The Traitor's Plan

A/N: I actually started writing this one some time ago, but wasn't really confident with it — in fact, I'm still not entirely confident with it. However, it wasn't doing anybody any good sitting unfinished and forgotten in a file so I finally gathered the courage to share it. Anyway, I did have a lot of fun writing it and dearly hope it proves to be an enjoyable little tale. I have planned for it to be about 3-4 chapters in length, so it's just a little short.

A/N 2: I finally have read The Battle of Hackham Heath (yaaaay!) and so went through this story and changed things a little bit to keep them canon. I've not changed the overall plot, just added the occasional extra detail here and there.

Summary: The one time Sir David was thankful for his son's sense of mischief: My take on the events leading up to Gilan's apprenticeship with Halt.

Disclaimer: I have nothing but respect for John Flanagan's stories… I absolutely don't own anything, not RA, and definitely none of the characters or places therein. And I certainly do not profit from this in any way, aside from my own enjoyment — and hopefully the enjoyment of others.

Chapter 1

The moon was full; it lit up the sky with a quiet silvery glow that filtered down to dust the tops of the trees of the woods outside the castle. It bathed the ground in between the forest and the castle courtyard with a light that was exceptionally bright for being night. It made for a rather lovely view, Gilan thought from his position, or rather, perch, sitting casually in the large open windowsill of one of the upper towers.

The view from the window of this abandoned tower room was usually beautiful though, no matter the time of day or the season. There was always something new to see, something different, something intriguing. The world outside was always moving, always shifting, unpredictable and exciting. It was so very different from the monotony of Battleschool with its same repeated schedules, its same repeated drills.

He sighed softly to himself as he chipped away at the polished wood cane in his hands with his knife. He slowly whittled away at the middle so that it began to resemble two curved letter 'S's placed back to back, or perhaps the shape of a sandglass he had seen at an abbey once.

Glancing again at the moon, he felt a smile beginning to spread across his face. He absolutely loved the view from this spot. Though, it had to be admitted that just looking at the woods could never quite hope to match being in them.

He was not quite sure what it was about the outdoors that appealed to him so much, he thought as he continued to whittle away at the cane in his hands. It was the sounds: the babble of a brook, the hissing whisper of wind through pines, the rustle of grass and leaves. It was the appearances: always something new to see, to explore. But, most of all, it was the feeling of openness and freedom. There were no drills, no parades, and no strict rigor to every waking moment.

Heavens above, he was sick to death of the discipline of a soldier's life, of Battleschool. It consumed almost every minute of his waking hours. Every minute except for the few stolen moments of time he managed to snatch and hold to himself like some pathetic bandit. He sighed again as he put down the whittling knife.

He sat up then and hopped down from his comfortable perch to the flagstones that made up the floor. Cane still in hand, he headed to the furthest corner of the abandoned tower room. He did this so that the light wouldn't be seen much from outside as he struck flint to steel and lit a candle. Holding the candle and a stick of wax in one hand and the cane in the other, he very slowly and patiently began covering the section he had dangerously narrowed with the melted wax. He would let a layer dry and then build up another until the wax filled the space entirely. Some careful file work on the mostly hardened wax insured that there was not even the slightest join between the wood of the cane and the wax.

Being the son of the castle's Battlemaster had ensured that the life of a soldier, a knight in training, was all he had ever known. In fact, the moment he could hold a sword was the moment his basic training had begun. It was not that he disliked swordsmanship training, he thought as he continued working. In fact, swordsmanship practice — though it was nearly as wrought with discipline as everything else — had never been as stifling to him. He somehow felt freer when he practiced. He felt more in control of himself, his mind, and his decisions. This had been especially true ever since he had passed out of basic drill and begun studying under the Sword's Master Mac'Neil.

He should be grateful, he supposed as he set the cane and file down. He reached into the leather pouch he had brought with him. From it, he retracted the small paint bottles he had begged from the court painter and the small inkwell he had… borrowed, from one of the castle's scribes earlier in the day.

Yes, he should be grateful for that small blessing at least. Though advanced swordsmanship practice was definitely not any easier than drill, his days had brightened in their dullness considerably since he had started training under Mac'Neil. However, try as he might, he could not help but feel… discontented…

He uncorked the paint bottles and retracted a brush, also from the court painter, thinking.

He glanced out the still open window to see a world of stars as open and free as the woods. What would it be like? he wondered — and it wasn't for the first time. What would it be like to live like the Ranger's did? His father had become friends with one: a Ranger named Halt. He was the grim-bearded war hero of The Battle of Hakham Heath. During that battle Halt had, like his father, helped to save Araluen from the traitorous Baron Morgarath and his army of wargals. Gilan had actually worked with him then, helped him find a path to help the cavalry outflank Morgarath's wargals. In fact, that was when he first had gotten so interested in Rangers and the lives that they lived.

Even now, he would see Halt come and go, so mysterious, so adventurous. And he could not help but wonder what it would be like to come and go as he pleased, to live in the woods. Everything about Rangers seemed fascinating. They were surrounded with an uncertainty that whispered of adventure. Most of the common folk thought Rangers to be sorcerers. He did not really believe that, but people knew so little about Rangers that they seemed, at least to him, to be the most exciting thing in the world.

He leaned in close to the candlelight and began painting the wax carefully so that it matched the rest of the wood around it. He blew on it gently to dry it when he was finished. He carefully inspected his craftsmanship — scrutinizing it for any flaws by rolling the wood slowly in his hands to expose all of it to the candlelight and his critical eye. He felt a rush of satisfaction well up in him as he finished his inspection. A person would have to look very hard to tell the difference between the wood of the blackened staff and the wax that hid its weakened center.

He put the cane down and began putting his art supplies away with only the slightest flourish in his manner. It was at times like these that he quite fancied himself an artist of rather fair skill. There was no containing his self-satisfied and expectant grin. He leaned forward and blew out the light. Gathering the staff and supplies, he slipped silently from the room and down the tower staircase.

Though by now he was practically bounding on the inside with excitement and expectation, he knew better than to show it outwardly. To show it would be to destroy any attempts at stealth on his part, and stealth was what he needed.

When he reached the door that led out from the tower, he paused for a moment. So far, things had been easy for him. The hard part would be getting through the main castle, out to the guard tower, soldier barracks, and officers' quarters without being spotted. It was definitely against regulations for a Battleschool apprentice to be out after lights out — whether he was the Battlemaster's son or not.

Luckily for him, this was far from the first time that he had acted thusly. He knew the best routes to take. And being the Battlemaster's son, and a Battleschool apprentice, did make it so that he was privy to the guard rotation times and positions of those on the night watch.

He passed through the castle corridors carefully, moving with the shadows cast by the skittering clouds outside the windows, and avoiding the light cast by torches that lined the halls. He began to feel the familiar, terrifying and yet exhilarating feeling that was brought on by the fear of being discovered, the threat of the consequences if he were to be caught. All of it only added to the trepidation and the excitement.

There were a few close calls, but he eventually made it to the Drill Master's quarters. Gilan knew the man would be out tonight in a meeting with his father and the rest of his father's senior staff. This was exactly why he had chosen tonight to act. He inserted the key he had both borrowed and used earlier, and opened the door. He gave one last backward glance before padding softly into the room. Gingerly, he replaced the thin black wood staff back from where he had taken it. He backed quietly out of the room then and locked the door behind him. Only when he was safely out of the officer's quarters, did he allow his smile to return. By heavens he had waited so long for this opportunity.

If there was one instructor who added to all the unpleasant aspects of his life it was the Drill Master, Sir Gavin. He was an arrogant man with a fastidiously curled mustache. All too often he had taken a hand in making his, and the other apprentices', lives miserable with his non-budging attention to discipline and regulations. He had an inability to compromise on anything and he had high expectations and dealt out harsh consequences for all of them if any one of them failed to meet his standards — and even harsher consequences for the unfortunate one who did.

He also had a nasty habit of using that cane of his — what he called his swagger stick — to harshly point out a flaw in form or bring a student's attention back fully to him. The man was awfully fond of that cane, always waving it about when he gave orders... and, more importantly, leaning rakishly on it when he was delivering his lectures. Gilan, for one, couldn't wait to see what would happen tomorrow when the Drill Master would do just that as he gave the morning announcements.

Feeling rather pleased with himself, he made his way towards the cadets' barracks, where he slept with all the other Battleschool apprentices. He crossed the open courtyard without incident. He had just come into clear sight of his destination when he stopped short.

The bright moonlight was reflecting off of the white of a first-year apprentice's surcoat. The garment in question was currently in the hands of a figure crouching against the stone walls of the cadets' barracks. Gilan recognized him instantly as Thomas, a classmate of his.

He wondered what had happened to invite Thomas out like this. It was by no means early in the evening. Gilan had waited until his classmates were all asleep before slipping out — and that had been more than two hours ago now. The boy was crouched miserably over his surcoat, the expression on his face one of despair. As he watched, Thomas shook his head.

"No, no, no…" he desperately whispered.

It was then that Gilan began to have a guess as to what had driven him to stay out so late. Most of those who entered the Battleschool to train as knights of the realm came from noble or wealthier families. Thomas, however, had come from a family of merchants. They had managed to get the funds needed, and Thomas himself had gotten the recommendations needed, to attend. It was by no means an unheard of occurrence but, as it was, he was something of an oddity. And, unfortunately for Thomas, this made him quite a target to the less knightly cadets.

Gilan was rather something of an oddity himself. At just about fourteen he was very young for a first year, nearing a second year, cadet. This was allowed only because he had started so early and practically grown up in the Battleschool. In areas such as swordsmanship, tactics, and military history, he was probably far ahead of a typical second year. In fact, he often found himself bored in the academic portion of school. When it came to the physical side of things, the good thing was that he was tall for his age, which was helpful. Unfortunately for him though, was the fact that he completely lacked the fuller muscular build of most cadets. He had always been rather lanky.

His advanced swordsmanship and the fact that his father was the Battlemaster, generally made it so that he was left alone by the Battleschool's resident bullies, Rolland and Henry — unlike Thomas. Though that was a good thing, it did have its downside too. It served to keep him a bit apart from his classmates, he thought a little ruefully as he once again continued forwards. He felt a bit of kinship toward Thomas for that reason. Thinking of the two bullies Rolland and Henry, he was fairly certain that the two of them were behind Thomas's distraught state of mind this night.

Thomas let out a tortured sound that seemed a mix between a sigh and a puff of breath and leaned his head back against the rough bricks of the barrack wall.

"You sound happy," Gilan remarked softly from beside him.

Thomas jumped, having not heard him approaching, his body posture shifting to the defensive until he recognized him.

"Gilan, you startled me. What are you doing up past curfew?"

"I could ask you the same thing," he replied, a cheery grin creeping across his face as he leaned casually against the wall beside where the bigger boy crouched. "You usually aren't the type to break the rules if you can help it."

"I wasn't doing it for the fun of it, if that's what you're getting at. I was trying to get this stain out of my uniform before drill practice tomorrow. I can't let Drill Master Gavin catch sight of it or…" he let the sentence hang unfinished, as he held up the cloth.

They both knew what happened to cadets who caught the displeasing eye of the Drill Master. In the moonlight, Gilan could see dark stains of what looked like some type of ink marring the surface of Thomas's surcoat.

"I've tried to get it out for nearly an hour now, but it won't wash out," Thomas's voice was almost despairing.

Gilan could see the scrub brush and bowl of now murky water and soap at the boy's side. He knew that Thomas's distress was rooted deeper than just displeasing the Drill Master. Battleschool was a hard school and those who couldn't cut it, or caused too many infractions, were sent home.

Gilan knew that Thomas wanted to be a knight more than anything. This wasn't the first time that some bullying prank of Rolland and Henry's had caused him like problems. He was already treading on thin ground and those incidences only made it worse. The customary time for first-year cadets, who couldn't cut it, to be dropped before they started their second year was drawing near. An infraction like this could really hurt Thomas's chances of staying. The most unfair thing about it was that it wasn't even his fault.

"I take it those stains weren't put there by you," Gilan said finally, the seriousness of the matter causing his smile to fade.

"No."

"Henry and Rolland?"

"Yes," Thomas answered softly, wearily.

"You could report it," Gilan suggested, hopefully. "After all, it isn't the first time."

But Thomas was already shaking his head, "I don't need our commanding officers to think I'm any more pathetic than they do."

It was a partially fair concern. Gilan, for one, had no idea how their commanding officers would take such a complaint — especially when it came to such an unsympathetic and unyielding man as Sir Gavin. It was very likely that they would think that Thomas was just trying to make excuses for himself. Coming to a decision, Gilan began removing his own white surcoat.

"What are you—" Thomas began, but Gilan interrupted him.

"My place isn't as threatened as yours. A demerit would hurt me less than you," he said as he held his own surcoat towards Thomas with one hand and beckoned for him to trade with the other.

"But, Gilan…" Thomas began uncertainly. It was obvious by the flare of hope in his eyes that the offer appealed to him but, at the same time, he was loathed to let someone take a fall that should be his.

Gilan merely brushed off his protest.

"Though idiots like Henry and Rolland don't seem to get it, we cadets are training to be knights and knights work best when they work as a team. We're supposed to look out for each other, you know. Besides, if it really bothers you so much, just consider it you owe me one," he smiled mischievously at the boy in front of him. "You can pay me back later."

Hesitating, Thomas took the surcoat Gilan offered, exchanging it for his own.

"Thank you, Gilan. I won't forget this. If you ever need a hand, just ask."

"Will do," he replied cheerily, his grin widening, though he really had no intention of noting it down in his mind that he was owed a favor. That wasn't why he had done it.

The two of them then slipped quietly into the barracks. Gilan knew that his surcoat would probably be a bit too small for Thomas, and that Thomas's would be a bit too large for him, but it should work out fine. With luck, nobody aside from Henry and Rolland would know, he thought as he made himself as comfortable as possible on his bed and fell asleep.

He was up just before the call to wake the next morning, intending to return the ink bottle he had borrowed the day before. He was not a thief, after all… well, not unless the item in question happened to be pastries from the castle kitchens. However, before he did so, he padded softly towards the Battleschool armory with the stolen ink bottle in his hands. Though he was willing to take the fall for Thomas, he'd be dashed if he was going to take it passively and let Henry and Rolland just waltz happily away. And those two bullies' arrogance and selfishness made it all too easy for Gilan to even the score a bit.

Both of them always insisted on taking the best training swords for themselves. They also had developed the incessant habit of wiping their sweaty palms on their surcoats during swordsmanship drills. It was a series of coincidences that left an opening far too great to miss, Gilan thought as he identified the two swords in question.

He carefully poured a good amount of the thick ink underneath the leather grips of both swords. The ink would not dry before the two used them. It would ooze slowly through the leather and onto their hands during drill. Once that happened, the two would then, Gilan was sure, wipe the ink straight onto their own surcoats without thinking and out of habit. Gilan would not be the only one to catch Sir Gavin's displeasure during drill.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Leave a review if you've a mind to, I really appreciate feedback. Let me know also if you have any suggestions or see room for improvement. I know this chapter was a little slow, but things will pick up next chapter. I hope you all have an amazing day.