43 Outcast

Author's note: The Saintlike Weasley, beautyinpain, bookworm, Sparkles and Sachita: Thank you very much for your reviews! Sparkles: Are you DJ Sparkles, who used to beta for Ithilvalon? Please don't kill the knights after this chapter, I still need them. ;)

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Jols raised an eyebrow when he saw the sleeping boy on the stallion's back. Sarmatians! Whenever he thought there was nothing more to learn about them, they managed to surprise him again.

He entered the stall and shook the boy's shoulder.

"Balan..."

Balan stirred and opened his eyes.

"Did you sleep here all night?"

Balan nodded sleepily. He rubbed his face and sat up. All around him horses whickered and stomped around restlessly in their stalls. The animals knew that Jols was here to feed them.

"I need to saddle Tristan's horse. You can help me," said Jols, moving on to the next stall.

Balan slid down to the ground and wrapped himself in his blanket. Jols frowned when he saw Balan's bare feet and torso.

"Fetch your clothes and come back," he said curtly, leading Tristan's stallion out of its stall.

Balan bit his lip.

"Tristan won't let me in," he said timidly.

Jols tied Tristan's horse to a post and looked askance at Balan.

"I have no doubt that you deserved it," he said matter-of-factly. Unwilling to give the matter any more thought, he handed his own cloak to Balan. "Here, put this on. Then brush this fellow down for me and pick out his hooves. I'll get the saddle."

Balan worked hard, but despite the quartermaster's cloak, he was freezing. He and Jols had just secured the final straps on the bridle when Tristan walked into the stable.

Tristan glared darkly when he spotted Balan, but said nothing. He checked all straps, fastened his gear to his saddle and put his bow in his quiver. When Balan handed him a bundle of arrows, Tristan tugged it out of Balan's hands without looking at him. As soon as he was ready, he mounted up and rode out of the stable without a word.

Balan stared after him. How long would it be before Tristan believed him again?

Jols tapped him on the shoulder.

"I think that you can get dressed now, Balan."

Balan dressed quickly and returned to the stable to find Bors. Perhaps if he could convince Bors, the others would believe him too.

Bors was grooming his horse. Balan grabbed a brush and joined him. Bors did not object.

Balan explained that he hadn't stolen anything. He reasoned that he'd never steal from Vanora and that he would never do anything to make her sad. He begged Bors to believe him for their friendship's sake and swore a solemn oath that he'd never, ever let Bors come to harm. But Bors pretended not to hear him.

"Can you hear something?" Bors asked Gawain, when Balan persisted.

"Nah, that's my stomach rumbling," sniggered Gawain, pouring water into his horse's trough.

Galahad avoided looking at Balan altogether.

During breakfast Bors reached across the table and seized Balan's bowl of porridge. He cleared his throat and spat a yellowish glob of phlegm into Balan's bowl. The knights sniggered and jeered when he gave it back.

Balan stared into his bowl and tried hard not to gag. This porridge – his daily ration of grain – was all he would get to eat today. Tristan had not left him any money for food. He waited until the knights stopped watching him, then quickly spooned out the glob of phlegm. He wiped his spoon on his cloak and began to eat. But after a few spoonsful Gaheris knocked Balan's bowl off the table. "Oops!" said Gaheris with a nasty grin. A loud chorus of laughter resounded around the knights' table.

Balan's cheeks burnt with indignation. He bent down to pick up the broken shards and watched jealously as cats began to lap up his porridge. He brushed away his tears; he refused to cry in front of the knights. Without a word he got up and left the tavern.

Balan collected his weapons from the armoury and entered the deserted practice yard. He chose his favourite target, notched an arrow on his bow and began to practice. But his anger impeded his aim. Most of his arrows missed their mark. Balan grimaced. Taking deep breaths, he applied his father's lessons on calming himself. He focused on the moment and abandoned all thoughts about the knights. He focused until his world consisted only of his bow and his target, nothing else. A deep sense of tranquility filled him and his mind became miraculously clear. And each of his arrows hit the target precisely where he wanted them to.

When the other knights arrived in the practice yard, they took it in turns to bump into Balan or to push against his bow, making his arrows go astray. He tried to ignore them, but was forced to abandon this strategy when they took away his quiver. The knights challenged him to come and take his arrows back. But whenever he approached them, they either broke his arrows or held them out of his reach, keeping Balan at sword's length.

Muttering curses under his breath, Balan went back to the armoury to ask Ellis for more arrows. When he returned the knights were all engrossed in sword practice, spear throwing and wrestling. Keeping his head low, Balan resumed practice until Brumear spotted him. The broad knight yanked Balan's bow from his hands and threw it to Lamorak. Balan turned around to see Lamorak throw it to Lancelot, Lancelot to Bors, and Bors to Gawain. Balan wasn't fool enough to run after it. He stood in the center of their circle and awaited his chance. Finally Lamorak missed and Balan's bow was sent spinning through the air. Balan pounced and snatched it up from the ground. But when he returned to the targets, Lamorak stopped him and simply took his bow from him again. "You can't have it back," said Lamorak coldly, pressing the tip of his sword against Balan's throat.

Balan fumed, but he lowered his eyes. He knew full well that he stood no chance against five grown knights. Abandoning his bow, he dragged his gear to the row of heavy wooden stakes that had been erected to practice sword moves. He unsheathed his sword and vented his anger on one of them.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Lancelot sauntered towards him, twin blades in his hands. Balan recognized the amused-yet-devilish grin on Lancelot's face and swore inwardly. Why couldn't the knights just leave him alone? He kept on attacking the stake, but inwardly prepared himself. When Lancelot charged, Balan spun around and managed to parry two blows. Lancelot hadn't expected Balan to fight back, but he quickly recovered. With his third strike he disarmed Balan and forced him away from his sword. Balan stared as Dagonet picked up his sword and put it in his belt. He wanted to argue, but when he saw the cold, accusing look in Dagonet's eyes he held his tongue.

Balan returned to his gear and fetched his old wooden sword. The knights jeered, but Balan ignored them and rammed the wooden sword against the stake as hard as he could. He imagined the stake to be each of the knights in turn, until Gaheris pulled the wooden sword out of his hand and hurled it all the way to the other side of the practice yard. Balan rolled his eyes. Ahead, Bors picked up the wooden practice sword. He slapped it against his hand and looked at Balan thoughtfully. Alarmed, Balan glanced around for a way to escape. Bors sniggered, raised the sword triumphantly and roared, "Rúúúúúús!" Balan swore under his breath. He had truly believed that Bors wanted to give him a thrashing.

As morning progressed the knights took Balan's knives, his axe, and even his much-hated javelin, which left him with no weapons to train with. He knew that he would get them back eventually, but it was a nuisance all the same. He sat down on a bale of straw and watched dejectedly while the others practiced.

Arthur called him over.

"Why aren't you practicing, Balan?" he asked sternly. "Find a way to make yourself useful."

Balan hesitated.

"If you have no weapons, you can run penalty rounds," said Arthur. Balan fumed, but Arthur's tone left no room for argument.

Running penalty rounds was even worse than having his weapons taken away. Whenever he passed the knights, they either pushed him down, tackled him, hit him, or kicked his backside. A barrage of snide comments and cruel laughter followed him around the practice yard. And when he thirstily reached for his waterskin, Bors snatched it out of his hand and urinated in it…

Arthur watched as the knights bullied Balan, but he did not intervene. He meant to let the Sarmatians deal with Balan on their own.

None of the knights had informed him of any misstep committed by the boy, but it wasn't hard to deduce what had happened. In the past few days it had come to his attention that the knights missed several possessions. He knew for a fact that Lancelot had lost his dagger, but the dagger in question now sat in Lancelot's belt and Brumear wore his vambraces again. This, combined with the knights' hateful taunts and cruel treatment of Balan, made it obvious that the boy had been caught as the culprit.

It bothered Arthur that it was Balan again. But the boy was getting his comeuppance now. He doubted that the knights' bullying would end any time soon, and perhaps that was all for the better. Balan might learn more from this than from any thrashing the Romans could give him.

Arthur intentionally refrained from asking the knights for details about Balan's misconduct. This way he did not have to deal with the boy's misdeeds, nor would he be obliged to report to Ruccius. The Sarmatians had good reasons not to inform the Romans: Theft was a capital offence, punishable by death. Although Ruccius was free to choose a different punishment, he was entirely within his right to order Balan's summary execution. None of the men – not even Arthur – was willing to take that risk.

When the buccina sounded the end of practice, Arthur got to his feet.

"Knights, return his weapons to him," he said evenly.

One by one, the knights gave Balan back his weapons.

When the knights headed to the tavern for lunch, Balan locked himself in Tristan's room, curled up under his blankets and cried himself to sleep.

The sun was setting in the west when he woke up. The scent of cooked meat wafted in through the window and driven by hunger he ventured outside. On his way down the stairs he ran into Galahad and Pelleas. They stared at each other awkwardly.

"Can you help me get something to eat?" Balan asked timidly.

Galahad's face contorted with anger. "No! You lied!" he spat.

"Go away, Balan," said Pelleas wearily.

The two older boys pushed past Balan and did not look back.

Balan went to the stable and looked in the horses' troughs for any forgotten bits of grain. He climbed up onto the hayloft and nibbled on some hay, but this only made him feel more hungry.

A mouse scurried back and forth on one of the wooden beams. Balan's eyes glittered hungrily. A mouse was meat. He could roast a few of them in the hearth in Tristan's room. He pulled out his knife and was about to throw it, when the sound of hooves drifted in through the open doors.

Tristan! Balan hurried down the ladder and ran to meet the scout.

Tristan stared down at Balan, his face unreadable. He rode into the stable, dismounted and handed the reins to Balan.

"Take care of my horse. Clean the tack properly, then oil and wax it. It got wet, it needs care."

Balan stared from the caked mud on Tristan's saddle and bridle to the dried mud on the flanks of Tristan's horse. It would take hours to do it all.

Tristan removed his weapons and gear from his saddle and left the stable. Balan ran after him.

"Can you give me my food money?" he asked urgently.

Tristan stared at him, but said nothing.

"I have to eat!" said Balan vehemently. "I haven't had anything all day. The knights threw away my porridge."

At twelve years old, Balan wasn't allowed to keep his own pay. The Romans saved it up for him. If Balan needed anything, such as clothes or gear, he had to ask Arthur for money. A fixed amount was given to Tristan each month to pay for Balan's meals. If Tristan left the fort he gave Balan some money. But this morning he hadn't done so.

Tristan's face remained impassive.

"If you give it to me now, there might be some food left in the tavern," Balan urged, failing to keep the plea out of his voice.

Tristan pointed at the stable.

"Get to work, boy."

"But I'm hungry!" said Balan angrily.

Tristan looked down at him and waited.

Tristan did not appear to be angry. He seemed quite unconcerned and relaxed. Balan did not even see the usual glint of a warning in Tristan's eyes. But he wasn't fooled. He knew full well how unmoving Tristan could be if he looked like this.

Recognizing defeat, Balan turned around and went back to the stable.

It was very late when Balan returned to the knights' quarters. Yawning sleepily, he climbed the stairs. He wondered if Tristan would let him back in. His heart hammered in his throat when he tried the door…it was open!

He stepped across the threshold and stared at the scene in front of him.

Tristan was having sex with a naked woman. Her clothes had been thrown carelessly on Balan's bed and Tristan's clothes lay scattered all over the floor.

Tristan looked up and gave a tiny jerk of his head.

Balan needed no translation. He closed the door and left.

Back in the stable he fetched a blanket and went to bid his horse a good night. Then he climbed onto the hayloft. He wrapped himself in his cloak and covered himself with the blanket. He was glad that he had his clothes and his boots this time. Hunger gnawed at him as he stared into the darkness. He heard the rustling of mice and was tempted to try and kill a few. But he knew that he stood no chance in the dark. He would have to save his strength and wait until morning.

TBC