a/n: Okay, this is a LONG chapter, or at least it took a long time for me to write it. But I hope it moves well enough for you all to enjoy. Please continue sending me your feedback—I always look forward to it. I'm trying to respond to everyone too, but if I haven't, forgive me!

Thanks!

Assassin's Hunt

"He'll come."

Jaelynn had said it a dozen times already, and now it came out whispered and nearly feverish. Vanora glanced at her. The girl appeared strong enough, but the shock of the situation was wearing her down more than the constant walking.

"Jaelynn," Vanora called softly. The men who'd taken them did not want noise, but they had not chastised her yet for trying to comfort the girl. Jaelynn looked over. "How are you feeling?"

The girl's light brown hair fluttered in the wind, and it half covered her pale face. The girl wasn't normally so pale. Her eyes were unfocused, and she struggled as she breathed.

"He'll come, won't he, Vanora?" The hope in her eyes barely offset a measure of delirium. Vanora turned to the man behind her. She ignored his mean scowl and sharp sword.

"She's falling ill," Vanora said, her bound hands raised slightly in her defense. "Can we stop?"

The man said nothing, but turned to an eastern-looking man. His eyes were like thin, slanted slits, and they stared harshly into Vanora. His gaze was as sharp as she imagined the sword that hung at his side. It was curved dramatically, and did well in intimidating.

"We stop," he said. His voice twisted unfamiliarly around the language, but Vanora felt relief just the same. "Quick."

Vanora took Jaelynn by the hand and led her to sit down against a tree trunk. The wolf that was with the men circled the women twice before being called off by their captors.

Jaelynn didn't object at all to Vanora's treatment—something else that worried the red-head. Vanora put her hands to Jaelynn's face, pressing the back of her hands on her cheeks and forehead. She combed back a bit of Jaelynn's hair, and stared into her eyes. Suddenly, Jaelynn stared back, her eyes alert and lively.

"Do you think he'll come?" she asked, a sparkle in those brown eyes. Vanora was confused—baffled even.

"Tristan?"

Jaelynn nodded.

"I'm sure they all will," Vanora said, trying to be calm about the constant question and also the girl's odd behavior. Jaelynn showed a smile, but her eyes flickered to the men, and her smile was hid away.

"Good," she said. She dropped her voice to barely a whisper. "Then if I am ill, it will slow them down for Tristan to find us." And just like that, Jaelynn's eyes resumed their dull luster and her breathing became labored again.

Vanora's eyes widened, and she held her hand up to the girl's face again just to be sure. Then it hit her. Jaelynn was faking it all.

Vanora barely contained a grin.

"Good girl."

-0-0-

The nice thing about the way Tristan felt right now was that he knew for sure it meant trouble. He felt something was wrong, like he was being watched. Before Rome left, that was easily attributed to the Woads. In the last two years, he had rarely felt that way. And now, the signal was as clear as a war cry.

But he couldn't see anyone. He looked to the sky, but his hawk wasn't above. Probably eating again. He had followed the tracks so far, and he could tell from the snowy impressions that two extra people were with the intruders. That gave him a small measure of hope for the women. But it still didn't shake what he felt.

Are they waiting for me to follow? Tristan frowned and urged his horse onward. That made no sense—they would want to escape as quickly as possible.

Something snapped to the right of the scout. It whizzed through the air and Tristan leaned back in the saddle, nearly horizontal, to dodge whatever it was. His eyes followed it till it slammed into a tree on his left.

Tristan froze, staring at the arrow. That's when he saw the twine attached to the end of it.

Branches cracked above him, and as he looked up, he saw a net full of wood fall towards him. Tristan dove off the side of his horse. His body hit the ground but his foot stayed caught in a stirrup. His horse neighed out in alarm, and jumped as the wood and net fell.

Pieces hit the horse, and then Tristan as he rolled awkwardly while his horse dragged him. The scout held his arms over his head, but that didn't stop the wood from hitting him hard.

All the wood rigged had fallen, but the horse was still spooked. Frantically he moved, still dragging Tristan.

"Eh!" the knight called out, but the horse continued his erratic movement. Tristan kicked his foot side-to-side until he freed it from the stirrup. His arms were sore—bruises were forming beneath dirty impact marks from the wood. His legs were sore as well, but he didn't have time right now to consider that.

His horse was limping. Its front right leg was raised, curled protectively beneath the steed's body. The horse eyed Tristan, and neighed uneasily. Suddenly the horse fell, completely on its side with a loud thud.

Tristan scrambled to its side. With one look, he knew the problem. The horse's leg was hurt. There was no obvious break, and that gave Tristan some peace, but there was some swelling. Tristan gently felt each leg and examined the horse for further injuries. Aside from a few scratches, he seemed all right. It was possible for the horse to live.

But he couldn't care for it. He caressed the horse's neck and whispered encouragement in its ears. Jols would know what to do, and the horse knew its way home. It would be slow since the horse would have to travel injured and probably favoring the leg, but as long as the horse made it back . . .

Tristan searched his things for parchment, but he wasn't writing when he scouted. Such a thing was impractical for him. He picked up a piece of wood, and then his dagger. Pressing hard with the dagger, he etched a message on the piece, and then tucked it on the horse's saddle.

"Go home, friend," Tristan said softly. He patted the horse one more time, and turned back to the trail. He had to move quickly to keep up.

-0-0-

His pace was steady but more cautious than before. He hated to admit it but his mishap was partially due to his blind eagerness. He'd been intent on finding Jaelynn, and had assumed tracking the men would be as before . . .

Tristan stopped. A step ahead of him, cleverly hidden by twigs and snow, was another piece of twine. The scout followed the line with his eyes, up a tree and seeing another trap. This one was just a net—no wood branches to crush him—but the net was laced with gleaming pieces of metal.

He frowned, side-stepped the trip line, and moved on.

The cry of his hawk caught his attention. Tristan's head snapped up as the bird descended between the thick trees and limbs. Tristan held up his arm for the bird. But she didn't land. Instead she circled close to him, and then flew off again to the right.

Tristan glanced at the tracks before him. They moved off to the left. He sighed, shutting his eyes. He blocked out all noise and sight, and slowly breathed in and out. Gradually, he allowed his senses back in. His tracking skills told him to follow the path. But instinct mattered more, and while he struggled to just find the women logically, he didn't dare ignore instinct if it would get him to the women quicker. It came down to a memory—

Being back in Rome, feeling a rush as he'd just killed some innocent fool, and waiting for the rush to subside and the eerily cold calm to settle in and guide him. It wasn't just a regular sense for Tristan.

It was an assassin's instinct. Impersonal. Animalistic.

He opened his eyes, and followed after the hawk.

-0-0-

Jaelynn saw the way the men eyed the women. It was like that drunk at the tavern, but cooler. So far, they hadn't mishandled her or Vanora. They were controlled.

She wondered how long it would last.

But she couldn't believe that's why they'd taken the red-head or herself. Men such as these—warriors, raiders—didn't just steal women from their home and so near a military fort with no reason.

Vanora stared at her, her eyes only moving away to navigate the uneven ground. Jaelynn coughed, as sickly as she could make it sound. She dragged her feet and stumbled over a rock.

Behind her the large wolf snarled. She squeaked when its breath hit her heels.

"Move," the easterner commanded. He seemed to be the leader. Jaelynn picked up her pace with another cough. She noticed Vanora almost glared at her, her way probably to say 'don't push it.'

Jaelynn knew it was necessary though. How else could she help Tristan? Or Vanora, or herself? He would come, and sooner if she delayed the captors.

He was one person she could always count on. When she first met him, Tristan had proven that. He promised he would come back for her when he went to face the Saxons, and even more, he had risked his own life to free her from their grasp. It's partially why she returned back then to help him escape as well.

Those first days and weeks that she knew the scout were precious to her. Instead of lingering on the death of her father and entire village, she found hope in the knight and her new life at the Wall. Every now and then she would think back about her past life, but it only served to make her sad. Jaelynn could see her father being butchered, his throat slit right before her.

And Tristan, watching, bound, immobile but not helpless. A faint smile, weighed down by sorrow, came to her face. She would always miss her father, her family. But her future was with the scout, Arthur, the knights, Vanora . . .

Distracting herself from the current circumstances, Jaelynn thought back to just the other night, when Tristan rescued her—again—from the drunk at the tavern. Had he been jealous? She knew he was always concerned about her safety, but perhaps there had been more to it than that. He was a hard one to read, even for her. But she knew him better than most, and he spoke to her more than most. That was special, she knew.

Night was falling again, and the marauders stopped. Jaelynn glanced at Vanora, who quickly made use of the time to rest against a tree. The red-haired woman raised her bound hands to dab her face. Jaelynn looked down to her own bound hands. The ropes were thin, but the twine was strong. Jaelynn had repeatedly tested them, rewarding herself now with raw wrists.

She sighed, and threw in another cough for good measure. The easterner glared at her, and Jaelynn pretended to cover the sound with her hands.

One of the other men, the one who looked Saxon, said something to the eastern leader. Jaelynn didn't understand it, but the Saxon grinned in her direction—and it wasn't a pleasant expression. Jaelynn moved to Vanora's side.

"Why did they take us, Vanora?" she whispered. Before the women, three or four of them men started to talk back and forth. They were arguing, but keeping their voices low. Vanora kept her eyes on the men.

"I don't know," she said. Jaelynn picked up on the hollowness of her words, and took that to mean it would be better off not knowing. Suddenly, the easterner drew his sword. He held it high above him, as if ready to strike. He turned around, facing each man with his dark eyes glowering at them all.

"We rest," he said for all to understand. "One hour."

Jaelynn scooted closer to Vanora. The Saxon was eyeing them both now, as well as a strange man in studded armor. This man had a scar from one side of his forehead to the other, and he seemed less friendly than the Saxon, if possible. Jaelynn felt Vanora huddle her in closer.

The easterner sheathed his sword and picked a spot to rest near the women. His dark, oval-shaped eyes stared daringly at his men. One by one, they found their own resting places, except for the Saxon, who appeared to be the night watch.

Jaelynn couldn't help but stare at the easterner. Surprisingly, he wasn't staring back. His attention was on the Saxon, and then each of his men.

He doesn't trust his own men.

Something told Jaelynn that didn't bode well for her or Vanora.

"Why did you take us?" she asked. Vanora jabbed her elbow in her ribs, but it was too late. The easterner heard. He glared at the women, more so on Jaelynn. He turned his attention back to the men before answering.

"A message," he said. Jaelynn opened her mouth to ask more, but Vanora nudged her again. The easterner sharply turned to the two women. "If you're trouble, I give you to my men."

Jaelynn's breath caught in her throat. She felt Vanora place an arm around her protectively. Across the woods, the Saxon cleared his throat loudly and looked their way. Jaelynn sank back closer to Vanora.

-0-0-

Gawain grew tired of the knights very quickly in the last day. All Bors did was roar and test Arthur's orders. The man wanted nothing more than to go out and slaughter anything in his path. Luckily, Arthur wasn't that annoying. However, Gawain wished Bors would just slaughter Galahad.

The young knight was being just as bad, although his whining stemmed from a sense of betrayal from Tristan. He had reason to be angry—they all did, what with Tristan going out and being reckless again. But Gawain felt more stupid than angry. Of course Tristan would go out and try to save Jaelynn himself. It wasn't for glory, which was Galahad's current accusation. Gawain knew Tristan well enough that going into a fight alone like this wasn't about glory, or even honor. The scout's going alone was the stealthiest and quickest way to catch up and rescue Jaelynn and Vanora.

"Stupid scout hit me when I least expected it," Galahad mumbled as he and Gawain sat outside the council room, waiting for Arthur to emerge from a talk with Bors and some Britons. Gawain cast his eyes upward, willing a strike of lightning to silence his friend's grumbling.

"Of course he hit you when you least expected it," he said. "That was the point."

Galahad muttered something, but it was lost in his thickening facial hair.

"Oh, shut up, Galahad," Gawain said flat out. The young knight slammed his hand on the table, but Gawain didn't even jump at it.

"When we catch up to him, I'm going to—"

"What? Tristan could always best you, and nothing's changed about that in seventeen years," Gawain cut him off. "Besides, we're not going after him."

Galahad stared at him.

"Arthur knows Tristan is the best to do this. If we follow, we ruin his advantage," Gawain explained. "Tristan will find them, and then alert us if he needs us."

Galahad's eyes darkened as he stared blindly at nothing.

"Fine. Let him slaughter as he wants anyway."

Gawain turned abruptly to face the knight, who kept on going.

"Then maybe he'll relax, after killing his quota." Galahad smirked at his own thoughts, and didn't see Gawain's fist coming until the impact sent him to the floor. The young knight's face rapidly turned red, and he pursed his lips the way he always did before he was about to explode. Gawain stood over him, his eyes blazing enough to warn Galahad not to move.

"I thought you'd made your peace with Tristan," Gawain said, "though it looks like you've gone back on it. But don't you ever beat that man down. He's had enough for a lifetime of Sarmatian knights."

Gawain swallowed, willing himself not to spit at his friend. He waved his hand at the knight on the ground, fed up with him, and turned away.

Suddenly he stopped and turned back. Galahad's face still bore anger, but still he didn't move.

"He doesn't need anymore hurt from his own friends."

Gawain left him, and entered the council room, not caring if he interrupted.

Arthur looked sharply to the door as he entered, but then waved him in. The king, Bors and the Britons were all standing.

"Gawain," he greeted grimly. "We were just going to the courtyard. Evidently, Tristan's horse has just returned." Before Gawain could ask, Arthur added, "Just the horse."

Gawain's mind was a flurry of thoughts and speculations, but he wouldn't let himself worry. He wondered how long that would last. When it came to Tristan, any little thing would make him worry when he was out. If the scout was gone too long on an ordinary trip, Gawain had trouble sleeping. He had seen Arthur himself pacing the wall, waiting for the knight to return.

He huffed. The most deadly and capable of them all, and yet they worried about Tristan much more.

The horse was hurt, that much was obvious. The knowledge did little to calm Gawain. Jols gently led the horse into the stables, his voice emitting soothing tones. The horse hobbled on three legs towards its stall.

"Where's Tristan?" came a higher but grave voice. Guinevere entered the stables, her young son in her arms. Her eyes were wide and dark, and she looked to Arthur for news.

"Arthur," Jols called out. The horse was waiting for the saddle to be removed, but Jols had stopped. He held a piece of wood in his hands. Gawain noticed the man was smiling as he handed the wood to Arthur.

From where he stood, Gawain could see etchings on the wood. Slowly, Arthur sighed.

"Stubborn man," he muttered. He looked to the other knights and his wife. "Tristan's fine. He's still following the marauders."

"He must have sent the horse back on its own," Gawain filled in. Arthur nodded. Galahad came in and settled by Gawain's side. "What now?"

Arthur looked to Bors, who was oddly quiet, and then to his wife. Gawain knew the look on his face when Arthur turned to Guinevere. It was the look he felt himself giving Lucinda when he needed support.

"We wait."