The Devil's Pay (Dogs of War) - By Dave Gross Page 0,21

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