The Way of Caine ,The Warcaster Chronicl - By Miles Holmes Page 0,3

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