20 Spy

With a loud crack, the wooden sword in Balan's hand broke. Lancelot lowered his two swords and smirked.

"That's my twelfth," Balan sighed.

"You'd better pray that Ruccius will let you fight with better swords," Lancelot teased.

Balan frowned. Perhaps Lancelot could simply have been more careful.

"Your parrying is getting much better, Balan," Lancelot praised. "You will have to work on your speed some more."

"And hit harder!" Dagonet added.

Balan glanced at them. Ellis would have his rear if he kept breaking practice swords at this rate. It would not do his sword much good if he would hit harder or move faster.

Tristan was a good teacher and Balan's skills with the sword were improving rapidly. He had perfected several moves for defence and attack, and a few of Tristan's special swings were securely drilled into his body and his brain. He knew, however, that it would soon be pointless to continue practising with a wooden sword. On the day he would be given a real sword, he would have to start learning all these moves from scratch again. The balance and weight of a real sword were completely different from those of a mere piece of wood.

Tristan had left before dawn to scout and Balan had been training with Lancelot and Dagonet all morning. By mid-afternoon they sent him away though, and after putting away his weapons he went to find Galahad and Pelleas.

Galahad was in the armoury with Gawain, whetting an old rusty sword. Beside him, all polished and shining, was a beautiful sword which had once belonged to Galahad's father. But apparently Gawain wouldn't let Galahad touch it yet.

"As long as you are unable to whet a blade properly, you will keep your hands away from this awesome sword," Gawain chided after another indignant glare from Galahad.

Gawain sent Balan away as he wanted Galahad to focus on his work.

Pelleas turned out to be in the infirmary. Gaheris had whipped him severely and Pelleas was hissing into his forearms while the healer washed out the bleeding cuts on his back. The freckled boy complained loudly about the injustice of his beating. He gave Balan a detailed description of what he would do to get back at Gaheris for this highly undeserved treatment.

When Gaheris himself walked into the infirmary, Pelleas quieted down considerably. Balan noticed the ominous look on Gaheris' face and decided that he did not want to witness whatever Pelleas would be facing next.

He left the infirmary and collected his bow and arrows from the armoury for some target practice.

Dagonet and Lancelot were still sparring. Brumear and Bors were wrestling, Bedivere and Lamorak were throwing spears, and over in a corner he saw Pellinore and Lanolan, the latter showing off his skills with the large battle axe. Balan spat on the ground when he watched Lanolan attack the wooden practice pole.

Balan and Lanolan had taken an instant dislike to each other from the moment they had first met. Lanolan considered himself way above Balan's level and did everything to make that perfectly clear. He could never resist playing foul tricks on the youngest boy. Balan, in turn, grew more and more frustrated with the nineteen-year-old's arrogance and had made a few blistering remarks which had not only hit home, but had also made the older knights laugh loudly at Lanolan's expense. The enmity between the two boys was growing steadily.

With a snort of disgust Balan noticed that Lanolan was actually quite good with the axe. He frowned and walked over to the targets.

While Balan shot his arrows into the target's center one after the other, Bors stopped wrestling and came over to watch him.

"Are ye sure you 'n Tristan aren't related?" the bald knight asked when Balan accidentally split one of his own arrows.

Balan shook his head.

"We're from different tribes," he replied, shooting another arrow into the target.

He didn't pay further attention to Bors and when his quiver was empty, Bors left to spar with Lamorak. Balan retrieved his arrows and emptied his quiver three more times before leaving the deafening roars, pounding and clanking of the practice yard. Longing for a view of the fields outside the fort, he climbed the stone steps to the top of the wall.

The sun – though still high in the sky – was gradually moving to the south-west. Balan deeply inhaled the scent of the forest and fields as he sauntered around the length of the wall. He leant against the battlements above the East Gate and leisurely stared into the distance.

A Roman patrol of about twenty soldiers was marching towards the fort. Their long spears proudly pointed up in the air and the large blue shields were held securely by their sides. These soldiers were done for today, Balan knew. The troop that was to replace them had left the fort a little earlier and would stay away on patrol until dusk. After dark there were no patrols other than those on the Wall. But the troop currently returning would leave the fort again just before dawn.

A mighty oak tree guarded the side of the main East road. Balan had never seen a tree as large as this one back in Sarmatia. The branches of the tree were a popular gathering place for hundreds of birds and Balan loved the sound of their twittering and singing. He gladly spent hours sitting on the wall, listening to the birds' morning and evening concerts while dusk turned into darkness, or while dawn turned into day. Galahad joined him sometimes, but the older boy could never sit still as long as Balan could.

Pelleas passionately hated spending time on the wall, for Ruccius had deemed him old enough to keep watch, even at night. Galahad and Balan had chaffed him about it, until Gawain had casually mentioned that Galahad was only six months removed from turning sixteen and being pulled into watch duty himself. Balan had no need to worry, though. He was too young to keep watch and he "still needed to grow," as the Romans put it. He was exempted from all night time duties as well as from food and sleep deprivation training. The other boys envied him greatly for it.

A sudden flash of light from the oak's branches caught Balan's attention. He gazed intently at the tree. Whatever the sun had reflected on, it had to have been something foreign. It had not rained for a week and the only other things he knew that reflected light, other than water, were glass or metal.

He waited patiently and soon enough he noticed slight movement in the tree. A branch swayed unnaturally near the place where he had seen the flash of light. When he peered intensely, he noticed to his astonishment that a man was perched on a branch about halfway up the tree. He had been perfectly hidden until his movement had betrayed him. What was the man doing there?

Balan glanced around to see if the Roman guards on the wall had noticed anything, but they hadn't.

When he looked back at the man a frown appeared on his face. He squinted to be sure that he was not mistaken. But when the man moved again and a little sunlight reached him, Balan was certain. The man was painted in blue.

"Woad!" Balan hissed between his teeth.

How could a Woad have gotten into this tree, so close to the fort, in the middle of an open field with all the guards out? The man must have arrived some time during the night, Balan realized. He must have been hiding up in the tree all day. If Ruccius ever found out, it would mean serious trouble for the guards.

But why would a Woad take the trouble to spend part of the night and a full day in a tree?

He was probably a spy, Balan thought.

He was just about to warn the guards, when the Woad moved, inching forward very slowly. The troop of soldiers was about to pass under the tree. If the man wasn't careful, the soldiers would certainly notice him.

Balan's frown deepened. Why would a spy take this risk?

Suddenly sunlight flickered and briefly shone from the tree again and this time Balan noticed what reflected it. The blue man had a knife between his teeth and was raising a bow in front of him, preparing to shoot.

Was he going to kill a member of the patrol?

Balan was puzzled by the Woad's odd behaviour. Shooting a member of the patrol in broad daylight within clear view of the fort and the Wall, was nothing short of suicide. There was no way the Woad would get out of that tree alive.

He dismissed the idea that the Woad was a spy, for a dead spy would not be able to bring information to his people. A spy would avoid getting himself killed. But if this Woad had come to the fort to kill Romans, wouldn't it have been more efficient to attack with a large group of Woads, as they normally did? It still didn't add up.

The only possible explanation Balan could think of, was that the Woad was hiding in the tree to kill someone specific. And this meant he had probably come for revenge.

Would one of the soldiers have done something to enrage this Woad? Enough that he would sacrifice his life to retaliate?

The Woad slowly notched his arrow. Balan realized with a jolt that he would have to do something. But any shout or movement from the Wall would alert the Woad, and make him release his arrow. Balan would never be able to warn the patrol in time.

Balan gripped his bow tightly and reached for his quiver. He notched an arrow and aimed for the tree. Before he could shoot though, he realized that the Woad was not aiming his arrow for the troop of soldiers.

The soldiers passed under the tree and nothing happened. The Woad was still aiming for the direction from whence the soldiers had come.

There, further down the road, a lone rider approached the fort.

Tristan!