The Way of Caine (The Warcaster Chronicl

PART ONE




Five Years Ago

Spring, AR 591: Bainsmarket

“C’mon, Allie, help me up!” Tylen Reilly’s pale face was flushed, his breathing hard. The drain pipe groaned as its shoddy bracings threatened to pop from the brick wall. The youth swayed, unable to pull himself over the eaves.

Allister Caine, reclined as he was atop a rooftop haunt, leaned forward with a smirk. He raised a worn black boot, and held it in mocking suspense, as though ready to kick his waifish friend back down the three-story height.

“C’mon then! Some of us have to do this the hard way, you know,” Tylen groaned, more annoyed then alarmed. Caine nodded, the smirk still in place, and reached forward. With a forceful tug, Tylen was up and over, thudding to the sooty rooftop with a grunt. Rolling over, he glared at Caine, and then shook his head in disgust. “Ech! My ’cerest thanks, yeh horse’s ass.”

Caine straightened his thick canvas jacket before reclining against the rooftop once more. He gazed beyond the city walls. Bainsmarket at dusk sprawled out before him. The working-class neighborhood bent and sagged becoming a canyon of tin roofs and brick walls. Laundry lines strung across balconies festooned with linens and undergarments, and chimneys puffed here and there. A half-mile west as the crow flies, Caine could see the towering smokestacks of the pulp mills churning thick black smoke in silhouette against a blood red sky. Even from a distance, the rancid stench reached Caine’s nostrils. The smokestacks reminded him of Tylen’s errand.

“Well?”

Caine’s red-haired, lanky companion nodded sullenly, taking a seat beside Caine. He pulled a frayed satchel from his shoulder, setting it before him. “Why I should give ye any is beyond me, what with such abuses as I suffer.”

Caine smiled, returning his gaze out over the sprawl, but nevertheless held a hand out. Tylen reached into the satchel, bringing forth cured meats, bread, and a few wine-dipped Ordic cigars. Rolling his eyes at Caine’s outstretched hand, he passed one of the stogies over and then took one for himself. The elder, Caine, twenty years old and lean as a whip, brushed back a wave of jet black hair and produced a wooden match from his boot. Striking it against the nearest chimney, he cupped the sputtering flame and held it to his cigar. Tylen leaned in and, likewise, lit up. Puffing contentedly, the two young men sat back against the roof and enjoyed the view.

“A proper feast we have here, but what was the take?” Caine said with a puff and a sidelong glance at Tylen.

“Ech ... not as good.” Tylen retrieved a change-purse from his jacket, tossing it onto the tin roof. Five coppers spilled from an otherwise empty bag. Caine rolled his eyes, to which his friend shrugged.

“Market square ‘peared near empty today.”

“All week.” Caine corrected, frowning.

A scream came from below, quickly muffled and followed by the sounds of a scuffle.

Caine and Tylen scrambled to the edge of the roof and peered down into the twilight shadows. Below, two men shoved a third to the wall. The larger of the two, a pudgy man with a clean shaven scalp, held the sobbing victim in place while the other, a lean brute in close fitting dark clothes, pressed close to speak. Even from their lofty vantage, the man’s visage was unnerving to behold. Either a wound or some deformity had left him with only a narrow gap where a nose should be. The victim protested, his voice shrill. The ham-fisted enforcer responded by punching him in the stomach, hard enough for the man to double over. The skull-faced man laughed, a grating hideous sound, and yanked the victim’s head back up by his hair. A moment later, the victim relented, reaching to pull something from out of his boot.

“Ech! The hounds are out.” Tylen snorted, eyes narrowing. “That’s Horace, eh? Boss’ Dakin’s second?”

Caine nodded. “No mistaking that beauty. Looks like a collection night.”

He looked at Tylen, lips curling into a grin. “Maybe this is a chance to make up for a bad week?”

Tylen laughed. Caine did not. The ginger-haired youth swallowed, his face twisting to a grimace.

“Yer not kidding.”



In the shadows of a twisting alley, the pair awaited their marks. Caine leaned back against the wall of an alcove, listening to the footfalls of Horace and his goon. In the alcove opposite, Tylen did likewise. The youth looked across to Caine, his face sickly pale. Caine eased him down with a gesture, his ear still cocked. Tylen nodded back, and pulled a hood over his face. Caine heard the footfalls nearly there. It was now or never. The signal given, Tylen bolted around the corner and into the enforcer. Both men cried out. Tylen’s light hands clasped a shiny bauble at the large man’s belt, and in the next instant, he was sprinting down the alley.

“Blighter took me time piece, he did!” The big man shouted, turning to watch as Tylen escaped. Horace was not so slow-witted.

“Well?!” he shouted, clapping the larger man on the back as if driving an ox. The thug stumbled ahead to give chase with heavy footfalls. Horace shook his head, frustrated, then made to follow his henchman.

Caine stepped from the shadows, Horace’s back to him. His brow furrowed in concentration, and his eyes flashed with an unnatural light.

Magic was coming.

Most times, he kept it back, hidden. Never show them the ace up your sleeve, he’d learned. Now was different. Nobody here but ugly and me, he smiled. The magic bent to his will, manifesting and curling around him in an incandescent circle of runes. He put a hand out, and force surged ahead, catching Horace square in the backside.

The mobster tumbled forward into the slick stones of the alley with a grunt. He slid face first along the slime and muck that lined the alley before coming to rest. The enforcer ahead of him was oblivious on his fool’s errand, shouting after Tylen with impotent rage.

Caine fell upon Horace like a vulture, snatching an overstuffed coin-purse with practiced ease. Horace flailed, trying to fight off his attacker.

“Do yeh have any idea who I am?!”

Their eyes met briefly in the shadows, and Caine winked in reply. Then he was gone, slipping back into the alcove from which he had come.

He heard the skull-faced man getting to his feet, cursing. Caine’s attention fixed upon the eaves of the rooftops above his shallow alcove.

“Yer as good as dead, little dog! D’ye hear me?! Yeh’ve nowhere to go now!” Horace screamed from around the corner.

Caine smiled, the magic within him surging still. Focused on the eaves, the air bent around on him like a soap bubble. The dead-end alcove vanished. Blinking, he found himself three stories up, crouching on the spot he had spied from below.

Not a second too soon. He turned to see the alcove just as Horace rounded the corner, a brutish looking pistol leading the way. The ugly mobster wore a feral grin, but as he saw his attacker gone, it abruptly vanished. He screamed an oath. Reaching for a barrel of rubbish, he cast it aside, spilling the contents. For good measure, he trained his pistol on a large turnip as it rolled from the upturned barrel. The shot splashed rotted pulp against the greasy brick wall. The report of his weapon echoed like a thunderclap in the confined space, and Horace shook with rage. Screaming a final time, he turned on his heel and stamped off.



“Stupid! It was stupid! Boss Dakin … he will … ” Tylen fretted as he and Caine pushed through the crowded streets on a dilapidated row of tenements. As they neared the last door in the row, the light of the gas-lamps fell short. A red door upon a broken stairwell loomed over them.

“Did the tarheels get a look at you or didn’t they?”

“No, but …”

“Ech, then give yourself some credit, why don’t you? You’ve faster feet and lighter hands than anyone I’ve ever seen. If you just had the stones to go with them, you’d be a nightmare. Now take your cut, and trouble yourself no more on it.” Caine smirked, clapping Tylen on the back.

“Will it be enough? Referrin’ as I am to your share?” Tylen called after him, his expression softening to concern.

“Maybe.” Caine said, tapping his cut from the top of the steps.

Caine watched as his ginger-haired friend melted into the flow of workers shuffling home from the mill. He turned to the door, and saw faint lights within the crooked gap in the shutters. With a deep breath, he entered.

A motley collection of weathered furniture and castoffs filled the living room. The long wooden dining table was held in balance with a stack of old books, and knitted blankets had been carefully placed over torn upholstery. If there was one thing he could say about his mother, it was that she would never let hard times rob her of her dignity. Caine took it all in with a sigh.

Despite the remains of a fire sputtering in the hearth, the house appeared empty. His sister was likely on shift now, over at the textile factory, but what of his parents?

Caine paced until he heard a faint sob from upstairs.

Bolting up the creaking steps, he found his mother alone in her bedroom, curled in a ball next to the bed. She didn’t notice his arrival, and pulled a house shawl tightly around her as she wept. Her long brown hair had been left unkempt, a rarity for her. Caine stared at her in the gloom, a lump in his throat.

“Ma?” He asked softly. Pulling herself up, she wiped her eyes, and tried to smile.

“Allister … you’re home?”

“For a moment … what’s wrong, Ma?”

“It’s nothing, Allister. Come downstairs. You’ll be hungry, I expect?”

Caine sighed, his face hardening. “Where is he?”

“Never you mind! It’s just, he ...”

“Where, Ma?” Caine pressed.

“The Boiler Plate, I think. It’s not his fault, Allister! Not this time,” she said, as resolutely as she could manage. Her eyes told a different story. He saw lines around those eyes, saw the years of worry they held, and he could not bear it. He turned to go, but paused at the doorway. Taking the still bulging coin-purse from his coat, he tossed it on the bed beside her.

“Of course it’s his fault.”



Caine opened thick double doors to reveal a roaring fire at the hearth of the Boiler Plate. All around it, tankards were struck and ruddy-faced men laughed loudly. A stone’s throw from the mill down the road, it was a full house of poor working men, rejoicing in another day done.

Caine scarcely noticed. All he could see clearly was his father Seamus hunched in a booth at the back, a full tankard before him. Actually, he was more pressed into the booth, hemmed closely on either side by two men. The paunchy old machinist pressed a wisp of graying hair across the top of his bald head, and adjusted his spectacles, but did not touch his tankard. Caine frowned. A second later, the large man next to Seamus slammed his own tankard to the table, and the elder Caine nearly jumped clear of his seat. If he didn’t know better, Caine could have sworn his father was stone cold sober and scared witless.

As he drew closer, Caine felt nauseated. The men sitting with his father were not simply drinking partners.

They were the men he’d just robbed, not an hour ago.

Caine wheeled abruptly to face the bar, for fear they might spot him through the crowd. What was his father doing with them? Caine groaned. He owed them money. What else could it be? Exactly when had things gotten so bad his father had stooped to taking a debt with the mob? Sure, things had been tight since he’d been hurt at the factory. Caine knew his father had had his share of troubles since, not least of which was the bottle. But had he not also managed a few crowns here and there with odd jobs? How had it come to this? Caine ran a hand through his hair, and elbowed his way up to the bar.

What now?

He leaned in to flag the bartender, and let a moment pass before daring a peek over his shoulder. Horace was no longer looking his way. Rather, the skull-faced mobster was distracted by a passing serving girl. Caine let out a long exhale, and faced forward again. Opening his coat, he checked the two-shot holdout in the folds of his jacket. The thing was bound together with worn cloth wrappings, and its iron sights were long since gone, but it had served him well enough in a handful of scrapes thus far.

At the stool next to him, an imposing tree-trunk of a man wrapped in a black riding cloak tilted back a tankard, and eyed him dubiously. The man had a mane of black hair tied back in a ponytail, and had set a sturdy black tricorn on the bar before him.

“You expectin’ trouble?” the stranger mused, with a voice both sonorous and gravelly. Caine flinched, closing the lapel of his coat. He narrowed his eyes at the stranger.

“Not your concern now is it?” he hissed.

The big man turned to look at Horace.

“Right. Well, if you’re going to start something, you’d best be packing more than that.” The man turned back to the bar, sipping at his tankard.

Caine stared back at him, incredulous. A tankard slid down the bar, settling before him. As he pulled the draft to his lips, he peered back to see if his father had yet appeased Horace’s demands. As he did, he choked on his drink, spilling it over the bar.

The booth where his father had been was empty.

The man in black chuckled without looking, and Caine was on his feet. Pushing past drunken patrons with a snarl, he made for the back of the tavern. He arrived at the rear exit, and swung the door open to reveal a narrow alley lit only by the gas lamps from an adjoining street.

There, his father was against the far wall as the enforcer repeatedly pummeled him. Seamus withered with the beating, sobbing from under upraised arms. Blood ran from his mouth and nose. Horace cackled, watching. Caine snarled, drawing his holdout in anger.

With the squeeze of the trigger, a shot echoed in the alley, and the enforcer’s cocked fist unclenched in a splash of red. An ugly hole gaped from the center of his palm, leaving tendons shredded and visible. The mobster looked at it numbly before starting to whimper, his grip on Seamus long forgotten.

“That’s enough!” Caine shouted.

Horace turned, his face twisted in rage. The mobster had his own gun out, a quad-barreled pepperbox, and it shone in the moonlight. Too late, Caine saw the brutal weapon aimed his way. In a heartbeat, Caine’s thoughts exploded into action. His eyes flashed and ethereal runes swirled before him. For the second time that night, a shockwave of force slammed into Horace.

The mobster tumbled into his mewling enforcer, his pistol dropped. Both Horace and his father looked at him, breathless and wide-eyed.

“I’ve got one more, and it’s in your eye if you don’t put your hands where I can see them.” Caine said, keeping his holdout evenly on Horace. Slowly, the mobster stood in compliance.

“All right, kid.” Horace said soothingly. His hands up, he studied Caine. Eyes flashed in recognition, and an ugly smile spread across his face. “Well, well. We’ve met, ain’t we? I’ll give you that first one, you got balls. But I ain’t stupid. You should have quit when you were ahead.” Horace took a half step forward.

Too fast for Caine to react, a shadow came from behind, cracking him on the head with a blackjack. He was down in a heap, the world a blur. His holdout clattered to the ground, and the distorted silhouette of Horace advanced on him, blocking out the gaslight. Rough hands gripped him from behind, pulling him up, shoving him to the wall. Feet kicked at his own, spreading his legs. Horace’s laugh grated in his ears.

“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 him, 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.