A/N: This story is in response to the prompt "Heat" for the August Fete de Mousquetaires challenge. Check out the forum for a list of all of the terrific stories, and please vote for your three favorites! And then, join the next monthly contest! It's a lot of fun and the prompts are great to get you started on writing.

Special thanks to Issai for offering me the premise for this one and encouraging it along. All the mistakes are mine :)


Chapter 1

It's not as if an ambush was outside the realm of possibility. In fact, they had expected it considering the status of their prisoner and loss of two couriers at the Spanish border in the last fortnight. But once they had deposited the Spanish General Castillo at the Bastille de Pyrénées no one anticipated an ambush on their way home. Porthos and the two recruits, Marcus and Giraud, had headed back to Toulouse with letters from the Governor to deliver to the garrison in the city, while Athos and Aramis made for Auch, with letters for the Comte. D'Artagnan was given leave to detour to Lupiac, as he had not been back to Gascony in several years. They were all to meet at Toulouse on the second day, although Porthos and the young recruits were due to arrive first. Porthos couldn't deny he was looking forward to a night of card playing without the supervision of his sometimes over-protective companions. But their ambushers had other plans.

At first, Porthos thought the attackers were desperate farmers, their proximity to the border with Spain and the four years of war having created enough homeless, hungry men sadly common on the roads in the south of France. But as he and the other two Musketeers fought in close quarters he knew these men were too well armed to be common criminals, they were probably deserters and dangerous for their experience and training.

Porthos spared a glance to his left as his fist connected with the face of one of the attackers. Giraud seemed to be holding his own in hand to hand combat with a man wielding a long knife, but Marcus was in trouble. Blood ran down his pale face and his parries against the swordsman attacking him were becoming desperate. Porthos knew he had to get to him quickly. The man he punched had crumpled in a heap at Porthos's feet, but his place had been taken by two more. Not for the first time in this skirmish Porthos regretted that Aramis was not there to watch his back.

Porthos's size alone generally made him a target for multiple attacks at once. If faced with an odd number of attackers, it was always two or three trying to work together to take Porthos down. It wasn't much of a problem when Aramis or Athos was there to pick off one or two, but with the younger soldiers he was traveling with today, he knew they did not have the battle sense to attune to the well-being of other soldiers while engaged in fighting for their own lives. Porthos was on his own, and his comrades needed his help.

He decided to go with strength over finesse. With a terrifying roar he ran headlong into the two attackers charging him. He leaned low, arms outstretched to catch both men around their torsos and bring them down. On the ground, he knew he could overpower them both. He also knew that his charge was leaving him vulnerable to their blades and wasn't surprised to feel the sting of steel cutting through his side and his outstretched arm as he crashed into the men. He was counting on his leathers to keep the wounds from being too deep, and adrenaline to keep the pain from being an issue. He'd deal with the aftermath later, like he always did.

Porthos's tactic paid off as the force of him slamming the men to the ground knocked the wind from their lungs and the weapons from their hands. Kneeling on one of them, Porthos pummeled the other into oblivion. He grabbed hold of the man he was on top of, drawing his small dagger and slicing him across the throat. Blood burst from the grim gash, bathing Porthos is red, warm stickiness as he rotated to see the rest of the battle. He saw Marcus fall, and the man attacking him raise his blade for a killing stroke. With a prayer to whatever God kept Aramis's aim true, he threw his dagger, impaling the man between the shoulder blades. The attacker dropped his sword and started scrambling to try to pull the blade from his back.

"Get up!" Porthos bellowed, "Marcus!" but Marcus was either too stunned or too wounded to comply. It was Giraud who took the lunge to slice the man across his torso. The final attacker fell wordlessly to the ground.

Porthos pushed himself up to his feet and surveyed the damage. Six dead men littered the blood soaked ground. One horse was gone and another was dead from a bullet at the outset of the skirmish. Marcus looked on the verge of passing out and Giraud was cradling his right arm and favoring his left leg. Porthos could feel the fiery throb starting in his side, and the sharp sting along his forearm. Blood dripped from his cuff. They were all drenched in sweat, the hot sun bearing down mercilessly on the dry, brown field. It wasn't noon yet, and the heat and humidity were already nearly unbearable. They needed shelter badly but nothing but sun burned fields flanked them as far as the eye could see. Porthos grunted to himself. This was bad.

Porthos didn't know how long he had walked along the road, leading the horse with the two wounded men. He was worried about more attacks, but more worried that they would get lost in these rolling, barren fields if he strayed too far off course. He knew they could not be too far from Toulouse, but he was pretty sure that Marcus could not manage much longer even if it was just over the next hill. Already he was unconscious, the only thing keeping in the saddle was Giraud, trying to stay seated himself with one good arm to steady them both.

Sweat poured down Porthos's face and stung his eyes. His hat was on Giraud's head and his bandana covered his own damp locks. It was not a good barrier to the sun, but its tails covered his neck at least. The wound at his side was throbbing, but there was little he could do other than keep putting one foot in front of the other. The road crested a small hill and there, just below them it forked in two directions. But nestled in the crook of the road was the slanted roof of a crumbling cattle shelter. Porthos glanced back at his companions on the horse. He had found their home for the night.

He got the men off the horse and settled under the overhang of the remains of the roof. It was tight, but at least they were in the shade. He stripped their provisions from the horse and pulled the saddle from its back. The horse stood listlessly by the one remaining wall of the cattle shelter, too tired to even forage, a sign the beast was overheated. Their only mount was spent until it could be rested and watered properly.

Under the shade of the caved in roof, Porthos and Giraud got to the business of tending wounds. They started with Marcus first, stripping him of his leathers and using the water in their canteens to clean the cuts and abrasions peppering his body. The worst of it was a gash to his head, probably the reason he was now unconscious. They ended up stripping off his shirt too and using it for bandages. Giraud had a broken arm and they rigged a splint as best they could and bound the arm to his side with the remains of his shirt. His leg was badly sliced and with nothing to stitch with all they could do was wrap it tightly in what was left of the cloth they had. Giraud reminded Porthos that he too was injured, but by then their meager supplies had been exhausted. All Porthos could do was pad the wound on his side with his other bandana and then pull the straps of his leather doublet tight around his torso. The pressure of the doublet would stop the bleeding and help support what he knew were bruised ribs, but it felt like he had locked himself in an oven. They had half a canteen of water left, and they passed it among themselves until it was empty, having roused Marcus enough to get some down him too.

They lay quietly after that, side by side, shifting position only as the sun moved and trying to stay in the shade as much as possible. They couldn't really rest in the oppressive heat, but eventually the sun slipped below the horizon and worst of the heat abated. The night was sticky and humid with not even a breeze but it was better than the unrelenting sun. It was hotter now under their shelter than in the open air, so Porthos moved Marcus out from under the roof and made him as comfortable as he could against the saddle. He gave Giraud the bedroll and helped him to stretch out. Porthos knew he should sleep too, but his soldier's instinct told him they should keep watch. He positioned himself against the edge of the wall and tried to stay awake as long as he could.