The Way of Caine (The Warcaster Chronicles)

by Holmes, Miles

  “I remember ye … look, we kin resolve this, eh?” he pleaded.

  “Certainly.”

  “I have money, ye know? Ye kin … take … as much as ye want.” He fixed a weak smile over the pain, trying to seem congenial. Caine looked coolly at Horace.

  “I wanted a moment. You took that from me. Can you give it back?”

  The bewildered mobster looked blankly at him.

  Caine glanced skyward, his concentration tightening. Closing his eyes, he bent the world around him. With great effort, he brought the wounded mobster with him. The pair vanished, only to reappear on the catwalk at the face of the clock tower. Breathing heavily, Caine swayed with the exertion of flashing another. Horace, disoriented by the teleportation, fell to his knees, splashing his dinner over the side of the catwalk. As he heaved, Caine caught his breath and glanced to the gargoyle at the corner of the tower.

  That will do.

  He bent over, loosening a rope tied to the gargoyle. The rope was strung with boughs to a nearby lower tower. With a sudden and forceful tug, the rope came loose at the other end, and the boughs slid clear to the ground below. As he gathered the rope in a coil around his arm, the giant backlit face of the clock marked time, iron hands ticking past with loud, steady beats.

  Still disoriented and on his knees, Horace was oblivious as Caine fashioned a noose with the rope, and secured it. Peering over the edge, Caine saw his spectacle had gathered a large audience, which, at last, included the local constabulary. Guardsmen shouted up to stop and surrender. A piteous flat-faced Horace looked up at Caine, wiping spittle from his lips.

  “Not like this. Not …” Horace gasped as Caine fastened the noose over his neck.

  “Just like this.”

  Caine kicked Horace from the catwalk. The onetime mobster pulled the line taut with a loud snap, and convulsed only once before becoming the newest addition to the holiday decorations.

  Caine vanished from the catwalk, only to reappear on the cobblestones, swaying a moment before falling to his knees. Guardsmen moved in from all sides, weapons drawn, and he put his hands up mockingly.

  “Alright. I’m finished.”

  Two Years Ago

  Late Spring, AR 594: The Presidium, Bainsmarket

  “Prisoner 31071! You’ve company.”

  Caine turned over on his cot to find a specter in grey watching him. He put a hand over his eyes to block the glare, and squinted at the shape of a cloaked man on the other side of the bars. As his eyes adjusted, he saw the stranger was gaunt both in face and frame. For a moment, the man just stared at him, his face blank.

  “There was a story I heard, two seasons ago,” the grey man began, his voice barely louder than a whisper and devoid of dialect. “It seems there was a remarkable incident during the king’s inspection of the strategic academy in Caspia.”

  Caine said nothing, but sat up from his cot.

  “A cadet was asked by King Vinter to fire upon a target from twenty paces, which he did. Afterwards, an advisor to the king was overheard to be, shall we say, unimpressed. The cadet proceeded to fire a sidelong shot which struck two walls and a chandelier before knocking the advisor’s brooch pin from his shoulder, leaving his cloak at his feet.”

  The grey man’s pacing stopped, and he put a long finger to his lips. “The king remarked at the glorious future this cadet had ahead of him. An interesting irony then, that he should vanish only a few months later, wouldn’t you say?”

  Caine glared at the grey man. He stood, stretching, and next emptied his bladder in the bucket by his cot.

  “Just why are you here?” The grey man pressed, his voice still low. “We both know you could leave anytime.”

  “It is where I belong, ain’t it? In the end it seems I’m no more than a thug. A common killer. Is it not so?” Caine muttered, re-fastening his breeches.

  “An exceptional killer, in fact. Such a thing, I fear, is a valuable commodity in times as these. Beyond this cell and your self-pity, our nation teeters on the brink. Since King Leto seized the throne from the corruption of his brother Vinter, we are more vulnerable as a nation than ever before.” Caine was unimpressed still. The grey man paused. “I have decided Leto is the better man for Cygnar. I mean to keep him on the throne, with whatever means available. To this cause, I expect you will pledge yourself also.”

  “Is that so?” Caine scoffed.

  “I realize patriotism is not a particular virtue of yours. However, I believe you once took pride in your career? ”

  “Yes, well, I’ve thrown that away, as you can plainly see. It is no more than could be expected of me.”

  The grey man produced a letter from the folds of his cloak.

  “It need not be so. I have here the means for a clean slate as it were. I have procured for you a pardon. You could be posted to resume your journeyman apprenticeship. As early as tomorrow, should you wish it. This, I will do to enlist your services whenever I deem appropriate, without exception.”

  “You’ve wasted your time coming here.” Caine said, leaning against his cell wall with crossed arms.

  “I see. So you are content then, to wallow in your failure?” the grey man stared. “To meet an end more ignoble and obscure, even, than that of your fool of a father?”

  Caine’s face betrayed surprise. The grey man pressed.

  “Yes, that’s right. He died last week. Were you not told? No, I suppose not. What would it matter to you? Does anything?”

  Indignant rage flared in Caine. He glared at the sinewy man before him, contemplating wringing his scrawny neck. The man watched his anger coolly, raising an eyebrow.

  “Yes. Suppose you were to kill me? What then?”

  Caine shook his head. Were his thoughts so transparent? In frustration, he turned away.

  “My offer would expire along with me, and you would either end up on the gallows pole, or hunted for the rest of your short life by those who are most certainly your equal.”

  “You should go.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.”

  Caine said nothing, but gripped the bars at his window. He heard the grey man turn to go. Footsteps echoed down the hallway, growing more and more distant. Caine looked from his window, shaking his head.

  No. No! He would not be manipulated so easily. Except …

  Glancing down the front gate beneath him, he closed his eyes and bent space around him. In a flash, he was leaning against the keep wall, arms crossed. A moment later, the grey man stepped clear of the main gate. As he spied Caine, he did not seem at all surprised. Rather he smiled thinly.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Lieutenant Caine. My name is Holden Rebald, Scout-General to the king.” He extended a gloved hand, looking Caine in the eyes.

  “We have a deal then?”

  AR 594 December; Ceryl

  It was an overcast morning as Caine walked out along the seawall, just as he had most every day since his arrival to the coastal city of Ceryl. The waves of an early winter ocean battered against the stone breakers, frothy white and bone-chillingly cold. It had come to hold a powerful fascination for him in his Journeyman posting, and he often stared at it from the windows and ramparts of the fort that was now his home. That it should occupy him so, should perhaps come as no surprise. He had never seen an ocean prior, after all.

  He watched as the whaling ship Impudent Dog slipped free of the harbor. Her men aboard sang loudly at their work, and even from here, he could make out the lyrics of their song as they left civilization behind them.

  The town garrison loomed up behind him some eight stories high, built alongside the old lighthouse. With a deep breath, he began the long stair climb to the ramparts above. Bulky as his armor was, he had long since grown accustomed to it, and did not begrudge the long stairwell. Three seasons had passed since his meeting with Rebald, and under his mentor, the venerable Lord Walder Brigham, the armor had certainly been put through its paces. Caine counted at least a score of skirmishes in his time with Lord
Brigham, nearly all against raiders from the Scharde Islands west of the harbor. Twice, there had been pursuits with Khadoran scout ships, persistent to test the resolve of Cygnar’s coastal vigilance.

  What there had not been was any word from the Scout-General. Since their deal, he’d been asked to keep a journal of the ships at harbor, and no more. A courier for Rebald had come to fetch it each month, but there was never more to it. He began to think the bargain had been forgotten entirely.

  Caine cupped his hands to his breath for warmth, and looked out beyond the horizon. He wondered where the Dog was headed, and for his own part he wondered the same.

  Nearing the summit of the old stone stairwell, he was passed by army trenchers coming on shift. At the rampart preceding the top of the tall keep, he heard a familiar and irascible voice boom down.

  “Allister! Come here lad!” Despite himself, Caine smiled up at the old man.

  At the mast of the Cygnaran flag more than fifty feet high, Lord Brigham took his morning tea. From gorget to sabaton, his elaborate armor gleamed, nearly to distraction, and his long black fur-lined cloak flapped in the wind. Creased as leather he was, white-haired, as ancient as his armor, and equally well preserved. A hero many times over in days past, now surely on his last tour of duty. A smile was never far from his lips, and indeed, he grinned wide as Caine crested the last step.

  “Which ship is that?” Lord Brigham asked, as he pulled his neatly trimmed white beard and watched.

  “Impudent Dog, sir.”

  “Ah, yes. Whaling out beyond the Scharde the next six months, I’d hazard to guess …” the old man’s attention drifted out over the water. Caine stepped to the edge of the stone railing, and looked to the fishermen below as they emptied their catch onto the docks.

  “Allister, you’ve been a good student.” The old man mused, his attention sharply returned. Caine looked up from the docks, surprised, and turned to face his mentor.

  “Before you arrived, I had been warned you would be difficult. Your time here has certainly not been without incident, has it?” Brigham asked.

  Caine nodded, fighting the urge to smirk as Brigham continued. “Yet during this time, I have also witnessed your blossoming talent to wage war. With but a pair of pistols, you have grown formidable. In you, I may well have taught my finest pupil.”

  The elder warcaster put his tea to his lips, pensive.

  “But there is another part to this. If I were to be blunt, well, there’s a darkness that gnaws at you. I’ve seen it in others, friends lost over the years. Believe me when I say that you will make your peace with it, or it will consume you. This would be a tragedy indeed, for there is more to you, son, than you let the world see.”

  Caine unaccountably felt his cheeks flush. He looked away, embarrassed. “Sir? Why are you telling me such things?”

  “Because I won’t be able to tomorrow.” The old man laughed, sipping his tea.

  Caine’s eyes widened in concern. “Are you alright, sir?”

  “Yes, Allister. You however, are not. You’re leaving in fact. I put the paperwork in a week ago, and it has returned this very morning.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your apprenticeship. It has ended. You are to be re-deployed to the first army in Fellig next week.” The old man chuckled, in response to Caine’s surprise. He looked as though he had forgotten something.

  “I wanted you to have something,” Lord Brigham reached into the folds of his cloak, and produced a small, polished brass artifact on the end of a chain. With a kindly clap on the back, he pressed it into Caine’s hand.

  “Never forget there is a dignity in this life, Allister. Morality too, though we are often called upon to do terrible things.”

  Caine nodded, seeing the old man was retracing his own past as he spoke. “Never forget this, should you wish to honor just what it is Cygnar fights for.”

  Caine looked at the artifact, curious. Opening it, he saw a small compass, crafted with uncanny precision. Stunned, he could thank his mentor with no more than a whisper. Lord Brigham nodded.

  “It belonged to my father, Allister, and now I give it to you. He told me something the day I enlisted, so long ago. He told me that to follow orders and never your heart will surely drag you to hell, no matter what they may pin to your chest. I never forgot those words, Morrow rest his soul. Only you will know at the end of your days if your life has been a worthy one, Allister. May this compass lead you to the same peace I have found at the end of mine.”

  Autumn AR 595; Khadoran border near Fellig

  Caine ran. In form fitting armor slim and new under a full length duster, his legs pumped and his lungs heaved.

  He was a warcaster now, or so the ranks on his shoulder proclaimed. As a full Lieutenant in the King’s army, he now commanded a platoon of soldiers. Armed with the most powerful magic the academy could teach, his own steady aim honed to a deadeye shot he could lend to others, if it served him. He could spur his bullets ahead to find targets far from reach, or likewise to any other he might choose. Like Magnus, he had learned to twist shadows around him as a cloak to keep bullets from finding him. Most of all, the magic he had always known had become more powerful than ever. He could flash further and more than ever before, and his force push had blossomed to a devastating thunder-strike of raw power.

  Just the same, Lieutenant Allister Caine the great and powerful warcaster was running for his life.

  The bombard shell impacted the damp earth two strides ahead of Caine, casting up dirt and knocking him back with a shockwave of force. He struggled to get back up, his ears ringing. Dazed, he staggered and spit dirt. As his hearing returned, he realized the impact had only been a marking round. The whistling of more shells as they arced overhead brought him to his senses like a smelling salt. With a glance, he spotted the trenches of the left flank as his best choice for cover. Within, he could see the trenchers of a third platoon trading shots across no-man’s land.

  They were too far away.

  Desperately looking for closer cover, he spotted a dip in the ground. He pulled his concentration as tightly as he could. Unsure he would flash away in time, he instinctively raised an arm to shield his face from the incoming shells.

  The world went black around him. He disappeared.

  Upon the very ground he had crouched only a second before, hell was unleashed. The fire of more than a dozen bombards churned the earth, creeping across the left flank. The trenchers manning the line were soon screaming in the chaos of shrapnel and overpressure.

  From his cover, Caine shook off the dirt that covered him and looked up over the crest. As the smoke cleared it revealed a surreal vision. The left flank had been devastated, reduced to pockmarked earth. Where once had nestled a full platoon, there was now only scraps of armor and the fading screams of the dying. He was breathless at the sight. Since deploying with his first army, he’d seen his share of border skirmishes with the Khadorans. Not once had he seen them come with such fire in their eyes.

  Caine dragged himself to his feet, and ran once more for the flank. He leapt into a crater, looking left and right for any sign of the living.

  He was alone.

  A whistle blew from across no-man’s land. Three long blasts. He had come to know it well. Winter Guard charged after three long blasts. Peering into the thicket across the battlefield, he saw their shadows advance. Company strength. Caine blanched and looked back to the center of the line.

  There, the massed cannon fire of Cygnaran Defenders on his side was engaged with whistling mortar volleys of the enemy’s Bombards. Through it all, his side seemed too preoccupied to deal with a collapsed flank. He squinted against the steady flash of pyrotechnics and spotted his own warjacks.

  He had been issued a pair of light warjacks designated as Sentinels, but now, as he needed them most, he saw he’d outpaced them to reinforce the flank. They labored on without his mind in theirs, their massive iron shields steadily pelted with fire, but giving more
in return with the incessant chatter of their chain-guns. They laid down suppressive fire as the mighty Defenders behind them spat successive earth shaking salvos. Caine looked helplessly at the Sentinels. They were too far to summon and he was too far to teleport back to them.

  Allister Caine was on his own.

  The first wave of the flank assault began. Winter Guard came screaming from the thicket, their silhouettes easy to mark with distinctive greatcoats and wooly ushanka hats.

  From a fitted leather holster, Caine withdrew twin shining pistols. Spellstorms, the armory had called them. Two of a kind, made for him and him alone, the exquisitely crafted long-barreled revolvers gleamed with intricate brass lattice and inlaid magic-amplifying runes. He’d named them Beatrice and Darlene, and the runes on each now glowed white hot at his touch, and he took aim.

  The first spat fire, a shimmer of rune-halo at her muzzle, and the nearest enemy in the charge fell back straight as a board, the icon on his ushanka rendered a smoking hole. Now the other roared, with an equal measure of rune-halo and death. Another Khadoran shouted, clutching his chest. The pair spat in rapid succession, tasting blood each time, yet still they came.

  Caine was going to fail.

  It was like shooting at a tidal wave. There was nothing to be done, even as he felled three more Khadorans, six more surged over the fallen. A withering hail of shots came at Caine, and the power-field from his warcaster armor visibly dimmed with the strain. They were too close, too many. Kneeling, he gasped for air. The arcantrik generator on his back was churning black smoke now to keep his power-field from failing. Beatrice was spent, Darlene too, seconds later. There was nowhere to fall back. A screaming Khadoran was but two strides away, the point of his axe aimed right at Caine’s face.

  Caine closed his eyes, resigned. With a single exhale, he let it all go. Fear. Anger. Regret. A second became his whole life. With a final breath, he waited for the weapon’s touch.