a/n: Sorry! This week was completely nuts, and I just didn't get around to writing until today. Thank you for your patience! Let me know what you think of this chapter. The next one will be quite fun too, and I'm working on it now. Enjoy!

One by One

Tristan hit the ground, a little harder than he intended but he didn't dare risk being seen. The snow was muddied as it began melting a bit in the early daylight, and the leaves and dirt mixed in added no comfort to the cold, wet ground. Tristan kept his body against the earth though, and slowly moved his head to one side to get a better look.

The marauders were just ahead of him. They were moving at a steady pace, and their steps were purposeful but stealthy. Tristan noticed they no longer moved close to the tree trunks. Maybe it was that they thought they were far enough from danger.

And they would have been. Tristan was glad he trusted his hawk. At the pace they were going, he didn't know how he'd caught up with them so quickly except that they must have turned and changed course. His hawk had saved him precious time.

Tristan tensed when he saw the women. Vanora looked weary, and Jaelynn about the same. The two women kept close together. Their hands were bound, and from where he lay Tristan could see their raw wrists.

He clenched his fists.

The easterner walked close to him, and his hand rested on the hilt of his curved sword. Tristan turned his attention to him. Why, he wondered, did this man take Jaelynn and Vanora? He didn't seem . . .

Tristan frowned. The easterner had seen him in the woods a couple of days ago, and he'd been seen by the marauders, and yet, only after did they move. And the watching . . . What made them wait?

They had to have been gathering information, for whatever their purpose now. Tristan scowled at the group, frustrated by his ineptitude with the mystery.

The women looked tired, but not terrified. That eased Tristan. Maybe they were relatively unspoiled. Jaelynn looked over her shoulder, back the way they'd come. Her eyes searched, but Tristan stayed hidden. He didn't trust her enough to not give away his advantage.

One of the men barked at her, and Jaelynn hurried her pace. The same man turned back towards Tristan. The scout didn't move at all, but he could see the man was considering coming his way.

A long growl sounded as the wolf he'd seen before came bounding up to the party. He went directly to a man with a scar over his forehead, and then turned and stopped. The wolf growled again.

Tristan retreated behind a cluster of trees, and drew his knife. Peeking from behind the trees, he saw the wolf's owner gesture to the woods, and the wolf took off. I'm too close. When the wolf found him, it'd be over at this proximity. Tristan glanced at the animal. It was searching the ground, sniffing rapidly. The marauder with the scar watched it, and Tristan used the brief moment to climb to the trees.

The wolf made its way closer and closer. The man with the scar motioned for the Saxon of the group to follow it.

Tristan waited.

There was a delicate balance he had to maintain when he killed in Rome. It was the need to kill swiftly and without drawing attention. When two targets came into play, it was even more necessary to kill both targets as quickly together so neither could escape and alert others.

Hence, his situation now. Tristan considered his options. He leaned against the main trunk of the tree and crouched on a high branch. His knife was in hand, and his bow hung from another branch. Tristan sheathed the knife, and grabbed the bow. He pulled two arrows and notched them tightly together.

The wolf stopped below the trees, sniffing in a circular pattern. The Saxon grumbled at it, though Tristan wasn't sure what he said. He just waited for the Saxon to get close enough to the wolf—

Suddenly the wolf sniffed closer to the tree, and got on its hind legs as he sniffed higher on the trunk. Tristan smiled.

And then he released the bow string.

-0-0-

The easterner stopped walking, and glanced over his men. One was missing, and he wasn't the only one to notice. His eyes met that of Korab, a tall pale man from the a large desert land south of Rome. His trademark scar across his forehead often intimidated, but for that very reason, the easterner found him useful. That, and he held his own. He was formidable enough to face 10 men.

Korab turned his head to the direction they'd traveled from, and then looked back at him. The easterner frowned.

Their Saxon comrade hadn't returned. And neither had the wolf. The easterner snapped his fingers at one of his men, a Spaniard.

"Go."

The women stared at him, confused.

"Move," he ordered before they could understand what was happening. As they moved on, the easterner wondered if someone was following, and if so, who.

Arthur, or his men, he assumed. But they'd not seen anyone. He expected that to change. And when it did, he would make them pay—for the Saxon, if he was dead, and for everything else.

-0-0-

Tristan was more careful to keep his distance. He stayed about a mile behind, and never within sight. The marauders would know someone was missing soon. They would look for the man, try to find him. Tristan planned to prevent that.

One of them came into view ahead. His sword was drawn, and he paid avid attention to the tracks on the ground. Every few seconds, his eyes would sweep the area, and then focus again. Tristan drew an arrow to his bow.

He drew the tense string back to his ear, and held his position. Nothing moved around him except his target, and though his arm was aching now from his poise, he waited. He had to make sure the marauder was far enough away from the others, and close enough to him so he could finish the kill quickly if it wasn't instantaneous already.

He let go, and the arrow shot ahead and slipped into the man's skull.

No need for any follow-through.

Tristan walked calmly to the body. The man wore nothing that claimed him to one country or another. He looked tan, and had dark hair, but could easily pass as a Roman if he wanted to. From one of the provinces, Tristan thought. He eyed the man's sword, a shorter blade than most but good for close contact.

For all the good it did him, the scout thought smugly. Tristan slung his bow over his shoulder, and picked up his pace.

It started snowing again. The clouds covered up the sun, but sent only flurries down to the earth. Tristan shook them from his hair. He saw something above him and glanced up. His hawk circled above him, her manner very lackadaisical. The marauders were still ahead of him then, and not changing course.

Where were they going? Were they fleeing the island? He didn't care to find out what would happen to the women if they did. Tristan planned to whittle the marauders down, one by one, until it was prudent to rescue the women.

You shouldn't wait like this. Vanora and Jaelynn were just ahead of him, and 13 men hadn't stopped him in times past. If Bors were here, he would have already charged into the fray. But not Tristan. He wanted to get the women back, but something was wrong. He felt the danger, the instinctive caution that warned him not to rush. Maybe it was because he knew nothing of the marauders' purpose here. Or maybe it was settling back into his element, hunting, killing the men.

He just trusted himself.

The snow was starting to fall harder, and no longer was it airy and dry like the flurries. Tristan felt the cold sink into his skin. A drop of melted snow ran down his face. The melted snow was dripping down his hair consistently. He shook his head out. Tristan crossed his arms and tucked his hands underneath them.

Someone shouted ahead of him. Tristan stopped and his hand went to his sword. Suddenly, through the swirling snow, he saw them—five marauders. And one was pointing a sword in his direction.

Tristan dropped his sword and grabbed his bow. One of the marauders was running ahead, no doubt to tell the others. Tristan's eyes darted from him to the other four, who were charging at him, and not quietly. They were closing in, running fast and one of them stringing a bow of his own.

Tristan shot the arrow at the furthest man, and reached for another. He ducked when one of the marauders shot at him. He considered his position, and judged he had space for one more shot.

He brought down the man with the bow, and then cast his bow aside. His fingers found the hilt of his long sword just as the first marauder attacked.

The scout rolled to the ground and away for distance. He recovered to his feet and brought his blade up to meet the second and third marauder simultaneously. His feet danced lightly over the snowy ground as he dodged their attacks. It bothered him that he was on the defensive. He should have been more alert, especially after killing the tan marauder. Instead, he was thinking about the snow!

One of the men nicked Tristan on the thigh. Tristan stumbled, but found his footing again. His eyes narrowed at the man, and with a high feint, Tristan undercut the man and slashed across his belly. He turned to the other two marauders, and they changed positions.

One stood in front of him, the other behind. And then they attacked, again simultaneously. Tristan briefly thought it was a bit dishonorable, two men attacking one, but then again, there was no honor in stealing women from their homes either.

He twisted his body and leaned backwards, narrowly missing one blade. Quickly, he thrust his sword up and caught one man in the shoulder. Tristan swung his blade overhead and severed the same man's head from his body. He turned to the other man, stepping forward and—

Suddenly he was swept up from the ground. Coarse rope covered him and took him high into the trees. His sword was caught in the rope net, but he couldn't move to free it. He was spinning, the trees and the snow just one giant swirl of imagery. He heard the man below him laugh.

The marauder shouted into the darkening sky, a war cry and unintelligible. Tristan struggled against the ropes, cursing them and himself for his stupidity. He'd forgotten about the traps.

His heart sank as his sword slipped through the net's holes, and fell to the ground. The marauder grinned. He picked up the sword, trading it for his own. He clearly admired the blade, and cast a smug glance at the knight's situation.

"You'll die slowly for the deaths you've caused," he said. His accent was smooth except for his obviously foreign intonations. He mumbled a bit too. Tristan clawed at the ropes, trying to pull himself up to the top of the net where he might be able to pry his way out. It made the net spin some more. Tristan fought against the disorientation.

"You killed them," the man continued, surveying his fallen comrades. "You must be one of Arthur's best. A knight?"

Tristan glared at him. What did it matter right now? He's trying to distract you. From where he knew the other marauders were, he heard voices. They're coming.

If they catch you, Jaelynn and Vanora are as good as lost.

If not dead.

His feet kept slipping through the net, tangling his legs. It wasn't helping him any. In fact, it made his thigh sting where one of the marauders had nicked him. So he completely let his legs relax, and strained his arms to take on his whole weight. Slowly, it worked. He pulled himself up to the top of the closed net.

The marauder swung Tristan's blade in the air, once, twice, testing it. He grinned as if he'd found a new prize. Then he stepped to the tree, particularly to a taunt rope that hoisted Tristan's net in place.

Tristan hurried. He pulled himself a few inches higher within the net, until he got his hand through one hole and grabbed a branch. With his right hand, he grabbed his knife that he kept tucked in his chest armor. He began sawing away at the rope, especially around his left arm.

The marauder saw what he was doing, and quickly slashed the suspending rope. Immediately, Tristan felt the extra weight of the whole net as it tried to fall to the ground. The heaviness of it took him by surprise. He grimaced and he yelled out at the paining in his arm and shoulder. The knife finally cut through the rope. The hole he'd made wasn't huge, but he pulled himself through more, until the rest of the net fell to the ground at the marauder's feet.

"Clever, aren't you," the marauder said. His grin was gone now, and he held Tristan's sword ready. Tristan tried to catch his breath. His knife was still in his right hand, but he held onto it and also tried to grab the branch. He had to relieve the ache that was setting in his left shoulder.

He hung there, rather foolishly. His eyes darted to the shapes amid the snow that were materializing into men. They were coming closer, the rest of them.

Tristan glanced back at the marauder below him. Speed was of the essence now. He drew a deep breath.

And then he swung back, then forward, and let go of the branch. As he fell, he twisted the knife in his hand so the blade was pointing down. He landed on the marauder, with his knife ahead of him just enough.

Tristan's sword fell from the marauder's hands, followed quickly by the man's lifeless corpse. The knife Tristan had held was embedded in the man's throat.

Breath came in short gasps, but he was winning back control. He glanced ahead, and knew he had no time to berate or congratulate himself. He picked up his sword, removed the knife from his foe's neck, and gathered his bow and arrows.

He ran to a thicket of brush and trees.

And waited.