Their horses' hooves sounded loud as they rode up the narrow track to the farmyard. Athos scanned the hedgerows and the edge of the little wood up on the hill, his right hand hovering over his pistol. It was too quiet for a prosperous farm on a fine spring morning—the field to their right had been abandoned half-ploughed, there were no workers in the yard, and no dogs barking at their approach. He heard the slight click as Aramis cocked his pistol, and without sparing them a glance, could sense his three companions readying themselves for an ambush.
The door of the farmhouse had been battered from its stout bar and hinges. The splintered wreckage lay in the dark doorway. As they dismounted, Athos gestured silently at Porthos, who nodded and headed for the barns across the yard. Leaving Aramis, the finest marksman among them, to keep watch on the lane, Athos and d'Artagnan stepped into the house, swords in hand.
It was dark inside, after the bright morning sun, so they paused a moment to let their eyes adjust. A neat row of candle holders stood on the shelf by the door waiting for an evening the residents would never see. The candles were mostly cheap brown tallow, but there were a few pale beeswax ones for the parlour. None of the wicks had been lit. We're a day too late, he realised.
The faint, but distinctive scent of violent death hung in the air of the cramped passageway, the mingled smell of blood, shit, and leaking guts horribly familiar after all these years. The day he no longer felt anything in response to that stench, he would know the wine had done its job at last, hollowing out the final scrap of emotion leaving nothing but empty duty.
They found the first body in the room on their right. An old man, perhaps in his mid-sixties. He was sprawled by the fireplace. Blood had soaked his coat and spilled over the hearth and rug, but his face was unmarked. The scars around his eyes matched the ones Treville had described. This must be Marcel Corday, the man they had been sent to find. The man they had failed to protect. The sense of failure was bitter. Whoever had attacked Corday had used both pistols and swords, Athos noted. Treville would demand a detailed report.
Athos and d'Artagnan moved swiftly from room to room, discovering nine further bodies, each of them savagely slaughtered. The second person he had been told to look for, another elderly man called Jacques Armand, was less easy to identify. They had to cut the coat away from the stiff torso to find the scars on his back, a crisscross of old sword slashes that proclaimed a past life as a soldier. They redressed the body as best they could when they were done.
Athos kept his face impassive, refusing to be distracted from his duty, even by the two pathetic little dairymaids, huddled together in the corner of the scullery. They were both about twelve years old. He would need wine, lots of wine, when he got back to the garrison tonight. D'Artagnan, not yet hardened to such sights, muttered curses and exclaimed in horror at each new atrocity.
D'Artagnan was staring at the little girls, his face blank and eyes glistening with unshed tears. Athos put a hand on the younger man's shoulder, let it rest for a moment, then tugged his companion gently towards the door.
Aramis and Porthos awaited them in the yard, still alert but no longer keyed up for a fight. Too late for that.
"There's two men in the barn, and one more in the stable," said Porthos. "Farm lads, I reckon—they didn't put up much of a fight." He grimaced. Scythes and pitchforks against muskets and swords. Even Porthos wouldn't chance that if he had any choice.
Athos realised that the others were looking at him, waiting for instructions. They're going to hate me.
"Back to Paris," he said, keeping his eyes on the horizon, avoiding their shocked faces.
"What? We can't just leave them here!" d'Artagnan lunged forward and grabbed Athos's arm in protest. Athos jerked back, shaking him off. Aramis took one swift glance at their faces and stepped between them.
"Treville needs to know Corday is dead as soon as possible. We don't have time to chase around the countryside playing at being vigilantes." All those tedious lessons in proper conduct when he was a boy, staying calm, hiding his emotions. His parents would be appalled to know how he used his hard-won skills now.
D'Artagnan set his jaw. "It's wrong." Bloody Gascons. When the last trump sounds on Judgement Day, they'll stop to argue about the timing.
"It's our duty. You and Aramis can stop at the church in the village, tell the Curé. He'll make arrangements."
D'Artagnan opened his mouth to carry on the argument, but Athos turned his back, strode to his horse, and mounted. He urged the animal forward into a steady, mile-eating trot without looking to see if anyone was following him.
They rode the whole way back to the garrison without another word.