The Way of Caine ,The Warcaster Chronicl - By Miles Holmes Page 0,15

it is Cygnar fights for.”

Caine looked at the artifact, curious. Opening it, he saw a small compass, crafted with uncanny precision. Stunned, he could thank his mentor with no more than a whisper. Lord Brigham nodded.

“It belonged to my father, Allister, and now I give it to you. He told me something the day I enlisted, so long ago. He told me that to follow orders and never your heart will surely drag you to hell, no matter what they may pin to your chest. I never forgot those words, Morrow rest his soul. Only you will know at the end of your days if your life has been a worthy one, Allister. May this compass lead you to the same peace I have found at the end of mine.”

Autumn AR 595; Khadoran border near Fellig

Caine ran. In form fitting armor slim and new under a full length duster, his legs pumped and his lungs heaved.

He was a warcaster now, or so the ranks on his shoulder proclaimed. As a full Lieutenant in the King’s army, he now commanded a platoon of soldiers. Armed with the most powerful magic the academy could teach, his own steady aim honed to a deadeye shot he could lend to others, if it served him. He could spur his bullets ahead to find targets far from reach, or likewise to any other he might choose. Like Magnus, he had learned to twist shadows around him as a cloak to keep bullets from finding him. Most of all, the magic he had always known had become more powerful than ever. He could flash further and more than ever before, and his force push had blossomed to a devastating thunder-strike of raw power.

Just the same, Lieutenant Allister Caine the great and powerful warcaster was running for his life.

The bombard shell impacted the damp earth two strides ahead of Caine, casting up dirt and knocking him back with a shockwave of force. He struggled to get back up, his ears ringing. Dazed, he staggered and spit dirt. As his hearing returned, he realized the impact had only been a marking round. The whistling of more shells as they arced overhead brought him to his senses like a smelling salt. With a glance, he spotted the trenches of the left flank as his best choice for cover. Within, he could see the trenchers of a third platoon trading shots across no-man’s land.

They were too far away.

Desperately looking for closer cover, he spotted a dip in the ground. He pulled his concentration as tightly as he could. Unsure he would flash away in time, he instinctively raised an arm to shield his face from the incoming shells.

The world went black around him. He disappeared.

Upon the very ground he had crouched only a second before, hell was unleashed. The fire of more than a dozen bombards churned the earth, creeping across the left flank. The trenchers manning the line were soon screaming in the chaos of shrapnel and overpressure.

From his cover, Caine shook off the dirt that covered him and looked up over the crest. As the smoke cleared it revealed a surreal vision. The left flank had been devastated, reduced to pockmarked earth. Where once had nestled a full platoon, there was now only scraps of armor and the fading screams of the dying. He was breathless at the sight. Since deploying with his first army, he’d seen his share of border skirmishes with the Khadorans. Not once had he seen them come with such fire in their eyes.

Caine dragged himself to his feet, and ran once more for the flank. He leapt into a crater, looking left and right for any sign of the living.

He was alone.

A whistle blew from across no-man’s land. Three long blasts. He had come to know it well. Winter Guard charged after three long blasts. Peering into the thicket across the battlefield, he saw their shadows advance. Company strength. Caine blanched and looked back to the center of the line.

There, the massed cannon fire of Cygnaran Defenders on his side was engaged with whistling mortar volleys of the enemy’s Bombards. Through it all, his side seemed too preoccupied to deal with a collapsed flank. He squinted against the steady flash of pyrotechnics and spotted his own warjacks.

He had been issued a pair of light warjacks designated as Sentinels, but now, as he needed them most, he saw he’d outpaced them to reinforce the flank. They labored on without his mind in theirs, their