laugh, but the mirth never reached their eyes.

“Once the rain lets up enough to track it, we’re going to find that warjack. And this time we’re going to bring it down no matter how slippery its legs prove. We’re going to deliver it to the Old Man, and we’re going to collect the bonus, not just for ourselves, but for Robinson, Bates, and Hughes, and for their families.”

“Hear, hear,” said Crawley. His eyes were red from smoke, but he didn’t rub them. Instead, he polished the lenses of his goggles and set them back in place. “Now, I need a look at those big lugs.”

The Dogs bore the dead back to the wagon, where they lay the bags beside the one containing Robinson’s remains. As the others watched them go, Sam called Crowborough back. “I need you to deliver a message.”

“Yes, Captain. Where to?”

“Well, that’s the tricky part. Give me your map.” When he did so, Sam circled three locations on the other side of the Dragon’s Tongue River. She handed Crowborough a folded letter. “The Old Man’s eyes only. You’ll find him in one of these areas. Start with the closest first.”

Lister handed Crowborough a coin purse. “Take the courser. Cross at the Calbeck Ferry if it’s open. Otherwise, you’ll have to ford at Oxbridge.”

“Yessir,” said Crowborough, saluting each officer in turn. “Yes’m!”

He ran to the supply wagon, sparing only a moment to nod his respect over the fallen before requisitioning a hooded rain cloak and the swiftest of the riding horses. Within minutes, he was riding away from the dying blaze of the supply depot.

Sergeant Crawley had the mechaniks climbing over both warjacks, their efforts hampered by the driving rain. Once he could assure Sam that they were fit for marching, the captain led the Dogs south, the direction in which they had last seen both the Cryx helljack and the strange, chromium warjack fleeing.

“You think the saw-flinger wants its arm back?” Lister asked Sam. They trudged side-by-side with Crawley ahead of the wagons. Burns, Morris, Dawson, and Smooth guarded them, their slug guns reloaded and held ready for sudden action.

“It looked that way to me,” said Sam. “Just as it looked like the lich wanted to take home a piece of that warjack. If the Cryx learn its secrets before the Old Man has a chance to figure them out…” She left the rest unspoken.

“I never saw a ’jack like that before,” said Burns. “It definitely isn’t Swans or Reds. Not the zealots, either. Could it be the elves?”

“It was weird enough for the Iosans,” said Lister.

“No, the way it moved, it didn’t seem at all like elf magic,” said Crawley. “It was a lot more mechanikal. This is something completely new. Did you see its smokestack?”

“No,” said Sam.

“Neither did I. That thing was running on some completely different form of energy.”

“You sure it isn’t just some new arcanika?”

“No, I’m not sure,” said Crawley. “It doesn’t seem like magic to me. Not just mechanika, either. This is something new.”

“I’m starting to understand why the Old Man is so interested in this thing,” Sam added.

The rain ebbed and flowed like the tide. At its heaviest, it steamed against Foyle and Gully’s hot smokestacks. When it was no more than a drizzle, it seemed to evaporate even before touching the hot iron.

Distant thunder warned of fiercer rain to come, but Sam kept the Dogs moving through the early evening. She moved from unit to unit, praising the men for the courage they had shown, asking them how they wanted to spend their bonuses upon their return to Tarna. She threatened a few with a game of cards, a gambit that evoked a smile or a firm refusal from even the most traumatized of the men. When the combined twilight and rain made further tracking futile, she called a halt.

Crawley directed Dawson’s unit in erecting a tarpaulin shelter over the warjacks. Imperfect as it was, it kept the rain off the mechaniks’ heads while they hammered out the dents the strange warjack had pounded into Foyle’s iron body.

As they finished, the men stood under the shelter for a while, enjoying the refuge from the rain.

“What I wanna know is what the captain saw up on the roof,” Crawley said. “Who was controlling that warjack? We were on the wrong side of that fight. What did you see, Morris?”

“Just a shadow,” he said. “We were too busy trying to tip that ’jack. It didn’t matter how many nets we threw on it, the damned thing wouldn’t go down.”

“We didn’t have much better luck with the slug guns,” said Dawson. “But at least it knows it was in a fight.”

“It was bad luck we didn’t have both of the big lugs in there,” said Burns.

“Sam did send Gully around,” said Smooth. “It would have been better if she’d been there to guide him. The big fellow’s not the brightest with anything more than simple directions. It took him forever to get around the other side of the depot.”

“Say, you were outside, Smooth,” said Dawson. “What did you see on the roof?”

“I wasn’t looking at first,” said Smooth. “Later, after the explosion, I could have sworn I saw something flying above it.”

“Flying?” asked Morris.

“I know, it sounds crazy. At first I thought it must have been a trick of the light in the rain. But I could have sworn I saw something with wings.”

“Something like a bird?”

“A big damned bird, maybe,” said Smooth. “But no, the shape was different. Its wings didn’t flap like a bird’s, either. It was more like it soared. It was almost like…nah.”

“Come on, give,” said Burns.

“Well, it was almost like a person with a great big set of wings on her back.”

“A person?” said Burns. “Wings on her back?”

“It was just the impression from a second of seeing something,” said Smooth. “The battle was distracting. Besides, I told you I didn’t really see anything.”

“Ha!” Burns laughed. “Your near-death scratch has you seeing angels!”

“Watch your mouth, Burns!”

“I always thought it’d be the lieutenant who’d end up having divine visions.”

“I’m warning you…”

“I believe you,” said Dawson.

“Don’t humor him, kid,” said Burns. “He’s run Lucille across that scalp of his a few too many times, nicked his brain.”

“Don’t you talk about Lucille,” warned Smooth.

“I’m just saying I thought I saw something, too,” said Dawson. “Something flying through the rain as the warjack ran away. It could have been…you know…shaped like an angel.”

“That’s all I’m saying,” said Smooth. “Something with wings. That kind of shape!”

“Angel-shaped,” scoffed Burns. “I’m going to leave you girls to your prayer meeting before you start holding hands and singing hymns.”

After Burns had gone, Dawson looked to Smooth and began to ask a question.

“I don’t even want to hear it,” said Smooth. The big man left the shelter.

A few hours later, Dawson returned to camp after standing sentry duty. The constant patter of rain on his hood had threatened to lull him to sleep, but he kept his eyes peeled for any sign of green Cryxlight or the strange blue-white radiance he had seen on the chromium warjack.

Once the mechaniks had done all they could for Gully and Foyle, the men took turns under the shelter to eat their meals of white beans and bacon. Soon after Dawson joined them, Lieutenant Lister trudged into the tent, leaning over his bowl to shelter it from the downpour.

Dawson watched as Lister removed his ever-present cigar from his mouth and tucked it into a belt pouch. Streaks of gray in the man’s beard glistened in the light of the work lanterns. Unlike Smooth’s groomed scalp, Lister’s baldness appeared entirely natural. Where hair had once fringed his scalp, he now had only a pair of black hellhound tattoos on the back of his skull.

He ate with mechanikal precision: spoon to mouth, six bites, swallow, repeat. With every bite his thick eyebrows formed a deep furrow between his brows, as though he were concentrating on the battle waged in his bowl.

The other men lowered their voices slightly but otherwise ignored the lieutenant’s presence. They talked of which cobbler in Tarna made the best waterproof boots, whether King Baird or King Leto had the more talented kitchen staff, and whether the famous doxy Malvina came by her red hair naturally or purchased it from an alchemist. The latter dispute inspired a half-hearted round of boasts and denials until Burns arrived to settle the dispute with a pithy anecdote that caused even a few of the veterans to blush.

Dawson waited until Lister scraped his bowl clean before clearing his throat. “Excuse me, Lieutenant. I was wondering…” He pointed at the back of Lister’s skull. When the big man raised a sinister eyebrow, Dawson lowered it again. “I mean, I hear you were present when Captain MacHorne won the company charter.”

Lister turned to stare hard at the other men present. “Who’s been telling tales?”

Craig and Bowie left without a word. Burns crossed his arms as he leaned against Gully’s knee, smiling like a man expecting to enjoy an entertainment. Smooth and Harrow came in out of the rain, the latter carrying two bowls while the former sat on a mechanik’s stool and put aside his crutch. As Smooth accepted his bowl, he looked up, raising his eyebrows at all the mute faces. “What’s going on?”

Burns shrugged and made a half-hearted attempt to wipe the smile from his face.

“All right,” said Lister. He shoved his empty bowl at Dawson and pointed past Burns. “Gimme that.”

Burns tossed him another of the mechanik’s stools. Lister slapped it against his butt and sat down hard enough to sink its legs two inches into the ground. He removed the cigar from his pouch and jabbed it in Dawson’s direction.

“A lot of wild talk goes on about that game. Every time some little gossip passes it along, it gets a little wilder. Some of the versions I’ve heard, well, they don’t bear repeating. The thing that all of them have in common is, the fellow telling the story wasn’t there – not unless it’s me.”

“Wasn’t Sergeant Crawley there, too?”

“Who’re you going to believe, me or him?” He popped the cigar into the corner of his mouth.

“You, Sir.”

“Yer damned right, me. Now listen tight, because if I hear one more tale about how Sam seduced that Khadoran dilettante or picked his pocket after getting him drunk on amberwine, I’m going to come looking for the minstrel responsible.

“It was back in 603, on the Gilded Griffon, a gambling steamer cruising the Rohannor River from Merin to Berck. The festivities included an invitation-only card tournament, which is how we got involved.”

“You and Captain Sam?” asked Dawson.

“And Crawley. He and Sam knew each other from the Rust Market in Merin. They’d signed on together a few times for other companies, strictly as mechaniks. That’s the same way I knew Creepy, and he’d introduced me to Sam. Anyway, Sam was the one who got invited to the tourney. She didn’t like the idea of going alone, so she invited us along to watch her back.”

Dawson nodded. The flash of a broad smile caught his eye. He turned just in time to see Smooth cover his expression with another spoonful of beans.

“So there we are, Sam the gambler, me the muscle, and Crawley our spotter.”

“Spotter?”

“The one who keeps an eye on the spectators. Don’t you know anything about serious gambling?”

“Not really, Sir. No.”

“That explains why he signed up with this outfit,” said Burns. “He doesn’t know a long shot when he sees one.”

“Stifle it, Burns.” Lister pointed at Dawson. “It’s one thing to keep an eye on the other players. Most decent gamblers can do that without any help from a spotter. But in the bigger gambling halls, and on fancy river boats like this one, you also need to keep an eye on the audience. Some gamblers have partners in the crowd, those who can see the other players’ hands and tip off their player.”

“That’s why you never see Sam pick up her cards,” said Smooth. “She only tips up the corners to take a peek.”

“That’s right. Even so, that’s enough for a sharp-eyed spotter to catch a hand.”

“Didn’t you say Crawley was your spotter?”

“Yes, but only to look for other spotters. He wasn’t there to signal Sam.”

Burns snickered, “If you say so, Lieutenant.”

“I’m starting to think the latrine wasn’t dug deep enough today.”

“You know, maybe I’ll shut up and listen for a while.”

“Good thinking. Now, where was I?”

“Crawley’s spotting,” said Dawson.

“Right. Crawley’s up on the balcony, across from Sam. I’m behind her, ready to grab anybody Creepy fingers as a spotter. Sam’s acting like she doesn’t know either one of us, which is the way they all play it. But everybody knows that half the people watching are there with the players. They’re mostly bodyguards, mistresses, lovers, pickpockets, broke gamblers spying on the competition, rich aristocrats scouting for a player to back, all sorts.

“So the first day cuts the players in half. That night, another half get eliminated. Creepy’s keeping a sharp eye on the audience. He points out a few spotters, but before I have to get involved, the boat guards are already on them. Security is tight. I’m thinking that’s a good sign.

“Second night, the tournament comes down to a single table. Sam’s playing a conservative game. Some of the other players are testing her, trying to make her lose her cool. When they see she won’t be gulled, they adjust their own games. Pretty soon, everybody gets real boring with their bets. Everybody except one guy.”

“Dorenski,” said Dawson.

“That wasn’t the name he was using, but yeah, him. The great-great grandnephew of Grigor Dorenski, former kapitan in the Winter Guard.”

Dawson turned his head to spit, but he stopped himself when he saw no one else was doing the same. He swallowed. He also noticed that the men who slipped away before were now standing just outside the lamp light, along with half a dozen others.

He saw that Sam stood among the audience, hanging back as if to avoid detection. She listened with the others.

“We don’t spit on the Winter Guard,” Lister said. “It was Telyev Zerkova of the regular Khadoran Army who betrayed Dog Company.”

On cue, all of the men in the tent turned their heads and spit, all except for Harrow. Dawson looked around, but no one else gave any indication that they minded his abstention.

“Zerkova, who turned Dog Company against Khador during the Ordic war. He’s the one who hired Dog Company to take Boarsgate, never expecting them to succeed. When the company’s commander, Grigor Dorenski, took the site in a single swift action, he drove the Ordic garrison south, where they fled to Midfast, which was under attack by Zerkova’s own army. The unexpected reinforcements strengthened the city enough to drive away Zerkova’s own army from the city.

“Rather than admit that he himself had caused his own embarrassing defeat, Zerkova refused to honor his contract with the Devil Dogs. After that, Dorenski revised the Company Charter in his own blood. Not if they were the last employer on Caen would they take a single red kuppek. We do the same today, honoring Dorenski’s decision. You know this much, don’t you, Dawson?”

“Yes, Sir,” said Dawson. “But it seems much more vivid to hear you tell it.”

Burns coughed, but everyone distinctly heard him say “Asskisser!”

“Hrumph!” Lister chewed his cigar while his eyes studied Dawson’s face. “Well, of course it’s more vivid when I tell it. I’ve been a Devil Dog longer than anyone but Sam and Creepy.”

“You aren’t going to tell him you were there for the siege of Boarsgate, are you, Lieutenant?” asked Burns.

“You ready to fetch that shovel?”

“No, Sir.”

“Now, where was I?”

“The final table,” said Dawson. “Dorenski’s great-great grandnephew.”

“Right. He didn’t call himself Dorenski, but that wasn’t unusual. Most of the noble gamblers traveled under assumed identities to spare their families disgrace when they lost and notoriety when they won. Of course, it was no great trick to ferret out a gambler’s true identity. I knew who it was sitting across the table from Sam, and so did she.”

“Did she know he’d bet the Dog Company charter?”

“Which one of us is telling this story? You or me?”

“You are, Lieutenant.”

“I’m starting to think Burns has been a bad influence on you.”

“Truer words,” said Smooth.

Burns raised a fist to slug him in the arm, but Smooth stopped him with a warning finger.

“Ah, I’ll save it for when your leg heals.”

“I’ll beat you unconscious with this bad leg. Just like that warjack and his arm.”

“Boys,” warned Lister.

“Sir,” said Burns and Smooth in unison.

Lister plucked the cigar out of his mouth and pointed once again at Dawson. “Yes, Sam knew Dorenski owned the Devil Dogs charter. Everybody did. It was the one thing he was known for. Every once in a while someone would offer him two kuppeks for it.”

“Why?” said Dawson.

“You see, Dog Company had been inactive for so long, nobody thought it was worth two copper coins. It didn’t matter that Dorenski said he wouldn’t sell it for a hundred thousand koltinas. For him, the Devil Dogs’ charter was a matter of family honor. For everybody else, it had become a bad joke.

“The only one who didn’t think so was Sam.” Lister took a long pull on his cigar, as if it were lit and he were drawing smoke deeply into his lungs. When he released the breath, his eyes focused on a point far beyond the men or warjacks in front of him. Then with no prompting from anyone else, he resumed his story.

“Eventually the game came down to three players, Sam, Dorenski, and a snake-eyed little Ryn, no taller than Creepy.” Lister relaxed his eyelids in imitation of a reptile’s slitted gaze. “Sam was still playing it cautious. Dorenski and the Ryn took turns shoving big wagers at each other. It got to the point where they were dropping five or ten times the ante on their opening bets.

“They took turns calling each other’s bluff, too. Each of the men was only about half-good at reading the other. Every time one of them was on the verge of bust, the other one would push a hand too far. Now and then Sam would take a bite out of one or the other, but neither one of them pushed back when she had a good hand.

“I was getting suspicious, but every time I looked up at Creepy he shook his head. If there was any funny business going on, I couldn’t spot it either. But then it didn’t matter. Dorenski went all-in, and the Ryn called his bet. Dorenski went bust.”

“But how did Sam win the charter if he was out of the game?” said Dawson.

Burns rolled his eyes toward the canvas roof. The dripping from the runoff grew louder than the dying rain.

“The house declared an hour’s intermission. I went to the bar to have a word with Sam. Creepy had the same idea, but she never showed up. She stayed at the table talking to Dorenski. By the time the rest of us got back, they’d cut a deal.

“Sam split her chips to keep him in the game. The Ryn didn’t like that one bit, but the house backed the arrangement; there was nothing in their rules against it. If the Ryn didn’t like it, he could forfeit the rest of his chips. Needless to say, he didn’t like that idea any better. He stayed in. But from that point on, it was a completely different game.

“I expected Dorenski and Sam to work together, but it didn’t look like that’s what they had in mind. When he had a strong hand, Dorenski went after Sam as hard as he did the Ryn. The difference was that the Ryn didn’t learn until too late that Dorenski had changed his game. Before he knew it, Dorenski had cleaned him out.

“That’s when Dorenski pulled out the charter and laid it beside his chips. It was only then that we understood the deal Sam had made with him. She had agreed to back him on one condition: if she beat him in the end, she’d win the charter as well as his money.”

“But if he wouldn’t sell it at any price, why would he gamble it away?”

Lister shrugged. “That’s where a lot of folks go wrong when they tell the story. It could be that gambling with his family honor gave him a thrill. Some think he saw something in Sam that made him want to lose it to her. Others say he never thought he’d lose. Maybe he’d just had too much brandy. The truth is, only Dorenski knows.”

Dawson nodded, realized his mouth was open, and closed it. “What happened next?”

“You know what happened. Sam beat him.”

Dawson stared, an expectant expression on his face, but Lister shrugged and chewed his cigar.

“But isn’t there more to the story?”

“Sure, but you already know that part. Sam invested the money she’d won in warjacks, slug guns, nets, all the top-quality gear you Dogs enjoy humping across gods-forsaken territories like the Wythmoor. Two years later, the Devil Dogs were once more a respected mercenary company, although by the looks of you lot I can understand why some might think our standards are slipping.”

“But didn’t you ask her why she staked Dorenski instead of just challenging him to a game over the contract?”

Lister removed his cigar, inspected the wet end, and stuck it back in his mouth. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

“What did she say?”

“She said Dorenski needed a reason to put that contract on the table, so she gave him one.”

Lister stood and stretched his back as he looked around at his audience. Nearly half the company had gathered around the ’jack tent. “Now I know Sergeant Crawley must be looking for some of you. You’d better report before I point him in your direction. The rest of you, get some sack time. Now that the rain’s gone, we’ll move out.”

The gathering disintegrated as Lister walked away. Harrow handed Smooth his crutch, and the two big men walked out together.

Dawson thought he was the last to leave, but as he stepped out of the tent he heard the captain’s voice. “Nice job, Dawson.”

“Captain?” His brows met in a question.

“You got Lister to tell one of his favorite old stories. There’s nothing like it for cheering the Dogs after a black day.”

“I didn’t mean to pry,” he said.

“What, about the story of the card game?”

“It’s just that before we left Tarna, Corporals Burns and Harrow told me…I mean, it’s more like they suggested…that is, they implied that maybe I shouldn’t be so curious.”

Sam smiled. “But you were curious enough to ask about the game.”

“Well, I’d heard a different version, and somebody mentioned I might like to hear the Lieutenant’s.”

“Now that you’ve heard it, which one do you think is true?”

Dawson hesitated, thinking it over. He shrugged. “I figure they’re both true, as far as it goes.”

“As far as it goes?”

“Everybody sees things from a different angle. For a little while, in the depot, Burns and I saw the back of that new warjack. And we saw the iron lich before anybody else. You saw whatever was on the roof, but only through the glass. And then there was the fire, and all the smoke, and then the rain. Everybody saw the fight from a different angle, some of us better than others, some of us worse. And there were lots of things nobody saw at all.”

Sam’s smile faded. She looked hard into Dawson’s face, turning her head as if she were trying to see him from a new angle. “Is there something you want to ask me about the game, Dawson?”

“Were you afraid?” he said at once. “Whatever it was you arranged with Dorenski, was it something that made you afraid of losing?”

Sam blinked, apparently surprised at the question. Her smile gradually returned, and she said, “You know what, Dawson, I was scared half to death. You want to know something else?”

“Yes’m.”

“That’s how I knew I was going to win.”



Sergeant Crawley’s whistle roused the camp long before dawn. “Get moving, Dogs! We’ve got ourselves a hot trail.”

The entire Company leaped into action. There was none of the usual grousing and chatter as they broke camp and assembled in their assigned units. Two men in every unit carried a lantern rather than return it to the supply wagon. Harrow was already waiting to lead the way toward the path he had discovered.

The strange warjack’s tracks followed the Slayer’s clawed prints along a path of trampled brush and scarred trees. Just over a mile through the southern Wythmoor, the Dogs encountered the end result of that pursuit.

No one needed a flare from Harrow to see the steaming Cryx light oozing away from the helljack’s ruined body. Its chimney had long since ceased chuffing smoke, and no steam rose from the cold necrotite engine. A pair of gleaming saw blades protruded from the bulky Slayer’s rear chassis, but Crawley pointed their attention to a wavy line burned through the thick black iron of the helljack’s front.

“What on Caen could do that sort of damage?”

Sam frowned. “I’ve seen lightning burn that hot, but not in such a regular line.”

“Here’s another one,” said Burns. He pointed to a deep dent just under one of the Slayer’s shoulder joints. “It looks like an impact, but there’s the same deep burn.”

Sam let one hand drop to her sword hilt. “If I were a betting woman, I’d wager whatever hit the Slayer there gave its cortex one hell of a shock. It doesn’t look like the blast came from the warjack we fought in the depot.”

“No,” said Crawley. “It must be from its marshal.”

“Or warcaster,” countered Sam. “Let’s face it, from what little we’ve seen, we’re looking at something that can fly. You can’t tell me there isn’t magic in that.”

No one contradicted her.

“What interests me is what we don’t see here,” said Lister.

“The arm,” Sam agreed. “The other warjack chased down this one to get its arm back.”

Burns whistled. “That’s one tough bastard of a warjack.”

Crawley pointed at Harrow, who signaled from a spot fifty yards farther south. “He’s found something else.”

The lich overseer lay in a tangle, burned and battered by the same weapon that had helped bring down the Slayer. Two of its three skulls had been shattered to bone chips. The third stared blankly at the gray sky.

McBride came running back from his turn as forward scout. “Found the warjack. Quarter mile ahead. And it’s not alone.”

“Did you see its warcaster?”

McBride shook his head. “No, but it’s standing in some kind of lighted metal structure. There’s a smaller ’jack that looks like it’s repairing the big one.”

“Repairing it?” said Crawley.

“That’s what it looks like, yes, Sergeant.”

Sam ordered the big lugs topped off with coal and water. “We’ll leave the supply wagon here,” she said. “Crawley, have the other two wagons follow us, keeping about a hundred yards behind. I don’t want our target to see them before we’re ready to say hello, but I want them to move in as soon as they see us make contact.”

“Yes’m.” He pointed at the driver’s seat of Gully’s wagon. “Smooth, welcome to management. Don’t get comfortable.”

The big man squeezed in between the two drivers, grinning as he hugged them in a powerful grip. “This’ll be fun.”

“Douse lanterns,” said Sam. “Leave them in the wagon.”

By the diffused moonlight, Sam divided the remaining Devil Dogs into three units. The first included Burns, Dawson, Morris, and Fraser. They followed her as she marched Gully and Foyle in the direction McBride had indicated. Lister and Crawley took the others.

“I want you two to pinch the flanks, left and right,” she pointed to Lister and Crawley in turn. “Principal target is the one we’ve seen before, but if the little one tries to escape, stop it. I’m sending Foyle and Gully in hard. We know there’s no point trying to knock it down, so I’m going to try to keep it stalled. Let’s take a lesson from the Cryx and take out its arms.”

“What if its controller shows up?”

Sam nodded. “In that case, we change targets. If we move fast, we’ll have the warjack inoperative before we need to worry about reinforcements. Any other questions?”

There were none.

“All right, Dogs. Let’s collect our prize and get out of this damned swamp.”

Sam led the way up the middle. At her sides, Gully and Foyle trampled the brush flat. From the south, distant thunder echoed their heavy footsteps. Sam reined in Foyle to keep the warjacks moving in pace with each other, just fast enough to bend the black towers of their exhaust behind them.

As the Dogs moved forward, a flash of lightning from the south cast the hill in silhouette. Another peal of thunder struck, far closer than the previous one. After blinking away the dazzling effect of the lightning, the Dogs saw what McBride had spotted earlier.

The structure stood about thirty yards below the crest of a hill, sheltered to the east, west, and south by stands of ash and oak. Light from the structure limned the branches and the scant remaining leaves of the trees in silver. Two moving lights and occasional flurries of sparks added a sense of industry to an otherwise lonely haunt.

With a base no more than ten feet in diameter, the building rested on a circular foundation of what appeared to be polished steel. Every surface was inlaid with a darker metal, its true color obscured by the blue-white lights. Four graceful braces supported an arrangement of bi-metal beams which in turn held up a weird, four-lobed cupola about fifteen feet above the ground.

There was another square set inside the outer one, offset by forty-five degrees. From the beams descended pipes and corrugated rubber tubes of varying thickness, from the width of a man’s finger to the circumference of his arm. The larger pipes fitted against the big warjack’s chassis, holding it in place as smaller tubes extending from the structure’s support columns connected to ports in the warjack’s abdomen. The glass lenses nearest the ports shone with energy, humming as they seemingly recharged the war machine.

There could be no doubt it was the same warjack the Dogs had fought at the Ordic supply depot. The injuries were identical, including the severed arm, now hanging from cables beside the gaping hole in its shoulder.

Another mechanikal construct stepped carefully through the columns and pipes of the station and around the larger warjack. It walked on three legs rather than four, its economical motions resembling a clockwork device more than a war machine, each careful limb finding its place before either of the others moved.

The construct’s three legs converged in a steel base. Beneath it hung the lower extremity of a coil glowing with blue-white energy. Upon the base sat a pair of rotating brass gears supporting a squat cylinder. Inset with chromium plates and blue lenses, this abdominal section supported yet another brass rotor. On top of it all sat a “head” unit from which protruded a fixed radial saw, a small steel claw, and the top of the glass coil that formed the construct’s axis.

The three-legged construct extended its saw to cut away a ragged corner of chassis on the heavy warjack’s shoulder wound. As sparks cascaded from the metal, a pair of helm-sized globes descended from the roof of the structure.

They appeared like little more than floating chromium balls, each with one greater and two lesser “eye” lenses and a gripping claw attached by a simple gear-and-piston arm. Heeding some invisible command, they gripped the torn metal and held it fast as the repair construct sheared off the damaged metal.

“McBride saw only one of the little ones earlier,” said Sam. “Let’s take them down before any more show up.”

Drawing her stun sword, Sam looked left and right. The gloom obscured the movements of her flanking units, but she nodded as if she had seen them—or as if she simply trusted them to be where she had directed.

“Come on, you big lugs,” she said to her warjacks: “Straight up the middle, double-quick!”

She ran with them. Just as Foyle approached his full speed, the larger repair construct stepped out of the recharging station to turn its inhuman “head” in their direction. One of the floating spheres followed it, clenching its claw in a nervous gesture.

“They spotted us,” said Sam. “Charge!”

Foyle unleash his full speed, raising the stun lance high as it followed the point of Sam’s sword toward the construct repairing the warjack. Sam remained closer to Gully, who raised his enormous battle blade high above his head as he followed his smaller counterpart.

One of the floating globes emitted a high squealing alert and clutched a nearby pillar in a mockery of human fright. The other immediately began fleeing east, piping and whirring in alarm.

Still holding her sword in one hand, Sam drew her long pistol and aimed without missing a step. She fired. Sparks and shattered glass flew from the fleeing servitor, silencing its alarm and sending it falling to the ground.

That was the only signal Crawley’s unit needed. Rushing out from the cover of the alders, Crawley’s unit fell upon the larger repair construct. It whirred and peeped in alarm, sounding less like a ’jack under assault by professional soldiers than a pipe organ under attack by an inquisitive child. Its fixed saw reached out, but Crawley smashed it blunt with his pick axe. Swire smashed the protruding coil as its energy surged to form a welding arc. The others fell upon the construct’s legs, smashing the brass cogs and levering the legs away from the base.

Behind its felled companion, the heavy warjack stirred in its recharging cradle. At some silent signal, the cylindrical supports withdrew. An angry whine in the saw-flinging arm grew louder as it turned to face its attackers.

This time it was a moment too late. Foyle’s stun lance struck deep into the warjack’s silvery chest plate. Lightning crackled along the lance, and the stricken warjack shuddered in a dance of electricity.

“Gully, break the arm!” Sam pointed with her sword.

The heavy Nomad lunged with all its weight. Its battle blade sheared the clockwork gears driving the saw axle in the shoulder unit. With a pathetic whine of deceleration, the saw-flinger’s rising fury dissipated.

Lister’s unit had already intercepted the second little globe, which had fled in the opposite direction. With fierce but precise blows, the Devil Dogs batted it down with their pick-axes. The point of Craig’s axe caught the globe’s “elbow” and pinned it to the ground. Bowie finished the job by impaling its spherical chassis. With a pitiable whine, the construct gave up the last of its protest.

Back at the recharge cradle, at Sam’s command, Foyle withdrew its lance and stabbed again. This time the lance gouged a deep crease upon the warjack’s chromed chassis, but the point did not penetrate far enough to stun the machine. Yet even as the wounded warjack raised its partially reconnected gripping arm to strike, Gully lopped it off with a single stroke.

Even armless, the heavy warjack struggled against the big lugs. “Beat it down!” Sam told them. They slammed the foe with their shields. Armless, it could do little more than twist and whir in impotent desperation.

“Wait!” called Sam. When the war machines paused, she thrust her stun blade up into the enemy warjack’s abdomen. Like a smaller version of Foyle’s lance, her sword crackled with cortex-stunning lightning. The dismembered warjack shuddered, its legs twitching in an involuntary lightning dance. As if in sympathy, lightning exploded just above the hill, the crash of thunder striking simultaneously with the flash. “All right, Dogs! Take it down!”

All three units converged on the warjack as Sam ordered the big lugs, “Out!”

Once they got in close with their pick axes, the Dogs knew instinctively where to strike, smashing exposed cogs and denting power trains beyond functionality. They continued until the blue lenses of the warjack flickered and Sam shouted, “That’s enough. Now, hold it steady!”

“Are you sure, Sam?” said Lister.

“I know what I’m doing. Just hold it down.”

As the Dogs pinned the warjack’s remaining limbs, Sam plunged her blade deep into the chassis. At her nod, Lister moved over and peeled away the metal with his pick-axe. After a peek inside, Sam stabbed again, widening the wound. She did it three more times, until Lister pried back the metal to reveal the glowing blue cortex.

With a few more strokes of her blade, Sam severed the connections. The warjack’s last lights faded, and its limbs slumped with a pitiful whirring sound. She pulled out her trophy.

“Now this should give the Old Man something to study. Get the rest of this thing loaded on the wagon, along with the others.”

It took Smooth and the drivers a few minutes to arrive, so swiftly had the assault succeeded. Once they had the wagon turned around, Sam directed Gully and Foyle to tip the body of the enemy warjack into the wagon and shove it onto the iron-reinforced bed. Lister’s unit carried the machine’s severed arm and heaved it over the wagon side to join the body.

“This isn’t as heavy as it looks,” remarked Lister.

“It’s still pretty damned heavy, you ask me,” grunted Burns. “Sir!”

Once the bulk of the work was done, Lister and Burns went back to fetch the felled globes. Sam beckoned to Harrow and together climbed the hill for a look beyond. Somewhere near, the Cygnaran town of Calbeck lay across the river.

The rest of the Dogs secured the heavy warjack for travel and added the smaller constructs to the load. All told, they made for heavier cargo than the wagon was used to hauling, but Crawley grudgingly approved the job.

As they were finishing, Lister climbed the hill to join Sam and Harrow, but they were already running back. “Move it!” said Sam. “Move it fast!”

Lister fell in with Sam and Harrow. “What is it?”

“Warcaster,” said Sam. “This time she’s brought friends.”

The wagon drivers slapped the reins. Smooth let himself fall back into the wagon, turning around to sit with his back against the seat. He held his slug gun at the ready as the rest of the Dogs ran beside the accelerating wagon.

They turned their heads at each new flash of lightning in the coming dawn, sometimes catching the barest glimpse of their pursuers. From the wagon, Smooth pointed upward and said, “Morrow preserve us!”

Seven winged figures soared above the ridge of the hill and descended toward the retreating Devil Dogs.

Those on either flank appeared perfectly identical: in the fleeting radiance of the storm, their bodies gleamed with chrome and brass. Their curvaceous figures were undeniably feminine, yet they were over seven feet tall and every inch metallic, from their immobile faces to the razor-sharp edges of their brass wings. In one hand each held sharp steel blades. In the other, a heavy gauntlet hinted at unrevealed power.

Their leader differed in every detail. Her wings spread three times wider than those of her subordinates, every bladed feather connected by its own powered gear. The elegant lines of her armor were at once sleeker and more elaborate than the others, from the imperial wings of her headpiece to the tall heels on her gleaming boots. She held a massive staff, itself a clockwork device bristling with the same blue-white energy the Dogs had seen at the recharging station. Yet for all of these distinguishing features, what set the leader apart from her minions was the human face beneath her helm, the human flesh exposed at her shoulders, and the human expression of anger in her eyes.

“It was an angel!” Dawson shouted at Smooth.

“We have what we came for,” yelled Sam. “Time to leave. Go, go, go!”

The horses caught the men’s panic, shrieking as they pulled the heavy cargo over the rough terrain. Every time the wheels struck a rut, Smooth bounced side to side. The armless warjack began sliding toward him. With his good leg, he pushed himself into the corner of the wagon bed and braced for the worst.

Another flash lit up the sky. Rather than thunder, a throbbing scream accompanied the blue-white glare. The ray shot forth from the warcaster’s staff. Where it stroked Gully’s bulky chassis, the beam left a white-hot line. Flames licked up where the intense heat touched oil or debris upon the warjack’s iron skin. The wound faded from white to red as Gully chugged along, falling behind as Foyle moved up to challenge the wagon for the lead.

A blue-white bolt struck the ground beside the wagon, covering its passengers with wet turf and detritus while knocking Burns and McBride to the ground. Burns was the first to rise. He grabbed McBride by the belt and hauled him back to his feet. “Quit lollygagging!”

Another blast came down. Dawson turned to see the source. The energy bolts shot out from the clockwork angels’ gauntlets, one after the next. They fell all around the retreating Dogs, knocking them down and hurling the wagon side to side.

The others took up Sam’s call as they neared the site where they had left the other two wagons. In the confusion among the storm, the dawn’s gloom, and the chaos of the sudden retreat, the drivers and mechaniks struggled to turn the wagons around before their soldiers arrived.

Dawson looked to the side to see Morris running beside him, then looked back just as another angel hurled a bolt of energy. The earth exploded between them, showering them both in fragments of flame. They stared at each other in disbelief, and relief, that they had survived. They continued running, slapping the hot debris from their skin.

Another screaming ray from the warcaster’s staff caught the fleeing Gully. This time the beam tore through his armor plating to blast brass and tin reservoirs out of the wound, along with a long tongue of flame and a black cloud. The war machine managed a few more steps before crashing down in heap of steam, fire, and smoke.

“Faster, Foyle!” Sam cried. Her glistening eyes lingered on the fallen Nomad for a moment before she heeded her own advice.

A sound of rushing air descended toward Dawson and Morris. Dawson threw himself aside, rolling up with his slug gun cradled in both arms. As three clockwork angels swooped past Morris, Dawson aimed and fired at the nearest.

As if by some intuition, the angel’s wings contracted, catching the brunt of the blow. Even so, the impact was enough to knock the angel to the ground. Dawson pulled his utility knife from its sheath and started to run toward the foe, but a moan from Morris stopped him. He went instead to his fallen comrade.

The angel’s sword had opened Morris from ribs to shoulder. Hot blood sprayed Dawson in the face as Morris struggled to breathe, his open lung gaping through his sundered ribcage. He mouthed a word, but only blood came out. Dawson didn’t need to hear it. He recognized it by the shape of Morris’s lips: “Isla.”

“Dawson, get out of there!” Burns bellowed.

Another trio of angels descended. They thrust their swords down in unison. Like the blades of a plow, they reached down to tear him into furrows.

Once more Dawson threw himself to the ground. He stood up lighter, and for a moment he turned around like a dog chasing its tail to see what had been cut off of him. It was only his pack.

Above him, another slug round exploded. He looked up to see the creamy plume of Burn’s shot trailing off the wings of another clockwork angel. Whether it was by instinct or design, their wings folded to shield them from each of the incoming slugs.

“It’s no good,” Dawson yelled. “The wings are shields!” He tried to run, realized he had lost his way, and turned himself around, searching for some sign of his company. He focused on the rattling clamor of the wagon and ran toward it.

“There you are!” Burns grabbed him by the arm and pulled him along. “I thought they got you.”

“They killed Morris,” shouted Dawson. “The angels use their wings as shields.”

“Right. Tell Sam. Hurry up!”

They didn’t have far to run. Sam was busy turning the congestion of all three wagons converging on the same space into an advantage. “Circle them! Foyle, move to the rear. Smash them if they come close.”

Lister and Crawley repeated her commands, each in his own fashion. While the clockwork angels and their mistress circled high above, the men hunkered down behind shelter.

“Captain,” said Dawson, half breathless. “The clockwork angels, they use their wings to protect themselves against gunfire.”

Sam shook her head, as if she couldn’t believe the news.

“If that’s true, Sam,” said Lister, coming up from behind, “then our only hope might be to cut and run.”

They threw themselves to the ground as the clockwork angels unleashed another volley of energy blasts. Seconds later, the fliers dived toward the Dogs, slashing with their keen blades. One trio of angels swept past Foyle, who thrust uselessly with a stun lance that seemed sluggish compared to the angels’ lighting. Another winged trio fell upon a pair of drivers, whose eviscerated corpses fell to the ground.

Dawson picked himself up. “Lieutenant, we’ve lost so much already. Gully’s gone. Morris is dead. We can’t just run now. They’ll cut us down!”

“Get a grip on yourself, Private.”

“What about the leader?” said Sam. “Do her wings shield her too?”

“I don’t—” Dawson began to say. “I bet they don’t. Her wings are much larger than the others. She flies differently, too. I don’t see how she could move them in time.”

Sam considered his opinion.

“Besides,” Dawson added. “She’s not like the other ones. Beneath that armor, she’s flesh and blood. If we hurt her, she might withdraw.”

Sam made a silent calculation and nodded. “All right, Dawson. I’m going to cover that bet.” With a glance upward, she lowered her voice. “Pass it low to all the men. The next time they come near, the first volley is on all those great big angels. Reload double-quick. If we can draw her close, we can then concentrate all fire on their leader.”

Lister, Crawley, and Dawson passed the word around in whispers. The soldiers readied their slug guns, while the drivers and mechaniks produced the pistols they carried in case of emergencies or a lamed horse. “Second volley, all on the leader,” Dawson reminded one of the drivers.

Thunder rolled toward them, but not from the south. This time the rumbling came from the west, and it came before the flash of lightning.

“Oh, hell!” cried Burns. “They’ve surrounded us.”

Sam cocked her head, listening. Glancing up to ensure no angels were poised to drop on her, she leaped onto the supply wagon and stood tall, scanning the west for some sign of what approached.

The thunderous sound resolved itself into the rumble of horse hooves. Half a dozen mounted men rode toward the Devil Dogs’ wagons. At their front was a Cygnaran banner.

“Sam, get down!” Crawley screamed.

Without pausing to look, Sam folded forward, tumbling off the wagon and onto the ground. A trio of clockwork angels swept past the space she had just occupied, their swords cutting chunks out of the wagon panels.

Their leader plunged down an instant later, her radiant staff striking the driver’s seat completely off the wagon before she withdrew.

Sam shook her head clear. “Looks like she and I had the same idea.”

“What do we do now?” asked Crawley.

“Same plan, only this time we know she’s coming. All fire on the leader.”

“How can you be sure she’s coming again?”

“I’ll give her a reason.”

Sam clambered back up on the wagon, stood tall, and aimed her hand cannon. As Crawley and Lister shouted at her to come down, she waited as the angels descended. She trained her cannon on the trio, lowering herself to a half-crouch, steadying the butt of the pistol with her off-hand. As they came into range, Sam bent her knees and leaped back, turning to face the opposite direction.

The warcaster swooped directly toward Sam, her staff already surging with energy. Sam fired as she fell back into the shelter between the wagons.

A roar of slug guns deafened the Dogs. The slugs ricocheted a few feet from the warcaster, deflected by invisible energy shielding her body. Despite the defense, her wings bent backwards from the impact, her armored body jerking out of her intended path.

Nearby, the clockwork angels unleashed metallic shrieks at the sight of their leader falling from the sky. They plunged toward her.

Before they arrived, the winged warcaster leaped back up to perch – just as Sam had done a moment earlier – on the edge of the supply wagon. She shook out her bent wings like a cloak and looked down at Sam with ice-blue eyes. Then, with an air of surprise, she touched her cheek and looked down at the blood on her fingers.

Sam stared back at her adversary, while all around her the Devil Dogs reloaded their slug guns and pistols.

The warcaster glanced up as the Cygnaran cavalry arrived. At their head was a white-haired man clad all in blue and gold armor. He too carried a staff, but instead of the angel’s strange radiance, his crackled with lightning.

The winged warcaster leaped from the wagon, taking flight even as the Devil Dogs took aim. Before anyone could draw a bead on her, the clockwork angels moved in to shield her with their wings. Together they flew south, past the lonely hill and into the darkness of the storm.

One by one the Devil Dogs stood to survey their surroundings.

“Take care of those fires,” snapped Crawley, grabbing a sand bucket and leading the way to the flaming corner of the supply wagon.

Without a word, Dawson walked in the opposite direction. Smooth pulled himself up on his crutch and began to go after him, but Harrow shook his head. Together they watched as Dawson knelt by Morris’s body. They saw that he was speaking to the dead man, but they couldn’t hear the words. When Dawson was finished, he removed three medallions from the Morris’s neck and placed them around his own.

The riders took up defensive positions around the triangle of wagons, but their leader dismounted and went straight to Sam. Without preamble, he said, “I received your message.”

“We’ve got a little more to show for our efforts since I sent that,” said Sam.

“Good timing, Old Man,” said Burns. “You showed up just in time to watch us finish the job without any help.”

The man’s white eyebrows rose, but instead of responding to Burns he turned to Sam. “Is this the one who bought half a talking horse?”

Sam smothered a laugh with one gloved hand. “Corporal ‘Bulletproof’ Burns, Artificer General Nemo.”

Nemo peered at the bullet hole in Burns’s helmet. “A hole to the skull and he’s back in the field? It’s wondrous what they can do with head injuries these days.”

“Never underestimate the determination of a Devil Dog.” Sam saw no need to clarify how Burns had earned the bullet hole. “Come see what their sacrifice bought you. Your prizes are a little worse for the wear, but we have them.”

The captain led Nemo to the wagon and showed him the dismembered warjack and its attendant constructs. Nemo lifted the spherical servitor and gazed into its dead lens. He poked a finger into the bullet hole that brought it down and shot a rueful glance at Burns.

“Well done, Sam. I’ll be more than glad to sign off on that bonus we discussed.”

“Don’t speak too soon,” she said. “I’ve something else to show you.”

She led him to the crest of the hill just as dawn broke fully through the gray clouds. Sam gestured for Nemo to join her at the edge of a prominence overlooking the river. There they looked across the Dragon’s Tongue, at the sight that had so startled her as they were preparing to move the wagons.

In the distance they could see a riverside town teeming with activity in the halo of blue-white lights. Sam watched Nemo as he surveyed the scene she had already viewed.