The Way of Caine (The Warcaster Chronicl

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.

“Or maybe they had help? Eh, cadet?” The lieutenant turned to watch the doorway of the armory. Through the open doors, an immense figure stooped to pass the archway, and out of shadow. It was a worn Engines East model, built for general labor duties. In appearance, it was like a hulking armored man some ten feet high with a visored face, thick bulbous shoulders, sinews of pistons and oversized triple-jointed claw-grip hands. From a single chimney on its back, a wisp of smoke billowed. Alongside, the gunnery sergeant marshaled it on with barking commands. His expression was unmistakably smug.

“You know, if it weren’t for your little gunnery show today, I might never have put it together.” The Lieutenant’s arms were crossed now, eyes narrowing.

Caine felt the thing, its blunt thoughts now pushed at the edge of his mind. As it drew closer, it felt him too. Smoldering eyes set deep within the slit of a grated visor perked up, locking on him. He tried not to look at it, but the recognition it showed put him in a panic.

No! Stay back! He thought, desperately trying to bend the semi-intelligent machine to his will. It had worked last week, after all …

He just couldn’t stop it now.

The beast broke stride with the gunnery sergeant and made a beeline for Caine. In a few broad strides, the heaving, hissing machine was standing submissively before him, head cocked.

“Aw, for pity’s sake! Will you just get away from me?” Caine sighed.

Dutifully this time, the labor-jack took precisely one step back. Holding still, it cocked its head once more, awaiting another order.

“That’s what I thought.” The lieutenant nodded. “That will be all, gunnery sergeant.”

The gunnery sergeant shouted for the machine to fall back, but it remained fixated on Caine.

“Sir, I don’t know …”

“Cadet Caine! In light of this and other incidents for which you’ve been cited, it is my decision to file for your immediate dismissal from this battle school.” The lieutenant declared evenly.

Caine could not hide his outrage.

Over a year’s work! Sure, he’d had his share of troubles adapting to life in the service, but had not his very blood and sweat been shed in this uniform? Had he not shown talent? Since that last night with his father, accomplishing this one thing had burned in him, like nothing before. He would hold it up to the old bastard. Rub it in his face.

“You can’t take this from me!” A snarl twisted his face, and the officer before him recoiled.

“Stand down, Cadet Caine!” the lieutenant waved him off. “This is a transfer, not a discharge! Clearly, we’re wasting your time here. I’m putting you in for battle school in Caspia. Your shenanigans will probably get you tossed, alright. But if they don’t, you might just make warcaster.”





Three Years Ago

Winter, AR 593; Orven

“Journeyman Caine! We’re nearly there, sir.” Lieutenant Gangier called out.

Caine wasn’t listening, lulled as he had become by the steady clip-clop, clip-clop of his horse’s shoes against the cobblestones.

“Journeyman Caine, sir! The Long Gunner junior officer repeated, regarding Caine with puzzlement.

Caine snapped up, looking across to the lieutenant bundled tightly in winter dress on horseback alongside him. The streets of Orven bustled with life around them, and the lights and livery of the upcoming winter festival were everywhere one might look. From within his suit of armor, Caine shivered, and pulled his riding cloak tighter around him.

“The train station is just ahead, you see?”

Caine nodded, still trying to turtle within his armor for warmth. He hadn’t gotten used to the weight of it even after a year, and it chafed despite oils and softening balms he’d rubbed into the leather lining. He particularly hated that the breastplate would bind at his chest when he was short of breath, it felt as though he were trapped. Even so, he couldn’t deny it was the first thing he’d ever worn that was new, fitted for him. There was something comfortable about that. What he liked about his armor was what was emblazoned on the contour of his shoulder plates. There, on the left, the golden etched Cygnus, and on the right, the white curving horns of his rank. After a year’s training in Caspia, he had entered the final phase.

He was a journeyman warcaster.

“So where are they shipping you, anyway, lieutenant?” Caine leaned over casually, grasping the reigns. The fresh-faced junior officer brightened, slowing his horse as children ran ahead.

“Bound for the garrison at Northguard, sir.”

Caine winced at the formality. He had to admit he had come to enjoy the company of the young officer. His western accent sounded bland to Caine’s ear, slow and measured, but he spoke in earnest, an effect that Caine found at once disarming. Despite their technically equal rank, the lieutenant had deferred to the authority of Caine’s arcane rank thus far. Caine decided it was time to put a stop to it.

“Call me Allister. We’re both juniors, eh?”

The lieutenant’s young face cracked wide in a warm smile.

“All right … Allister. You can call me Gerard, although only my mother does. Back home, I’m just Gerdie.”

“So you’re done at the Academy and off to face Khadorans at Northguard?”

“Like my father before me, Morrow rest his soul. Nothing so exciting as your post though, I daresay.” Gerdie smiled, his eyes lit up.

“Ech, well …” Caine scoffed in false modesty.

“Posted to apprentice under Commander Magnus? Sir, I mean, Allister! Are you daft? He’s a living legend! Rumor has it he hand-picked you, no less! Any truth to that?”

“None whatsoever,” Caine replied with a grin.

Ahead, a steam-whistle blew and the mighty wheels of the train screeched along the rail, announcing its arrival at the crowded station. The long train was loaded with passengers, happy to disembark after their long journey abroad. Dismounting, Caine and Gerdie brought their horses to the servicemen stables adjoining the station. Caine gave his mare a pat along the snout as he handed the reigns to a ruddy stable boy. Turning, he looked upon the train that would take him north. The intervening crowd was daunting, but both he and Gerdie made their way. Ahead, a barker shouted news of unrest in Caspia, the way they’d just come. Caine frowned to hear the words “threat to Vinter” and “Leto challenges,” but pressed on, soon forgetting them. Then, a hand brushed into him from out of the crowd.

What was this?

The hand fluttered soft as a butterfly and twice as fast to his belt. Had he not the gift of magic and years as a pickpocket himself, he would have missed it.

Caine had a split second to react.

Shooting his own hand forward, he seized the wandering hand. The thief was good, all right. Bold or insane to try this stunt on an armored officer. His fatal mistake had been to miss the arcane rank on Caine’s shoulder.

“A pardon to you, sir! I didn’t …” a world-weary face said in alarm, then paused. There was confusion in his eyes. Caine looked back at the man, equally stunned. The face was scarred, prematurely worn, the hair ragged, but a familiar shade of red. The hand he now gripped was missing two fingers, but he realized who it belonged to just the same.

“Looks like you found your stones after all, eh Tylen?” he grinned.

His old partner smiled, eyes lighting up in relief and surprise.

“Allie? See true my eyes! Could it be? Alive and in person?”

Caine released his hand, and nodded.

“The same, chum.”

Tylen marveled over his transformation from thug into clean-cut serviceman.

“We thought -- feared -- Horace had made good on his word. Now that I see you, I’m not sure it isn’t actually a fate worse than that!”

Caine laughed, clapping him on the back. Wheeling to face Gerdie, introductions were made. Gerdie, obliged to secure their tickets from the kiosk inside, stepped off. As he went, Caine frowned.

“Tylen, what are you doing in Orven?”

His former accomplice’s face turned grave at the question, and he favored his mutilated hand. Caine looked at it, squinting.

“Did you get pinched, Ty?”

“You could say that,” Tylen admitted. “When Boss Dakin died last year, Horace took over. He felt it proper to make some examples.” Caine nodded, eyes narrowing at the name.

“First thing he did was run a few folk like me down. Made sure we understood we either worked for him, or we didn’t work.” Tylen displayed his three fingered hand now with ironic pride.

“After that, he opened his book of grudges. He looked for you for a long time. The bounty was stacked high, but in the end, he figured you dead, like the rest of us. Listen, what he done to your Pa? I’m real sorry Allie. He didn’t deserve it.”

Caine felt fire in his chest. His gaze was at once intense, piercing.

“What are you talking about, Tylen?”

“Bloody hell. I thought …”

Caine’s world was flooding over in red. His ears burned, and he felt as though the seconds were now ticking at a snail’s pace. He grabbed Tylen roughly by the shoulder.

“Alive? … Is he alive, Tylen?”

“Yes … but Caine, he’s … uh, ow! You’re hurting me!” Tylen protested. Caine released him as quickly as he had grabbed him, turning to go. As he did, Gerdie was returning, pushing through the crowd with tickets in hand.

“Hallo!” the junior officer shouted after him across the noisy foot traffic. Caine did not answer, but instead turned to his old friend.

“Tell him to go on without me. I’ve got something needs doing.”

Tylen nodded, and watched as Caine disappeared into the crowd.



Caine barged through the old red door, frantic. It seemed so old and frail to him now, like something left from centuries ago. The house within had fared no better, more withered than ever he had seen it. The hallway smelled like death. Balms and liniments wafted from the stairwell above.

As he entered the front hall, a cry of surprise came from the front room. His diminutive sister, Bethany, stared blankly at him. On her knees, she had been scrubbing mud from a pair of work boots, with a dozen more waiting in a row. She looked up from her chore, mouth hung wide. The sight of her dead brother, not just alive, but somehow now a soldier, left her a statue.

“Beth!” Caine came to her, taking a knee and putting an arm to her shoulder. She lunged forward to embrace him, nearly knocking him down. He returned the embrace, gripping her fiercely. She said nothing, but began to sob in his shoulder. He patted her head, and pulled back enough to look her in the eye.

“Father. I heard he … is he alright?” he asked gently.

Bethany sniffed, still in shock at the vision before her. She looked past the cramped front hall, and to the stairs. Caine followed her gaze, nodding. Patting her once more, he stood up and made for the stairs.

The bedroom was still and dark, with mildewed curtains that held back the late afternoon sun. Were it not for ragged breathing within the shadows, Caine would have thought the room empty. Pulling back the drapes, his father lay before him on the bed. The old man was nearly motionless and moribund beyond anything he’d ever seen. His unblinking eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling. He had aged twenty years in slightly more than two, if appearances were to be believed. His hair had been reduced to only a few white wisps, and his once meaty frame was nearly skeletal now. Caine noticed a disquieting scar around his neck, like an uneven collar.

Then, he stopped breathing. Caine rushed to his side, a hand to his ragged arm.

Convulsing, the old man shook as though possessed, and next was wracked by a hacking cough. His throat clear, he once again wheezed slow ragged breaths into his withered lungs.

Caine sat in a chair next to the bed, and cupped his hands. At length, he sat forward, leaning over toward the ear of his father.

“Pa?” He stared at Seamus, uncertain what to do. Gradually his face hardened.

He opened his long coat, revealing the breastplate of his armor. “Look at this! Do you see me? Am I a thug to you now? Does a thug wear the king’s armor?”

Caine watched his father’s face, desperate for a sign. There was no flicker of recognition in those grey, unfocused eyes. They simply twitched randomly at the ceiling above. As the moment grew longer, his head shook slowly. Two years of pent up spite and anger drained from him and he sagged in the chair with a long exhale.

“You just couldn’t let me have this, could you?” he whispered.

“He’s been like this since they cut him down,” Bethany said from the doorway.

“Morrow forgive me, they should have let him die up there. I swear it would have been better. Better than this,” Bethany added, her face flushing. Caine was shocked at how much she reminded him of his mother the last time he’d seen her.

“Where were you, Allister? We thought you were dead.”

“I’m sorry, Beth … I had to go.”

She nodded wordlessly, coming to his side. She looked down at their wheezing father, wiping her eyes.

“Why ...? Why did this happen?” he asked.

“Who knows?” Bethany sat down on the bed, putting Seamus’s withered hand in her own, stroking it slowly.

“Ma says he’d paid his debt to Boss Dakin. That should have been the end of it. But when Horace took over, he came for him, like he had a score to settle. He never said why. His gang strung Pa up at the marketplace, on the clock tower, for all to see. He was up there five minutes before anyone bothered to cut him down. Horace strung a dozen more like him all in one week. Everyone saw it, but no witnesses, of course.” Bethany looked back at him, but Caine looked away, his jaw clenching. Standing, he made for the door.

“Where you going? Ma will be home from her shift soon. She’ll want to know you’re alright,” she pleaded.

“I’m not alright, Beth. Not one whit.”



Caine walked the street, murder in his eyes. Despite the cold, the rage in him burned hotter than the power plant on the back of his armor. As it turned out, finding Horace was no challenge. A couple of wayward drunks were quick to point out he and his crew were at the Boiler Plate, as most nights, just as he had been when Caine had last seen him. Nearing the pub, he could hear the tune of a fiddler within, and a boisterous crowd singing along. Approaching the door, he drew his gun. Those few gathered by it marked him with fearful glances, and were quick to clear a path. All except one, that was. Even from his rage, he recognized Horace’s old enforcer, by the scarred hand he’d given him. To his credit, the big man stood his ground, even daring to reach for a weapon of his own.

Too late.

Three strides in, Caine exploded his rage forward. An arc of force threw the mobster back into the thick wooden doors, which in turn splintered like matchwood. Within the tavern, the fiddler stopped, and abruptly the roaring crowd fell silent.

Caine stepped over the shattered threshold and the unconscious gangster, passing stunned patrons that had been knocked back from the force of the impact.

“Horace!” He shouted over a bewildered crowd with eyes smoldering like embers. “I’m calling you out!” From the booth at the back, Horace sat, a serving girl on either arm. The mobster blinked, head cocked quizzically. In truth, Horace looked much as Caine had last seen him, no less the skull-faced villain than before. Yet somehow, he could not seem more different. Where Caine had once seen an adversary or a threat, he now saw only prey.

Gradually, Horace began to stir, his eyes squinting in recognition. “Sure, sure … I’m coming.” He shouted back peaceably, half speaking to the crowd. His crew watched him go, looking for the signal to act. He waved them off, stepping clear of the booth.

Caine nodded, and turned for the door. Across the hushed silence of the room, he heard the sound of a pistol being cocked.

He smiled.

Wheeling back on Horace in a blur, his weapon spat once, a thunderous roar in the enclosed space. Horace cried out in dismay as the shot knocked his weapon to the floor. Clutching his numbed hand, his eyes flashed darkly at Caine.

“You want to do this in here, eh? Right. Pick it up.” Caine holstered his weapon, crossing his arms as he did.

The mobster dove for the weapon, rolling behind one of his prized serving girls as she had hidden beneath an intervening table. Grabbing her about the neck, he pulled her up as a shield. Leaning out from behind her shoulder, he tried to put the gun on Caine once more.

Fire spat from Caine’s second pistol, followed by another thunderclap and a wreath of smoke. Horace released the girl and rolled on the floor in agony. His off-hand had been reduced to a tangle of ground meat, and spurted blood. Once again, Horace had dropped his pistol. Caine, meanwhile reloaded and re-holstered.

“PICK IT UP!” Caine barked, his rage boiling over.

Shaking with pain and anger, Horace reached for his pistol. Standing with great effort, he was panting with shock. Caine only watched him, arms crossed. A shaky arm raised the pistol to aim, and tried once more to fire the weapon. One more time, a muzzle flashed, and a thunderclap roared.

Horace fell to the ground, screaming, his kneecap gone.

Caine strode insouciantly to the now whimpering mobster. This time, Horace dared not touch his weapon. He only whimpered as Caine kneeled to hand it to him.

“No? Is that all you’ve got? Anyone else? Is no one here capable of giving me a real fight?” Caine shouted, glaring around the tavern. Silence answered him. Patrons remained, peering in terror from under their tables and behind the bar. The mobsters he’d marked at a booth were gone. He took a deep breath. As his rage cooled, his manner became detached, calculating.

“So be it.”

Caine tossed Horace’s weapon aside then reached over to pick Horace up by his shirt with a grunt. Draping the mobster’s good arm over his shoulder, Caine steadied him to stand.

“Come on Horace. We’re going for a walk.”

Out into the marketplace, decked with colored lights and holiday wreaths, the pair limped. Horace hobbled to match Caine’s pace, he cried out with each step. Before them loomed the great Market Clock Tower, five stories high and decked with festive boughs. Horace looked up at it, panic on his face.

“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.”