The Steel Queen - Prologue

Chapter 5 - The Knight Marshal

The Knight Marshal

The knight marshal swung his one-eyed gaze across the faces of the nine captains, finally settling on the king. “We dare not drop our guard.”

On the far side of the council table, Sir Rannock argued. “But there’s been no sign of the enemy. The north is quiet despite the Painted Warrior’s warning.” 

The marshal parried the argument. “Peace is often a delusion, a way for the Mordant to lull his enemies into the trap of complacency. Battle-readiness must be the standing order for each keep, wall, and outpost within the domain of Castlegard.” He watched their faces, seeing more than one nod of agreement, but the decision rested with the king. 

King Ursus tugged on his silver beard, his face thoughtful. “We’ve had no reports of movement in the steppes, yet the marshal has the truth of it. The Mordant is a clever opponent, full of deceit. The Octagon must remain vigilant. Let the order stand.”

The marshal eased back in his chair and watched as the knight-captains made their reports. King Ursus took and gave counsel, but when it came to the review of the ledgers by the quartermaster, the king cut the meeting short. The warrior-king had little patience for the coin-counters endless litany of silvers owed, golds spent, and coppers collected. Trusting the quartermaster to see to it that the ledgers balanced, the king dismissed them all with a wave of his hand. 

The marshal stood to leave, but the king’s voice pulled him back. “Not you, Osbourne.” 

Changing directions, the marshal moved to stand with his back to the roaring fireplace. Heat beat against him, easing the ache of old war wounds. Overhead, faded battle banners hung from the rafters, a proud testament to the long history of the Octagon Knights. So much history, so much blood shed, the marshal tallied the cost of battles won and lost. 

The door closed and he was alone with his king. 

King Ursus contemplated a goblet of wine, the maps, messages, and ledgers strewn across the table seemingly forgotten. Age was clearly upon the king, yet he still cut an imposing figure with the broad shoulders and thick arms of a seasoned warrior. Even at council, the king dressed in battle-scarred fighting leathers, his great blue sword, Honor’s Edge, never far from his hand. 

The king sent a baleful glare toward his marshal. “You saw did you not? You saw, you were the judge of the trials, and yet you said nothing.” 

Osbourne considered his words. The marshal only had one eye left to him, yet it was his king who had a blind spot for honor. “Yes, sire, I saw. Blaine struck a clean blow to the heart rune yet Trask ignored it. Not honorable combat for the octagon, but not without precedent either.”

“Sir Bearhart preserved the honor of the Octagon, while you did nothing.”

“But sire, it is a trial by combat.”

“There are rules,” the king’s voice held a dangerous edge. 

Osbourne decided, no matter the cost, to say what he thought. “Sire, there are some who say we place too much emphasis on honor. They argue that our enemies, nay even our allies, will not fight with honor. That honor is nothing more than a shroud for dead heroes.” He took a deep breath and forced the words out. “What Trask did in the Octagon was dishonorable yet it represents the truth of battle, especially against the Mordant.”

“Truth! I’ll give you truth!” The king roared in anger, his metal goblet smashing against the stone fireplace, narrowly missing the marshal’s head. Red wine dripped down the stone like an open wound. “Take a good look at this room, Osbourne. The Octagon is built on honor!”