The Devil's Pay (Dogs of War) - By Dave Gross Page 0,22
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