“Are you going to be trouble?” the soldier asked, puffing himself up. The other men readied their halberds.
“No trouble,” Gawyn said evenly. “I just need—”
“If you’re going to be in our camp,” the soldier interrupted, stepping forward, “you’re going to have to learn how to do what you’re told.”
Gawyn met the man’s eyes. “Very well. We can do it this way. It will probably be faster anyway.”
The sergeant laid a hand on his sword.
Gawyn kicked his feet free of the stirrups and pushed himself out of the saddle. It would be too hard to keep from killing the man from horseback. He slid his blade free as his feet hit the muddy ground, the sheath rasping like an inhaled breath. Gawyn fell into Oak Shakes Its Branches, a form that wielded nonlethal blows, often used by masters for training their students. It was also very effective against a large group all using different weapons.
Before the sergeant had his sword free, Gawyn slammed into him, ramming an elbow into his gut just beneath the poorly fitting breastplate. The man grunted and bent, then Gawyn knocked him on the side of the head with the hilt of his sword—the man should have known better than to wear his cap askew like that. Then Gawyn fell into Parting the Silk to deal with the first halberdier. As another of the men screamed for help, Gawyn’s blade slashed across the first halberdier’s breastplate with a ringing sound, forcing the man back. Gawyn finished by sweeping the man’s feet from under him, then fell into Twisting the Wind to block a pair of blows from the other two men.
It was unfortunate, but he had to resort to striking the thighs of the two standing halberdiers. He’d have preferred to avoid wounding them, but fights—even one such as this, against far less skilled opponents—became unpredictable the longer they lasted. One had to control the battlefield quickly and soundly, and that meant dropping the two soldiers—clutching their bleeding thighs. The sergeant was out cold from the rap to the head, but the first halberdier was rising shakily. Gawyn kicked the man’s halberd aside, then planted a boot in his face, knocking him back and bloodying his nose.
Challenge whinnied from behind, snorting and stamping the ground. The warhorse sensed a fight, but was well trained. He knew that when his reins were dropped, he was to remain still. Gawyn wiped his blade on his trouser leg, then slid it back into its sheath, the wounded soldiers groaning on the ground. He patted Challenge on the nose and took up the reins again. Behind Gawyn, nearby camp followers backed away, then ran. A group of soldiers from inside the palisade approached with bows drawn. That was not good. Gawyn turned to face them, pulling his still-sheathed sword free from his belt and tossing it to the ground in front of the men.
“I am unarmed,” he said over the sounds of the wounded. “And none of these four will die this day. Go and tell your general that a lone blade-master just felled a squad of his guards in under ten heartbeats. I’m an old student of his. He’ll want to see me.”
One of the men scrambled forward to take Gawyn’s fallen sword while another signaled to a runner. The others kept their bows raised. One of the fallen halberdiers began to crawl away. Gawyn turned Challenge at an angle, making ready to duck behind the horse if the soldiers moved to draw. He’d much prefer it not come to that, but of the two of them, Challenge was far more likely to survive a few shortbow shafts than Gawyn.
Several of the soldiers risked coming forward to help their fallen friends. The heavyset watch sergeant was stirring, and he sat up, cursing under his breath. Gawyn made no threatening motions.
Perhaps it had been a mistake to fight the men, but he had already wasted too much time. Egwene could be dead by now! When a man like that sergeant tried to assert his authority, you really only had two options. You could talk your way up through the ranks of the bureaucracy, convincing each soldier each step of the way that you
Eventually, a small group of men strode out from inside the palisade. Their uniforms were sharp, their postures dangerous, their faces worn. At their head came a square-faced man with graying temples and a strong, stocky build. Gawyn smiled. Bryne himself. The gamble had worked.
The Captain-General surveyed Gawyn, then moved on to a quick inspection of his fallen soldiers. At last, he shook his head. “Stand down,” he said to his men. “Sergeant Cords.”
The stocky sergeant stood up. “Sir!”
Bryne glanced back at Gawyn. “Next time a man comes to the gate claiming to be nobility and asking for me, send for an officer. Immediately. I don’t care if the man has two months of scruffy beard and reeks of cheap ale. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said, blushing. “Understood, sir.”
