This is just a short story that insisted on being written. It probably won't be more than two or three chapters.

Phoenix Rising

Chapter One

Was it the heat or the noise that caused the most pain? D'Artagnan had been close to an explosion before, throwing himself bodily as far away as he could to land heavily on his front. He'd been badly shaken and bruised but otherwise unhurt. This time there had been no warning. The force of the blast lifted him from his feet, hurling him backwards through the air before dropping him hard on his back several feet away from where he'd started. His head hit the ground before lolling to one side as his senses deserted him. Burning wood and shards of glass fell around and on top of him, burying him from view and shielding him from the carnage that surrounded him.

Athos, Porthos and Aramis had been no more than five hundred yards from the garrison when they heard the explosion. Each exchanged an alarmed glance with his comrades before spurring their horses forward in the direction of the blast. It was only when they turned a corner that they realised it was their own home that had been affected. Other people were already rushing in to help, some stopping in their tracks, blood draining from their faces as they took in the scene before them.

"Aramis, help the wounded," Athos ordered, sliding quickly from his horse. "Porthos, you're with me. We need to get the fire under control or the whole place will burn."

Porthos nodded and headed for the well. "Buckets," he yelled at the townsfolk who had ventured inside. Men ran to do his bidding as he hauled up the first bucket of water. Athos organised a line of people stretching from the well to as close to the fire as they could get, taking the most dangerous position at the front where the heat lashed his face. Thick black smoke and drifting ash invaded his lungs causing him to cough harshly. Two other musketeers staggered over, covered in dirt and disorientated but seemingly unhurt. They followed his example so that three lines of people stood ready to fight the fire. It took longer than Athos would have liked but eventually the water started flowing, buckets passed from hand to hand and water thrown onto the hungry flames.

Despite their efforts the fire showed no sign of abating then, as if in answer to his silent prayers, he felt the first drops of rain fall. It quickly became a deluge, the clouds dumping their moisture on the earth. He swiped wet hair out of his eyes and ordered a halt to their efforts. "We need to get the wounded under cover," he said. "Use the refectory. It's far enough away from the seat of the fire to be safe."

The fire, confined to the armory, continued to burn sluggishly but the danger of it spreading had lessened. He set two men to watch it with orders to contain any areas that looked like they were flaring up again. He wiped a hand across his soot stained brow and looked around. When Porthos joined him he asked the question that was seared on his brain. "Where's d'Artagnan?"

The first man Aramis reached was dead, lying on his back with his open eyes staring unseeing at the sky. His face was burnt almost beyond recognition and he'd lost an arm in the blast. Aramis forced down the bile that rose in his throat and made the sign of the cross. Other bodies littered the yard, some moving, others not. Some were no longer intact, having been caught by the full force of the explosion. It reminded him of a blood-soaked battlefield.

He wasn't the only one trying to help. To his relief he saw Captain Treville straightening from where he had been examining one of the casualties. Aramis caught his eye, seeing only numb disbelief.

"Help me," he called to two of the townsfolk who had crowded into the garrison. They immediately hurried over to his side, looking pale. He heard a groan and quickly moved to the side of a man with burns to both legs.

"Pascal," Aramis said. He turned to his helpers. "Find something to use as a stretcher." He knelt down and took hold of Pascal's hand. "Help is on its way, my friend," he said soothingly.

"Hurts," the young man moaned.

"I know. We will get you something for the pain." When the rain started Pascal shouted out in pain. Aramis hunched over him to try and shield his legs from the water that pounded down. He looked around, trying to decide where best to take him. The infirmary was too close to the fire, which he could see was now dying down thanks to the rain.

The men returned carrying a door that had clearly been blasted from its hinges. "Lift him gently," Aramis instructed," and take him there." He pointed to the door leading to the refectory which stood on the other side of the courtyard from the fire. "I will join you shortly."

He counted six bodies as he made his way through the carnage. Jacques, the stable boy stumbled towards him, his left arm held protectively close to his chest. Tears were streaming down his face and he was very pale.

"Let me see," Aramis said gently. He took hold of the boy's arm eliciting a pained gasp. "It's a clean break," he said with relief. "Find someplace to sit down and don't move it. I will be there as soon as I can to splint it."

He caught hold of the next person who passed. "Go to the palace and get help. We need Dr. Lemay and as many medical supplies as they can spare." He looked around, finally gauging the scale of the crisis. The fire was burning itself out, helped by the rain that was now falling steadily. He caught a glimpse of Athos and Porthos standing close to the ruined armory, deep in conversation.

He took a shuddering breath, his throat clogging with smoke, and began to cough. He bent forward, resting his hands on his legs, tears leaking from his eyes. Once the fit has passed he straightened and continued on to the next body. He could see that everyone who was alive was receiving aid although there was little they could do for the burns until the doctor arrived.

When he reached the next body he took hold of his crucifix, murmured a short prayer and sketched the sign of the cross on the man's forehead. A group of men approached to offer aid.

"Take the bodies to the infirmary and send for a priest."

He reached Treville who was down on his knees by the side of a musketeer whose chest had been severely lacerated by flying splinters of wood. Aramis reached down and rested a hand on the Captain's shoulder. Treville looked up and gave a wan smile.

"Leave him to me, Captain. I have sent for aid and…for a priest."

"How many?"

"At least six dead and many more badly wounded." He hunkered down and began to cut away the tattered remnants of the man's shirt so that he could get a proper look at the injuries.

"The fire." Treville looked towards the armory as if only now remembering the cause of the death and destruction.

Water dripped off the brim of Aramis' hat and trickled down the back of his neck causing him to shudder. "Athos has it in hand. This rain will stop it spreading. Do you know what happened?" The musketeer under his hands bit his lip to prevent a whimper from escaping. "Painful but not life threatening," Aramis reassured him.

"There was an explosion in the armory. Why, I don't know. I was in my office when it happened. The whole building shook."

"We need to get all the wounded inside. If you could find Athos and Porthos for me?" He helped his patient to sit up slowly and then aided him to find his feet. With the wounded man's arm slung around his shoulders they began to make their way towards the refectory. Porthos caught up with him as they reached the door.

"Have you seen d'Artagnan?" There was a note of barely controlled panic in Porthos' voice.

"He was here?"

"He was in charge of training some of the newest recruits."

Aramis looked around frantically. "He must be hurt or he'd have been helping with the wounded." He couldn't bring himself to even think that their youngest brother might be dead. He grabbed hold of Porthos' sleeve. "I must tend to the wounded. Find him."

Tbc