a/n: I am so, so sorry for the delay. I've been insanely busy, but I'm grateful for all the reviews and support. Here is a new chapter, and I'm working on the next. Please keep reviewing!

Set Backs

Tristan thrust his sword into one Saxon, which was a bad move on his part. It trapped the blade before he could pull it out of the man's gut. He kept one hand on the hilt, and turned and kicked another man. Two more Saxons challenged him, or rather, flung themselves on him. He fell beneath their weight.

It didn't bode well for him as they tried to subdue him with hits and kicks. He felt a blade nick his arm, but it was superficial. They were doing it on purpose—because they wanted him alive.

Tristan roared and pushed with all his might against the Saxons. He managed to roll out from under them and grabbed his dagger from his boat. That's when one of them pounced. Tristan held the dagger up, cutting into the man as he fell and pinned Tristan. The Saxon was going to die quickly, but unfortunately on top of Tristan. The scout gritted his teeth and tried to free himself when someone grabbed his arms.

They pulled him out, almost yanking his arms from their sockets. Tristan kicked at them.

Something slammed over his head. Tristan groaned, but he kept struggling. Images of the Saxons looming over him fuzzed in and out, but he fought to keep his eyes open, to stay awake. He kicked out and hit something, although he wasn't sure what. It was a return kick to his chest that finally did him in.

He slumped within the Saxons' hold.

-0-0-0-0-

-0-0-0-0-

He had some disturbing flashbacks when he awoke after the Saxons captured him. Captured, not killed. He wondered if they would make him their assassin as well. Those were his first thoughts.

And then they started to taunt him. They tied his hands in front of him and kept him in the middle of the group. Night was falling, and it looked like spitting at him and kicking him would be the fireside entertainment.

Better me than them, he thought with a look to the two villagers. The man was still dazed from whatever the Saxons did to him earlier, but he was conscious enough to half-shield the young girl from the Saxons.

Tristan saw a few of the Saxons eye the girl, but so far she was untouched. She couldn't have been more than 12 years old, but judging by the stoic look on her face, she was accustomed to battle and hard life.

A Saxon approached him. Tristan eyed him warily, but didn't move. The Saxon backhanded Tristan, who promptly fell with his face to the dirt.

The group roared with laughter. He never understood why such a thing was funny, but then again, he was different from these men.

Wasn't he? For all his misdeeds, he wasn't a Saxon. Or was being an assassin worse?

Maybe he was meant to die at their hands—Germanius gave him an escape for awhile from the last Saxon who almost killed him. And here he was again. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he didn't think this was it.

Granted, the odds weren't great. The Saxons stripped him of his weapons and armor. He wore only his pants and tunic and boots, a fact that was making him shiver now. He tensed his body and stilled the shivering. Suddenly he was grabbed from behind.

Someone seized him by the hair and yanked his head back. He felt a sharp blade at his neck. The Saxon said something in his guttural language, but Tristan didn't understand. The Saxon said the same words, this time shouting. He couldn't answer, and the Saxon withdrew the knife and pushed him roughly forward.

Tristan landed on his chest, inches from the fire. He rolled away from it, again amidst laughter.

He wondered why none of them spoke the common tongue. Maybe these were simple soldiers, without a leader who normally would speak. So where are the leaders? Maybe they hadn't regained that much since the incursion last year. He watched them. Half of them were well onto inebriation, and the other half was trying to catch up. Two soldiers drank limited amounts—they didn't gulp down whatever ale they had, but instead casually sipped at it. They have the watch. Tristan tilted his head to the side, studying them. They were large, partially because of the layers of fur and armor, but not unmanageable. One kept eyeing the others as they drank—longing for a carefree night as well?

But the second watchman was intelligent. Tristan could see it in his eyes. He examined everything, shooting glances from each man. His eyes settled on Tristan. The scout met the stare.

One of the drunken Saxons stood, making him look away. He clambered over to the villagers, and grabbed the man. Before the man could realize what was happening, the Saxon removed a dagger and slit the villager's throat.

The girl screamed. Tristan blinked—and the Saxons roared with laughter.

The villager fell to the earth, blood spilling from his neck. The girl backed away from him. Tristan knew how the eyes of the dead or dying haunted the living. The girl's screams dissolved into wails. They were soft in comparison to the raucous laughter of the Saxons. Tristan's stomach twisted, and he looked away.

He had to . . .

What? Help? What good are you? You got captured. The girl's wailing grew louder, and Tristan looked back to see a Saxon grab her. The Saxon held the sword to her throat as well, but glared at Tristan.

Now what?

They shouted something at him. It just sounded like grunting and hacking coughs, but Tristan knew they wanted him to speak. He just didn't know what. The Saxon shouted louder and started to press the sword into the girl's skin. Her shriek pierced the air.

Someone hit Tristan in the back, sending him again sprawled in the dirt. He looked back to see the second watchman, quietly standing over him but with the presence of a true threat.

"He asks if you serve Arthur, the Briton king," the watchman said. Tristan frowned. Why hadn't the man translated before? And if he could do so, was he more than a watchman?

He kicked Tristan in the face. Tristan's vision went blank at the sharp impact. He covered his cheek with his bound hands, trying to dull the pain.

"The girl will die if you do not answer."

Tristan glanced at the squirming girl. Her tear-streaked face made him feel his heart. He looked back to the watchman.

"I serve Arthur."

Seconds later, and the Saxons roared out ferociously. Apparently, they weren't fans of the king. He held an expressionless look on his face. The watchman nodded at the Saxon who held the girl. She was released and then the watchman grabbed Tristan by the hair and wrenched his head backwards.

"We kill Britons and Romans," he said. Something about the way he said it made Tristan instantly respect the man—not respect in the sense of honor, but he believed the man to follow through with his word. His eyes were intent but the rest of his face was controlled. His grip on Tristan, while painful, was purposeful.

The leader. Tristan had misjudged him as a simple watchman. The intelligence within him made him higher in status among the Saxons. Tristan held back from wincing.

"I am Sarmatian," he said. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he would eventually be considered a Briton, under Arthur's rule. He didn't care if he returned to Sarmatia, not really.

The Saxon watchman, or leader as Tristan suspected, relayed the information to the others. More hisses came from them.

"One of Arthur's knights," the leader said. He shook his head, sending his hair in a wave across his face. The man's hair was stringy and almost ash in color, but not in an aged way. He was experienced, but relatively young. Tristan figured he was probably his age. "My men would love nothing more than to kill one of the famous knights. Certainly since the battle last year."

Tristan raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing.

"What would Arthur think, one of his invincible knights being caught?" Chuckles arose again amongst the Saxons. Tristan almost huffed. He could care less—Arthur too, probably, because being caught wasn't the worst thing to ever befall Tristan. "What would Arthur do to see you home safe? We hear the king has a soft spot for his knights."

Tristan looked away bored. His eyes found the girl, who was trying to control her whimpers. Her eyes bore into him, pleading for safety amidst the danger. The scout looked to something else. It ended up being the point of a sword.

"Does Arthur's valiant knight have anything to say?" Though he mocked Tristan, the watchman leader didn't sneer at him. Somehow, he was being respectful and insulting at the same time. Tristan held his peace.

The watchman released Tristan with a shove and tossed his sword to the side. The scout fell forward, but he made himself sit up on his knees. Still he said nothing. The watchman cocked his head to the side, and laughed.

"I doubt Arthur will be so silent."

-0-0-0-0-

It was his instincts that kept bothering him, but Arthur didn't listen until Tristan's hawk showed up.

He didn't expect Tristan to be back yet, and from what he could see, the scout hadn't returned. But the hawk circled frantically above the fort. He stared at the bird, wondering what was wrong.

You sent him after an area with reports of Saxons. Alone. He knew his reasons for that, but now readjusting Tristan to life seemed so trite. Why did he send the scout alone? Tristan is always alone. It's what makes him more at ease.

And that was Arthur's goal.

His thoughts and borderline guilt were cast aside as shouts came from the courtyard.

Bors stormed through the grounds, something clenched in his fist. He held it up high for Arthur to see.

"Trouble," the bald man announced grimly. Arthur ran to meet him, and Bors handed him a crumpled letter. The parchment was damp and dirty, and the writing was scrawled in a most uneducated fashion. But the words demanded a seriousness that Arthur could not mistake.

It said that the Sarmatian knight would be killed as revenge for the deaths of Saxons. It said that Arthur would suffer more losses—the scout would just be the first. His body would arrive in a day or two.

Arthur stared blindly at the note as its message sunk in.