The Way of Caine ,The Warcaster Chronicl - By Miles Holmes Page 0,5

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