Chapter 6: The Marshal's Hand

Lord Marshal Alderic Skell rode in at noon with sixty riders, and the whole fort turned out to watch.

He wore a black coat with a high collar and no medals, because a man like that didn't need them.

He was big through the chest, with iron-white hair and a white scar through his upper lip, and he swung off his horse easily.

"At ease, at ease," he called, smiling. "I'm only here to look at the faces."

His voice was warm, and it carried all the way to the back of the Yard.

I felt myself relax before I could stop it.

That was the first thing I learned about him.

The Ninth stood in two lines on the frozen drill ground, thirty recruits in front and the old hands behind.

Commander Stane stood at the head of the line with his hands behind him and his eyes on nothing.

Sergeant Tolley stood at his right.

The Marshal walked down the ranks slowly.

He stopped at every recruit.

He tipped each chin up with two fingers, looked into each pair of eyes, and said something kind.

"A good jaw. Your mother raised you well."

"You've got a fighter's hands, son," he told the next one.

"Don't be frightened. We'll make a wolf of you yet."

He reached Wick and stopped.

Wick's face was white.

"And you?"

"Wick Alderby, Lord Marshal. Marsh Hollow," Wick said.

"Do you know the oath, Alderby?"

"Yes, sir. I give my body to the Host, and my word to the Crown, and what the chain says, I do."

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