Marshal Solvan Krail’s sword tip dropped two inches. His face turning the was dark, mottled color of a bruised plum as he stared at Captain Vane.
“Insubordination,” the marshal whispered, the word hissing through his clenched teeth like steam from an overheated boiler. “In the presence of the guard post. In the face of the enemy.”
He swung the heavy steel blade toward Captain Hest Vale, the polished point stopping six inches from her gorget. “You put this cowardice into his head, Vale! You and that yellow oilskin packet! I gave a working marching order! You’ll form the First Cohort into column and lead the vanguard across the Windpit saddle. Or I’ll execute you on this command table for treason!”
Hest Vale didn’t step back. She didn’t raise her buckler, and she didn’t draw her sword. She stood with her feet planted firmly on the cold limestone flags of Empty Choir, her hands resting quietly on her leather belt, her grey eyes meeting Krail’s furious glare with the unmoving stillness of native granite.
“I refuse the order, Marshal Krail,” Hest said.
Her voice was not loud. But it was clear, measured. Then he pitched with the quiet power that had commanded forty border patrols through three mountain winters. It carried into every corner of the silent bailey. He reached the ears of every soldier standing in the ranks.
