The Way of Caine (The Warcaster Chronicles)

by Holmes, Miles

  “Right. Now let’s see about those big balls. Marten! Give me yer knife. ”

  There was a muffled shout in response. Somehow, Caine was no longer being held to the wall, and the sounds of a scuffle had broken out behind him. Falling to one knee, he caught a glimpse of a bulky figure stepping toward one of Horace’s goons. As the figure moved, arm outstretched with a hand bathed in strange light, two deafening shots rang out from Horace’s pepperbox. Caine blinked, trying to get his head straight. To his addled senses, the newcomer appeared to warp and shift just as the weapon fired, causing the point blank shots to miss ... badly. In two steps, the dark figure followed through with a haymaker into Horace’s nearest goon. Raw power like lightning arced and crackled in the attack, and the man smashed into the brick wall hard enough to crack it. Caine watched as another assailant was tossed past him, slumping into the garbage.

  Horace stood shaking, looking at the stranger only a second. Without a word, he turned and fled as fast as his legs would carry him.

  His vision clearing, Caine looked up at the stranger over him. It was the cloaked man from the bar. He had his tricorn on now, pushed close to his eyes, and a high collar buttoned to cover his mouth. His black cloak had come unfurled in the scuffle, revealing the glint of steel within. He reached down with a mailed hand and pulled Caine to his feet, then pointed at Caine’s father.

  “Go home. I’ll have a word with your boy now.”

  Caine heard an order, not a suggestion, and Seamus nodded before limping out onto the street.

  The stranger turned his attention back to Caine while pulling his collar open. As his cloak opened wider still, Caine glimpsed the steel within was nothing less than full plate armor. Impressive enough to account for half the man’s bulk, it was a complicated affair of hoses, steam-pipes and intricate armatures. Of greater significance to Caine, there at the center of the breastplate was an ornately carved golden swan. Caine grimaced at the Kings mark: the Cygnus.

  Was this man an inquisitor? Precious few had the gift of magic as Caine did. The King’s Inquisition made sure it stayed that way. Morrow help you if they caught your scent.

  No, he’d had his share of near misses with those villains. Though they might wear the Cygnus like this stranger, they were nothing like him. He had to be something else. He was a soldier. More than that, he must be a leader of some sort, if his bearing was any indication. Then there was the fact he had magic of his own.

  So what was he then?

  A warcaster perhaps? Caine swallowed.

  Caine had heard stories about those larger than life mage-warriors like everyone else, though few ever actually met one in person.

  Armies followed at their heels and fell by their hands, or so it went. Warcasters were masters of steel and spell alike, and they alone could drive those walking, steam-belching tanks, warjacks, with but a thought. Caine could only stare, his mouth hanging open as the cloaked man extended a mailed hand.

  “The name’s Magnus.”

  Caine sipped his beer, studying the grizzled face of Magnus warily. The warcaster said nothing, yet even as he breathed, he exuded a certain menace. The pair sat opposite a worn table at the back of the Boiler Plate in abject silence. Caine twitched in his seat, eyes darting to the door waiting for a mob reprisal. Magnus grunted.

  “So here’s me,” Magnus finally declared, his voice low, and in an accent Caine couldn’t place. “Travelling from Caspia on the kings’ business. I take shelter for a night in Bainsmarket and what should interrupt me at my drink? A bloody rogue sorcerer. Now, our good and noble King Vinter has made clear my duty in such circumstance. ”

  “You mean to take me to the Inquisition, is that it?” Caine asked.

  Magnus relented, settling back in his chair. “No. As I’ve thought upon it, I’m not sure I could. You’ve a rare gift, if you’ve stayed ahead of them this long. I don’t think it will be me taking you in. Rather, I expect you will, after I’ve said my piece.”

  Caine crossed his arms, his eyebrows raised.

  “Boy, you’ve got something most would kill for. What’s more, you’re a decent shot, and have a stout heart in there. So what are you?” Magnus paused, disgust on his face. “By the look of you, a thief at best, but likely much worse. A bloody waste of your potential, I rate. Now, there’s another path, without Inquisitors. Enlist.” He took a long pull from his tankard. “Sure, you could keep hiding, but I don’t think that’s who you are. Even if he was your father, that’s one person that meant more to you than your own arse. It’s a start. Putting something ahead of yourself is at the core of any good soldier. Add to that such gifts as Morrow has provided, and then you’ve potential for something greater still. Leadership, Caine! Look at me. I’m as lowborn as you, but I fought my way to become advisor to King Vinter himself! That’s the kind of potential I’m talking about.”

  Caine scoffed, looking down at his own tankard. The service was for fools. You traded your freedom for that uniform, your life too. A pittance of crowns was all you were worth to them. Maybe they’d throw you a little strip of ribbon if you were a good dog. Somehow, though, even as he told himself these things, they fell a little ... flat. He had to admit, there was something in what Magnus was saying. It wasn’t command, it wasn’t power, and it certainly wasn’t some overblown sense of patriotism … so what was it?

  Caine stiffened in his chair, and met Magnus’ stern gaze head-on.

  “Thanks for the advice, but I’ve got my own to protect right here.”

  Magnus’s face went hard, and the big man pushed back from the table at once. As he stood, he leaned forward until his eyes were only inches away from Caine’s.

  “This won’t last, son. You’d best make the decision while you can.”

  Caine found his father by the hearth, hands crossed in his worn chair. Only embers remained, and he stared into them, absorbed, as Caine came in quietly by the front door. He caught the glint of crowns spilled across the floor before him. The sack Caine had left his mother in his hand.

  “What d’you think yer doin’ here, boy? After what you done? ” his father slurred, spittle at his lips. There was an empty bottle by his feet.

  “I tried to save you ...” Caine sighed from the stairwell.

  “It would have blown over, if you’d just let it be. What I must do to make amends now, Morrow knows.”

  “Boss Dakin is a pitiless man! How could you take a debt with him to begin with?” Caine shook his head, frustrated.

  “Shut yer mouth! What do yeh know of it? I was handling it! My debt wasn’t even due. Not for another week!”

  Caine grimaced. He thought back to his first encounter with Horace. The night’s take, stolen. Could it be Horace had tried to collect a few debts early to save face with his boss? The idea that he may have caused this mess made his head spin.

  “So then yer ma … she shows me this!” His father shouted, tossing the half empty sack to the floor. Still more crowns spilled out over the old floorboards. “So you think I need yer help?” His father’s eyes were wild now, and he stood on shaky footing.

  “No, Pa! You’re looking at the thing in the wrong way.”

  “If yeh think I don’t know how you come by this money, think again! I know precisely what you are!” His father tripped, staggering out of the main room. He came at Caine, grabbing him by the lapels of his coat to keep from falling. Caine backed up against the wall, to keep balance.

  “Yer not better than me, boy! Understand? Yer just a thug. And as for this ...” he spun wildly from Caine, diving at the crowns on the floor and scooping them in his hands. “It’s blood money! I won’t have it!” He tossed the crowns at the embers of the hearth.

  Aggravated, Caine moved to the hearth, reaching past his father for a poker. “For Morrow’s sake! You need it! They need it! I don’t think I’m better. I just …”

  His father struck him hard in the face. Caine flinched, the pain of the blow watering his eyes. Struggling to get up, his father was over h
im, leering. The poker fell from his hand.

  “Pa!” He pleaded. “Just take it. They deserve … better …” he sputtered, his lip bloody.

  His father struck him again, his face twisted in rage.

  “It’s beyond money now, Allister! Bainsmarket ain’t such a big place. How long before they figure out who yeh are? What then for yer dear mother?” he swore, striking Caine again. Despite the pain, Caine struggled to get Seamus off him.

  “Yeh’ve helped enough! Go back to the streets! Yer garbage! D’ye hear me?”

  It was the final straw. With both hands, Caine reached up, grabbing his father’s fist.

  “You’re wrong!” Caine shouted.

  Caine met his father’s eyes with equal wild intensity. “You’re wrong!” he spat this time, holding his father’s fist at bay. Both men now strained with the effort.

  “I’ll show you, you bottle sucking drunk!” Caine’s eyes burned white. Sound sucked from the room with a sudden rush of air. He saw his father’s eyes widen above him, and his skin started to tingle. In the next instant, everything was gone. As the glare in his eyes faded, his hearth and father both were replaced with the darkened road in front of his house.

  Caine walked into the night.

  Four Years Ago

  Summer, AR 592: Strategic Academy, Point Bourne

  Caine stood straight-backed and focused, lined with a dozen more like him along the firing range. A clouded day overhead, they stood sheltered within the thick stone walls of the academy. Each was dressed in the weathered blue and grey cloaks of Arcane Tempest Gun Mage cadets. Their panoply was completed with tricorn, marksman goggles, and the trademark sidearm, a magelock pistol, holstered at the waist.

  Downrange twenty paces, the crew in the pits of the intricate mechanikal gallery began to grind cogs into action.

  Behind the cadets, the gunnery sergeant paced, adjusting his own goggles. Next, he tightly gripped his hands behind his back and cleared his throat.

  “Cadets, at the READY!” he screamed in a tightly measured pitch.

  Caine flexed his fists, and steadied his breathing. Behind his own goggles, he blinked, counting the scrum points of his corridor. He listened to the steps of the sergeant behind him. Ahead, the gallery came to life. Still, the instructor paced, on the edge of giving the word … until …

  “Cadets, FIRE!”

  With fluid, deliberate movement, Caine drew an ornately embossed pistol from his holster. Runes carved in the barrel faintly glowed at his touch. Steadily he aimed downrange, and watched. Within the corridor of each cadet came a kaleidoscope of colored and animated targets. Some darted left to right, others moved in patterns or sweeping arcs.

  “Two minutes!” The gunnery sergeant bellowed.

  Caine lined up his first target. With a whisper and a soft squeeze, the barrel of his pistol exploded with glitter-laced fire. Mystic runes swirled around his shot, streaking after it like fireworks. He had whispered Break, just as they had been drilled, day after day these past eight months. The word itself, he had learned, was not nearly as important as the thoughts it evoked. With the right thought, the will of the gun-mage was imposed on his weapon, and the shot itself was greatly altered.

  Within the great frame of the mechanikal shooting gallery, a blue painted steel plate waved up and down until Caine’s shot found it, and the thing shattered like so much confetti.

  One after another, cadets to his left and right followed suit, whispering their own words of power. The courtyard sang with the cacophony of spell-fire.

  Caine paid no notice. He was within his own head, hands already moving to reload without him, as he fixated on his next target. Five more shots, and five more hits as the seconds ticked down.

  “One minute!”

  As his focus concentrated, the world around him slowed, dimming to obscurity. Only the targets down range still looked vibrant, as they darted in and out of the scrum points in endless supply. There were red targets, hinged and weighted by brick. To them Caine whispered Thunder, his shot shattering on impact with enough force to knock them back. There were also spinning yellow targets, set well back from the rest. To those, he whispered Reach, spurring his shot further and further ahead. Each time as his pistol emptied, he paused mechanically to reload it and fired again without hesitation. He had not missed one yet.

  “Thirty seconds!”

  Two more rounds left in his belt. A score of thirteen was impressive enough, just one shy of the record. Yet he felt a playful curiosity tug him away from the urgency of the test. He had wondered many times in the months prior if he might evoke new ways to spur his shot. Caine grinned as he reloaded. Why not try? What did he have to lose? His mind raced as he reloaded, excited to push at new boundaries. His weapon loaded, he focused his thoughts. He reached out, aiming and firing fluidly. Bounce, he whispered this time. He watched the shot fly, and nodded at the erratic result. Not bad, but he could do better. His hands trembled as he reloaded, he was desperately eager for one more try. Again he aimed, and again he whispered it. Bounce. The shot erupted from the muzzle, streaking to the gallery. Targets cracked, shattered and fell, as the magically imbued shot ricocheted between them. Caine smiled at the spectacle.

  “Cadets, CEASE FIRE!”

  Caine’s hand slammed the weapon back into its holster. He assumed the stand easy posture, crossing his hands behind his back. Taking a breath, he let his attention wander until he heard the steps of the instructor behind him.

  “Cadet Caine, step down!”

  With measured movements, Caine stepped back, and over one pace. The instructor moved to take his position at the corridor, peering downrange.

  “Corridor eight; indicate!” The sergeant shouted. From the lower deck of the gallery extended a long stick with a slate mounted at the end. There in chalk had been etched a number. Around him, Caine’s fellow cadets began to murmur. For his part, the instructor began to swear an oath. “Cadet Caine! Would you care to enlighten me as to the perfect score for this examination?”

  “Fifteen, gunnery sergeant!” Caine shouted back.

  “Outstanding. Hazard a guess why has that score not been bested since the founding of this battle school, cadet Caine?” He growled. Caine avoided looking at the surly instructor, keeping his eyes downrange.

  “Because we are issued only fifteen rounds, gunnery sergeant!”

  “Brilliant, Cadet!” The sergeant darted this way and that around him, studying his face, for some tell of guilt. “Then how do you explain your score?!”

  Caine looked at the number scrawled on the slate. It read seventeen. Caine fought back a smile, poorly. The instructor saw this and immediately flew into a rage, swearing up and down at his insubordinate cadet. At last, he became gravely calm.

  “I say you’re a cheat.”

  Caine scowled. “I didn’t cheat, gunnery sergeant! I just tried something different …”

  If his explanation was meant to assuage the sergeant, it had the exact opposite effect. The face of the grizzled pistoleer purpled with indignation.

  “Is that so Cadet Caine? You expect me to believe you just improvised a new evocation on the spot? Polished enough to put down more targets than you had shots?” Caine started to open his mouth. “Don’t answer! I’ve got you figured, I do. You had a little help from your chums, is that it? How much did it cost to persuade them to put some crossfire down your corridor? Corridor seven and nine, indicate!”

  Again, slates with chalk etched numbers arose from the gallery, on the corridors adjoining Caine’s. The instructor stepped to the cadets on either side, comparing the chalk numbers against the remaining ammunition in their bandoliers. His lips were moving as he counted to himself.

  Then they stopped.

  “Cadets, DISMISSED!” He barked, extending a restraining hand on Caine’s shoulder. “Cadet Jenkins! Get me the Lieutenant!” One by one, Caine’s class filed past him. The gunnery sergeant had grown curiously silent as they waited. A minute later, the battle school
lieutenant stomped out of the mess hall, visibly annoyed.

  “This had better be good, gunnery sergeant,” the lieutenant growled on approach. Seeing Caine standing next to the gunnery sergeant, he rolled his eyes. “Glory be! Are we to talk about Cadet Caine again? What was it this time cadet? Caught with hooch in the barracks? More fights?” The lieutenant’s exasperation was thick.

  The gunnery sergeant saluted sharply as the officer stopped before him, and Caine stood at attention.

  “Not this time, sir.” The gunnery sergeant answered. “It would appear the cadet has just scored a legitimate seventeen on the range test.”

  The lieutenant licked his lips and blinked. “Gunnery sergeant, on me.” He said in a near whisper.

  Caine remained at attention, face forward and hands pressed down at his side. Yet he watched the senior gun mages pace the range with a sidelong glance. After a few minutes of hushed but animated discussion, they returned. The lieutenant’s expression was unreadable as he squared with Caine. The gunnery sergeant, meanwhile, made for the armory at double time.

  “Cadet Caine. Last week the quarter-master claimed one of his labor-jacks went missing overnight. I don’t suppose you remember?”

  Caine’s jaw clenched and his mind raced as he tried to figure the angle.

  “Sir?”

  “It occurs to me your barracks hall was the only one to pass inspection the next day. Your troop was the only one granted a leave pass.”

  “The … uh, boys and I just put our backs into it, sir,” Caine lied. From the armory, he could hear the sound of great iron-shod feet stamping closer, with a rhythmic hiss of steam. Nausea started to twist at his guts and the swell of pride he’d felt only moments ago had long since gone. Why was the lieutenant bringing this up? Hadn’t he just done something no-one had ever managed? Shouldn’t they be lauding him? Asking him how to perform the evocation, even? How was this suddenly going so wrong, so fast? Caine fought to keep his breath, but his heart pounded.