The Way of Caine (The Warcaster Chronicles)

by Holmes, Miles

  It didn’t come.

  Perplexed, he opened his eyes. The axe was still there, perhaps a stride closer. But there it stayed. Caine looked up. The screaming Khadoran had fallen silent, though his war face remained no less fierce. He was still as a statue. Behind him, some threescore of his comrades were equally still.

  Caine saw a world robbed of color around him, only faded gray. The sounds of war, once deafening, had become a dull hiss of white noise. An ethereal glitter drifted languidly in the air, and his Spellstorms faintly hummed. Then it clicked.

  That day at the pistol range ...

  Caine remembered the moment. His magic, then as now, had brought him here. A place between the seconds, perhaps? Caine laughed at the spectacle, his voice echoing in this strange timescape. Incredible it was to find such power even as all hope left him. How long before it would ebb away? He couldn’t say. It didn’t matter.

  He would make the most of it.

  He flicked his Spellstorms open, sending spent brass cartridges cascading down. As they fell to earth, their sheen faded into the ubiquitous gray. In a fluid movement, he drew his pistols past speed-loaders set in his belt, and then snapped them shut, loaded. Space buckled around him as he vanished, reappearing some thirty feet over the charge of the Winterguard.

  Caine opened fire.

  His twin pistols began to stitch radiant death left to right, a maelstrom of lead. Each shot flared like a starburst from his muzzles, leaving a wake of concentric shockwaves as they went. The figures held bizarrely in pause below him answered with their blood. Slowly, it began to spatter into the air, blossoming abstract patterns.

  So much blood …

  Caine awoke with a start. He sat up and immediately regretted it. He lay back down with a grimace, clutching his head and closing his eyes. With a deep breath, he opened them again, and looked around. He found himself upon a cot in the field hospital. There was a nurse watching him, and he smiled feebly at her. His smile was gone a second later. Next to her stood his commander, warcaster Major Horlis Abernathy, cross-armed and looking more stern than usual in his thick battle-scarred armor.

  As Caine met the gaze of his commander, the patrician looking man, some ten years senior only, shook his head.

  “I would not believe it, were you not right before me. There really isn’t a scratch on you.”

  “Sir? The flank, I didn’t …”

  “You did not what? Kill the entire company? You could hardly be blamed. They fled after you shot nearly two full platoons down.” Major Abernathy shook his head, incredulous. “With two pistols.”

  Caine rubbed a swelling temple. “If you say so, sir. It’s a blur to me.”

  “Aye. The blur was you. You stopped the Khadoran advance cold. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Caine nodded, his face slowly cracking into a smile. The major’s eyes narrowed.

  “I would be remiss as your commander if I did not find some fault with your conduct here. Had you not abandoned your warjacks in the first place, they might equally have held the flank under your control. Bah. In the end, I suppose the results speak for themselves. You have saved the day, Captain Caine.”

  The major uncrossed his arms and handed Caine his new rank. Stepping back, he saluted. Caine moved to his feet, to return the salute, though he winced as he stood.

  “Nurse, clean him up, then send him on to the officer’s mess. I think we’ve earned a celebration this day.”

  Tankards were crashed on either side of Caine as he downed his third whiskey in one pull. Chomping at his half spent stogie, he waved the bartender to send another, as a passing officer clapped him on the back in a congratulatory manner. A piano played a familiar refrain, “The heart of Cygnar,” to which the officers around him were boisterously singing along. Smiles found him wherever he looked, and he had to admit, it was strangely appealing. Never before had he gained such acceptance, felt so welcome. Brandishing his cigar, he wheeled to the captain next to him, glass raised. Perhaps he could get used to this. With a firm clank of the glass, he returned the toast. A captain indeed, he chuckled. Who would have believed it, back home?

  “Congratulations, Captain,” an even voice said from over his shoulder. “It was truly a feat you achieved today.” The voice was an unmistakable near whisper. Caine spun around. The smiling face of Holden Rebald waited for him. “I trust you have not forgotten our arrangement?”

  Caine shook his head, his smile fast receding from his face. He put his whiskey down. Rebald, with a drink of his own, took a sip, and tilted his glass to Caine.

  “You may as well enjoy the night, Captain. We leave at first light.”

  PART TWO

  Four Days Previous

  Spring, AR 596: Northguard Fort

  “So what is it to be this time?” Caine smirked over a steaming plate of mutton and potatoes. “Am I to keep a ledger of the trains? Perhaps note the weather?”

  Across the table of the private dining car, Rebald was not amused. Behind drawn velvet curtains, the world rushed past with a clicka clack, clicka clack.

  “I think not,” the scoutmaster replied coolly, cutting his mutton with fork and knife. “There is a plot to overthrow King Leto, Captain. I expect you will put a stop to it.”

  Caine coughed, his dinner somehow caught in his throat. Rebald skewered another piece of mutton and placed it delicately into his mouth, his eyes glittering as he watched Caine gasp for air. “A change is always a dangerous thing. For some, it brings prosperity, for others, ruin. Those who did well under Vinter now fear for their future under Leto. That, unfortunately, has led them to make some, shall we say, foolish decisions.” Rebald pierced the mutton, and began to cut it forcefully with his knife, cutting away a strip of fat. “Such decisions have compelled us to act.”

  “Who exactly are we talking about?” Caine asked, wiping tears from his eyes.

  “The nobles, of course,” Rebald said, setting his fork down. He gestured to the map unfurled between them. “They’re gathering forces, here, here, and here. That we are aware of, at any rate.” Rebald daubed his mouth with a napkin.

  Taking a sip of wine, the spymaster watched Caine with curiosity. “We don’t know what they intend to do with these non-partisans, but for the moment they seem content to fear-monger. Presumably it gains them the support of the citizenry. The only thing for certain is they want Leto out.”

  Caine shrugged. “I think I could understand that, circumstances such as they are. He’s repealed longstanding trade agreements, appointed new trade delegates. He’s tipped their apple cart.”

  Rebald nodded, swirling the wine in his glass. “Yes, if only to scoop out the rotten apples. The issue here is not the discontent his ascension has caused. With enough time, Leto might have begun to earn their trust, one at a time. Thus, he would reduce the sway of any remaining dissidents. The problem is he’s not going to get that time. The nobles have somehow been able to generate significant capital for his ouster. Too much, too soon. As you see on the map, they already have enough to create a credible threat to Leto’s security.” Rebald watched Caine’s reaction, unblinking.

  “Right. So they’re getting help,” Caine muttered, rubbing his chin. “I have a feeling this is where I come into your grand scheme.”

  “Indeed, Captain.” Rebald looked over the map, his finger coming to rest on the Llael capital of Merywyn. “We have an informant. Kreel. He has identified our noble’s mysterious benefactor. One Thaddeus Montague, royal treasurer to King Rynnard of Llael. You’ll note Baron Malsham’s estate is just south of the Llael border, and Merywyn itself. This would certainly implicate the Baron as part of the conspiracy, though we must keep up appearances for the moment. Once you’ve deployed to his estate, you will keep an eye on his affairs under the guise of protection. Meanwhile, I want you to infiltrate Merywyn and meet with this informant.”

  “I don’t understand. You want me to babysit a baron and then sneak out for a chat with this Kreel?”

  “Yo
u’re going there to kill, Caine,” Rebald corrected. “While your detachment puts on a show of good faith for our nobles, you will infiltrate Merywyn to cut off the head of the snake. Through Kreel, you will get to this treasurer. Interrogate him. Learn his motives if at all possible, but kill him either way.”

  “Why me, Rebald? Do you not have sufficient cutthroats at your disposal for such things?” Caine scratched his chin, absently glancing at the map.

  “According to Kreel, Montague is well guarded. Yet that is only half of the thing.” Rebald sipped his wine. “There are … complications I believe you are well suited to deal with. Understand this is an awkward time between our nation and Llael. While they are still officially our ally, at present, there is only one thing King Rynnard fears more than licorice root, and that is King Leto.”

  “I don’t understand,” Caine shook his head. Rebald looked up from his map, irritated.

  “The regime of the most powerful nation in western Immoren is toppled on his doorstep, and you don’t see how that might cause Rynnard concern?” Rebald asked quietly, yet Caine simply shook his head.

  “That part I get. What do you mean about the bloody licorice?”

  Rebald shrugged, “It is common knowledge that Rynnard takes deadly ill at the slightest taste of it.” Rebald tapped the map, re-focusing. “Now, as I was getting to, it is imperative that you are not caught or identified. A Cygnaran agent discovered assassinating a royal courtier would be nothing less than a disaster. On this point, I believe I have the best man for the job.” Rebald, still absorbed by the map, traced a line across the Llael border. “You see, while diplomatic relations appear to continue as normal, Rynnard has steadily increased border patrols. He’s even gone so far as to mobilize forces south over the last few months. Just north of the border, he has fortified his home, the capital of Merywyn. The city was defensible enough prior, with the Black river serving as moat to the east, and the city walls creating a thick perimeter on all other sides. Recently, he has doubled the garrison there, and the gates are now methodically checking papers for any who approach.”

  Caine shrugged, unconcerned, “I could shed my armor and pass as a commoner easy enough.”

  “You could. It would be a trivial matter to forge you the papers required. Remember, however, you have no idea what you’re facing. Intelligence indicates your target is well protected. If Kreel is correct on that point, to go in without armor and weapons would deny you a considerable tactical advantage. Is that really what you want?”

  Caine frowned. “Ech. I suppose not.”

  “Could you not simply flash within the city from the outer walls?”

  Caine shook his head. “I’ve not mastered moving to places I can’t see. No telling where I’d end up if I were to try a stunt like that. Halfway in a wall, I expect.

  Rebald nodded, swirling the wine within his glass absently.

  “Then, in any manner you might contrive, gaining the city will present a challenge. I leave it to you to devise your own strategy, but should you wish to use it, I have requisitioned a prototype warjack that may well prove useful for just such an occasion.”

  Rebald tipped his glass, finishing the last of his wine. From across the table, he studied Caine.

  “There is one last order of business.” With a deep breath, he pulled a small felt bag from his pocket. He held it a moment, and then tossed it across the table to land before Caine.

  “What is this?” Caine sat back, looking at the bag as though a mouse had joined them at the table.

  “A hunch. If the treasurer’s story does not add up, then consider it your next assignment. Otherwise, tuck it deep into one of those pockets of yours and forget about it.”

  Without warning, their train could be felt grinding to a halt. The steam whistle blew, heralding a station ahead. Nodding, Rebald stood up.

  “Our stop, Captain.”

  Three days later, Caine found himself equal parts bored and irritable. Leaving his chair on the top deck of the ship, he stepped outside. As the riverbank passed slowly by, he patted the pockets of his long leather duster for a stogie.

  The riverboat steamship Katie had been plodding along for hours and they were no closer to where they were headed, as near as he could tell. They had set out from Northguard that clear spring morning, but the longer they ran the Eel River, the drearier the day had become. The Eel River was a winding tributary of Blindwater Lake in the far north of Cygnar, and led gradually into the quagmire of swamp and moss covered woods better known as Bloodsmeath Marsh. Here and there, docks and landings reached out to them from the shore, with stilted houses tucked just beyond the tree-line, but the further they went, the sparser the settlements had become. Striking a match, Caine lit up and took a long pull on his cigar. What kind of people would live in a place like this? He shook his head.

  By late afternoon, they expected to make the east shore of the lake, at Perry’s Landing. There, his first command would begin in earnest. In the decks below, nearly threescore of fighting men, munitions, warjack support and other logistical elements had been loaded. All of them, his to command, his responsibility. As he rolled the rich smoke of the Hooaga leaf over his tongue, he found the notion ludicrous. How long ago had he made his living on the streets? The intervening years blurred in his mind like the smoke of his cigar as he exhaled, incorporeal and vague.

  “Ah, there you are, sir.”

  A familiar voice from behind interrupted him as the door to the cabin opened. Caine waved his adjutant over without bothering to turn around. The man approached, stretching, with a weary yawn. As the pair looked out over the sluggish Eel, the long gunner lieutenant, a young man with an even younger face grasped the iron rail, taking a deep breath as he did.

  “By Morrow it stinks!” he gasped.

  “Try growing up next to a paper mill, Gerdie,” Caine replied with a smirk. Caine’s one-time travelling companion grimaced with the notion before speaking again.

  “The skipper says we’re set to arrive in the next couple of hours. Everything is in hand for the moment, so I thought I might get a word with you,” Gerdie said.

  Caine nodded, taking another pull on his stogie.

  “Well, sir, it’s just that, since you swooped into Northguard with that, shall we say, ‘anonymous’ gentleman and commandeered this detachment along with myself, well, you haven’t said much past ‘border patrol.’ So, if you don’t think me too insubordinate, sir …”

  Caine rolled his eyes at the formality, but Gerdie continued. “Why in hell are you taking us into this stinking swamp?”

  Why indeed? Caine smiled, measuring his response against the conversation he’d had with the Scout General only a few days prior.

  “Mercenaries, Gerdie. Camped out past Perry’s Landing. Causing a local panic.”

  Gerdie paced the deck, a frown forming on his face. “Why? What have we to fear from them unless … are they working for Khador?”

  “We don’t know. We’re not even sure where they are. The fact they’re out there, and getting bigger by the day is enough to get the nobles flustered. They’ve challenged Leto to act. So here we are.” Caine watched his flummoxed adjutant with narrowed eyes and leaned back against the rail. His cigar down to a nub, he took a final pull then flicked it overboard.

  Gerdie nodded. “All right. So our orders say we billet with Baron Malsham, nephew to the Duke of Northforest. What’s the plan? Set up a defensive perimeter at the estate? Patrol the neighboring hamlets? Send our scouts out on long-range reconnaissance to see if they can find this ‘threat’?”

  “Ech, about the size of it, Gerdie. If we’re lucky, maybe we figure out just who they’re working for too,” Caine replied, leaning over the rail.

  Gerdie raised an eyebrow. “With respect, sir? We might be a while just finding them in this mess.” Gerdie gestured to the vast morass surrounding them.

  “True. But I hear Sergeant Reevan is a real old hound. If they’re out there, I trust he’ll find them.” The pa
ir walked along the rail of the boat, nearing the prow.

  “What of the rest of the men? Are you really expecting combat here?” Gerdie looked over the prow, worry plain on his face. Ahead, the Eel at last was opening wide into the Blightwater. Clouds ahead made the open water seem grey and cold, and a wind was coming over the lake. Caine looked ahead, nodding. “I wouldn’t rule it out.”

  The pair watched Perry’s Landing appear at last out across the open water of Blightwater. Only a tiny smattering of buildings and docks from this far out, it was growing larger by the second. Try as he might to downplay it, the stakes in this, his first command, began to weigh upon him. Gerdie looked on, impassive.

  As the last of Caine’s troops cleared the boarding ramp, Katie blew her whistle. Caine watched the great smokestacks on the steamship puff with impatience while the tread-wheel crane from the dock lifted crates from below decks. Wooden crates emerged one after another, placed gently on the dock. Caine marveled as the crane produced three iron monstrosities from Katie’s hold. The eyes of his anthropomorphic machines were dimmed, their hearth fires extinguished. Chargers, light and fast, he had been issued a pair, along with the heavy barreled bruiser known as a Defender. Each in turn was carefully placed upon heavy horse-drawn carts for the journey ahead. Almost as an afterthought, a singular crate emerged at the end of the crane’s hook, conspicuous in size and a lack of identifying stencils. Caine recalled Rebald’s mention of a prototype with growing curiosity.

  Gerdie was busy staging the troops into formation along the crowded docks, as laborers worked around them. The junior officer’s youthful voice was perfectly capable of barking drill orders over the din, and the men lined up by squads. The tread-wheel crane at last backed away from Katie, and her thresher began to churn water. She howled a single petulant whistle in farewell. As Caine approached Gerdie, the young adjutant turned and saluted. Stifling his reluctance to formality, Caine returned the salute before the assembled men.