The Way of Caine ,The Warcaster Chronicl - By Miles Holmes Page 0,12

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.”

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