The Devil's Pay (Dogs of War) - By Dave Gross Page 0,10
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