The Devil's Pay (Dogs of War) - By Dave Gross Page 0,23

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