The Gathering Storm twot-12

by Robert Jordan

  The White Tower didn't deserve his allegiance, but the Younglings — he could never go back to them, now. It itched at him; this was the first time his wavering had been revealed to a large group. Nobody knew that he'd helped Siuan escape, nor was it widespread knowledge that he'd dallied with Egwene.

  Yet leaving had been the right thing to do. For the first time in months, his actions matched his heart. Saving Egwene. That was something he could believe in.

  He approached the outskirts of camp, keeping his face impassive. He hated the idea of working with the rebel Aes Sedai almost as much as he had hated abandoning his men. These rebels were no better than Elaida. They were the ones who had propped Egwene up as an Amyrlin, as a target. Egwene! A mere Accepted. A pawn. If they failed in their bid for the Tower, they themselves might be able to escape punishment. Egwene would be executed.

  77/ get in, Gawyn thought. /'// save her somehow. Then I'll talk some sense into her and bring her away from all of the Aes Sedai. Perhaps even talk sense into Bryne. We can all get back to Andor, to help Elayne.

  He rode forward with renewed determination, banishing some of his exhaustion. To reach the command post, he had to ride through the camp followers, who outnumbered the actual troops. Cooks to fix the food. Women to serve the food and wash the soiled dishes. Wagon drivers to carry the food. Wheelwrights to fix the wagons that carried the food. Blacksmiths to make horseshoes for the horses that pulled the wagons that carried the food. Merchants to buy the food, and quartermasters to organize it. Less reputable merchants who sought to profit off of the soldiers and their battle pay, and women who sought to do the same. Boys to run messages, hoping to someday carry a sword themselves.

  It was a complete mess. A half-shanty conglomeration of tents and shacks, each of a different hue, design and state of disrepair. Even a capable general like Bryne could impose only so much order on camp followers. His men would keep the peace, more or less, but they couldn't force followers to keep military discipline.

  Gawyn passed through the middle of it all, ignoring those who called to him offering to shine his sword or sell him a sweetbun. The prices would be low — this was a place that fed off of soldiers — but with his war-horse and finer clothing, he'd be marked as an officer. If he bought from one, the others would smell coin, and he could end up surrounded by all who hoped to sell to him.

  He ignored the calls, eyes forward, toward the army itself ahead. Its tents were generally organized in neat rows, grouped by squad and banner, though sometimes in smaller clusters. Gawyn could have guessed the layout without seeing it. Bryne liked organization, but also believed strongly in delegation. Bryne would allow officers to run their camps as they wished, and that led to a setup that was less uniform, yet was far better at running itself.

  He headed directly for the palisade. The camp followers around him weren't easy to ignore, however. Their calls to him lingered in the air, together with the scents of cooking, privies, horses and cheap perfume. The camp wasn't as crowded as a city, but it also wasn't as well maintained. Sweat mixed with burning cook fires mixed with stagnant water mixed with unwashed bodies. It made him want to hold a handkerchief to his face, though he refrained. It would make him look like a spoiled noble, turning his nose up at the common people.

  The stink, the confusion and the yells didn't help his mood any. He had to grit his teeth to keep himself from cursing at each hawker. A figure stumbled onto the pathway in front of him — he reined in. The woman wore a brown skirt and a white blouse, her hands grimy. "Out of the way," Gawyn snapped. His mother would have been outraged to hear him speaking with such anger. Well, his mother was dead now, by al'Thor's hand.

  The woman in front of him looked up and ran back out of the pathway. She had light hair tied in a yellow kerchief and a faintly plump body. Gawyn caught just a glimpse of her face as she turned.

  Gawyn froze. That was an Aes Sedai face! It was unmistakable. He sat, shocked, as the woman pulled her kerchief down and hurried away.

  "Wait!" he called, turning his horse. But the woman did not stop. He hesitated, lowering his arm as he saw the woman join a line of washwomen working between several wooden troughs a short distance away. If she was pretending to be a common woman, then she likely had her own blasted Aes Sedai reasons, and she wouldn't appreciate him exposing her. Very well. Gawyn forced down his annoyance. Egwene. He had to focus on Egwene.

  When he reached the command palisade, the air improved measurably. A quartet of soldiers stood on guard, halberds held at their sides, steel caps gleaming and matched by breastplates emblazoned with Bryne's three stars. A banner bearing the flame of Tar Valon flapped beside the gateway.

  "Recruit?" asked one of the soldiers as Gawyn rode up. The heavyset man bore a red stripe on his left shoulder, marking him as a watch sergeant. He carried a sword instead of a halberd. His breastplate barely fithis girth, and his chin bristled with red hairs. "You'll have to meet with Captain Aldan," the man said with a grunt. "Big blue tent about a quarter of the way around the outside of the camp. You've got your own horse and sword; that'll get you good pay." The man pointed toward a distant point in the main body of the army, outside the palisade. That wouldn't do. He could see Bryne's banner flying inside.

  "I'm not a recruit," Gawyn said, turning Challenge to get a better look at the men. "My name is Gawyn Trakand. I need to speak with Gareth Bryne immediately about a matter of some urgency."

  The soldier raised an eyebrow. Then he chuckled to himself.

  "You don't believe me," Gawyn said flatly.

  "You should go speak to Captain Aldan," the man said lazily, pointing toward the distant tent again.

  Gawyn took a calming breath, trying to force down his irritation. "If you'd just send for Bryne, you'd find that — "

  "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 were important. Or you could make a disturbance. The second was faster, and the camp obviously had enough Aes Sedai support to Heal a few injured soldiers.

  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."

  "See your men to the infirmary, Sergeant," Bryne said, still looking at Gawyn. "You, come with me."

  Gawyn clenched his jaw. He hadn't received such an address from Gareth Bryne since before he'd started shaving. Still, he couldn't really expect the man to be pleased. Just inside the palisade, Gawyn spotted a young boy who was likely a stablehand or messenger boy. He handed Challenge to the wide-eyed youth, instructing him to see the horse cared for. Then Gawyn retrieved his sword from the man holding it and hurried after Bryne.

  "Gareth," Gawyn said, catching up, "I — "

  "Hold your tongue, young man," Bryne said, not turning toward him. "I haven't decided what I'm going to do with you."

  Gawyn snapped his mouth closed. That was uncalled for! Gawyn was still brother to the rightful Queen of Andor, and would be First Prince of the Sword should Elayne take and hold the throne! Bryne should show him respect.

  But Bryne could be stubborn as a boar. Gawyn held his tongue. They reached a tall, peaked tent with two guards at the front. Bryne ducked inside and Gawyn followed. The inside was neat and clean, more so than Gawyn had expected. The desk was stacked with rolled maps and orderly sheets of paper, and the pallets in the corner were rolled carefully, blankets folded with sharp angles. Bryne was obviously relying on someone meticulous to tidy up for him.

  Bryne clasped his hands behind his back, breastplate reflecting Gawyn's face as he turned around. "All right. Explain what you're doing here."

  Gawyn drew himself up. "General," he said, "I think you mistake yourself. I'm no longer your student."

  "I know," Bryne said curtly. "The boy / trained would never have pulled a childish stunt like that one to get my attention."

  "The watch sergeant was belligerent, and I had no patience for the posturing of a fool. This seemed the best way."

  "The best way to what}" Bryne asked. "Outrage me?"

  "Look," Gawyn said, "perhaps I was hasty, but I have an important task. You need to listen to me."

  "And if I don't?" Bryne asked. "If I instead throw you out of my camp for being a spoiled princeling with too much pride and not enough sense?"

  Gawyn frowned. "Be careful, Gareth. I've learned a great deal since we last met. I think you'll find that your sword can no longer best mine as easily as it once did."

  "I have no doubt of that," Bryne said. "Light, boy! You always were a talented one. But you think that just because you're skilled with the sword, your words hold more weight? I should listen because you'll kill me if I don't? I thought I taught you far better than that."

  Bryne had aged since Gawyn had last seen him. But that age didn't bow Bryne down — it rested comfortably on his shoulders. A few more traces of white at his temples, a few more wrinkles around the eyes, yet strong and lean enough of body that he looked years younger than he was. One couldn't look at Gareth Bryne and see anything other than a man in — certainly not past — his prime.

  Gawyn locked eyes with the general, trying to keep the anger from boiling out. Bryne held his gaze, calm. Solid. As a general should be. As Gawyn should be.

  Gawyn looked away, suddenly feeling ashamed of himself. "Light," he whispered, releasing his sword and raising a hand to his head. He suddenly felt very, very tired. "I'm sorry, Gareth. You're right. I've been a fool."

  Bryne grunted. "Good to hear you say that. I was beginning to wonder what had happened to you."

  Gawyn sighed, wiping his brow, wishing for something cool to drink. His anger melted away, and he felt exhausted. "It has been a difficult year," he said, "and I rode myself too hard getting here. I'm at the edge of my mind."

  "You aren't the only one, lad," Bryne said. He took a deep breath and walked to a small serving table, poured a cup of something for Gawyn. It was only warm tea, but Gawyn took it thankfully and sipped.

  "These are times to test men," Bryne said, pouring himself a cup. He took a sip and grimaced.

  "What?" Gawyn asked, glancing down at his cup.

  "It's nothing. I despise this stuff."

  "Then why drink it?" Gawyn asked.

  "It's supposed to improve my health," Bryne grumbled. Before Gawyn could ask further, the large general continued, "So are you going to make me throw you in the stocks before you'll tell me why you decided to fight your way into my command post?"

  Gawyn stepped forward. "Gareth. It's Egwene. They have her."

  "The White Tower Aes Sedai?"

  Gawyn nodded urgently.

  "I know." Bryne took another drink, then grimaced again.

  "We have to go for her!" Gawyn said. "I came to ask you for help. I intend to mount a rescue."

  Bryne snorted softly. "A rescue? And how do you intend to get into the White Tower? Even the Aiel couldn't break into that city."

  "They didn't want to," Gawyn said. "But I don't need to take the city, I just need to sneak a small force in, then get one person out. Every rock has its cracks. I'll find a way."

  Bryne set his cup aside. He looked at Gawyn, firm, weathered face an icon of nobility. "But tell me this, lad. How are you going to get her to come out with you?"

  Gawyn started. "Why, she'll be happy to come. Why wouldn't she?"

  "Because she's forbidden us to rescue her," Bryne said, clasping his hands behind his back again. "Or so I've been able to gather. The Aes Sedai tell me little. One would think they'd be more trusting toward a man they depend on to run this siege of theirs. Anyway, the Amyrlin can communicate with them somehow, and she's instructed them to leave her be." />
  What? That was ridiculous! Obviously, the Aes Sedai in camp were fudging the facts. "Bryne, she's imprisoned! The Aes Sedai I heard talking said that she's being beaten daily. They'll execute her!"

  "I don't know," Bryne said. "She's been with them for weeks now and they haven't killed her yet."

  "They'll kill her," Gawyn said urgently. "You know they will. Perhaps you parade a fallen enemy before your soldiers for a time, but eventually you have to mount his head on a pike to let them know he's dead and gone. You know I'm right."

  Bryne regarded him, then nodded. "Perhaps I do. But there's still nothing I can do. I'm bound by oaths, Gawyn. I can't do anything unless that girl instructs me to."

  "You'd let her die?"

  "If that's what it takes to keep my oath, then yes."

  If Bryne was bound by oath . . . well, he'd sooner hear an Aes Sedai tell a lie than see Gareth Bryne break his word. But Egwene! There had to be something he could do!

  "I'll try to get you an audience with some of the Aes Sedai I serve," Bryne said. "Perhaps they can do something. If you persuade them that a rescue is needed, and that the Amyrlin would want it, then we'll see."

  Gawyn nodded. It was something at least. "Thank you."

  Bryne waved indifferently. "Though I should see you in the stocks. For wounding three of my men, if nothing else."

  "Have an Aes Sedai Heal them," Gawyn said. "From what I've heard, you've no lack of sisters to bully you."

  "Bah," Bryne said. "I can rarely get them to Heal anyone unless the soldier's life is threatened. I had a man take a bad spill while riding the other day, and I was told that Healing would only teach him to be reckless. 'Pain is its own lesson,' the blasted woman said. 'Perhaps next time he won't see fit to make sport for his friends while riding.' "

  Gawyn grimaced. "But surely they'll make an exception for those men. After all, an enemy did do the wounding."