him alive. So much for that. And he could use his sword. He might not have finished armsor training, but he'd stayed alive with his sword nonetheless. Mirthlessly Rawl consigned his long-ago dismissal from armsor training to the same place as Banjee's horrified criticism. Their problem. Not his.
He let out a sigh. This is what he had fled, when he left Aldar thirty years ago. Everyone always so right. Demons! Did none of them ever get tired of thinking about others? In Tibernia a man could at least look after himself. Maybe he did think being a bornlord wasn't really too bad; he'd have certainly liked it if he’d been born on top.
Banjee and his crew puttered with the battered wagon for over an hour while the armsors encircled the caravan, keeping intense watch on the sun-ridden plains. Rawl was studiously ignored, though he did manage to get a cup of water. "We're on restrictions," the woman driving the tank wagon told him sourly. Not saying anything, Rawl took what he was given. Best not to argue. Save the battles for later.