Out of all of the Musketeers, it is probably Aramis who is best at getting himself into trouble. The others may seek trouble purposefully for the sake of a mission, but for Aramis it's nearly always an accident. It's like it's drawn to him like a compass' point is drawn to the north. On one mission in particular, Aramis would come to find himself in deeper trouble than he ever had before. Literally.
The four musketeers were chasing fugitives. Levard and his gang, they numbered at least three men and five years ago had destroyed a Paris cathedral and several homes, killing four people. Only a few weeks later and they did the same of the cathedral in Sarlat. They had been in hiding ever since, but information had managed to find its way into Paris and into the hands of Captain Treville. They were hiding at a farm only a few miles north of Sarlat and were planning to strike a third time.
Not knowing what the expect, the musketeers arrived at the location two days later. On the road up to the farm, they passed lush meadows and fields of cows, the grass under them not so lush. Up ahead, a two-storey farmhouse and the barn across from it were the only buildings in the area. The Musketeers stopped when the farmstead came into view.
"So what's our plan?" asked Porthos of his comrades. The deeply religious Aramis, the one amongst them with the most hate in his heart for these criminals, leaned onto the horn of his saddle.
"I say we go in weapons drawn."
"We'll see if they're here first. If they are, we'll ask them to come quietly," said Athos. Aramis straightened and said to his friend soberly,
"These are dangerous men, Athos."
"Potentially… But so are we."
D'Artagnan smirked at this, then pulled his spyglass from its place in his saddlebag and brought it up to his eye, looking down at the farmstead. There were the two buildings, a well between them, and to the right of it, he spied two men splashing buckets of water over each other's heads, washing their hair. The windows at the back of the house were all obscured, he couldn't see anyone else.
"Two men down by the well," counted d'Artagnan, "Probably more inside. Can't tell."
"Let's go say hello," said Athos, "Aramis, you hang back. Do not start shooting unless we're attacked."
Three Musketeers continued down the road while another left it, riding over to the field of wheat to the right of the house. He had a feeling that things were going to get messy. He was never much a fan of trying to reason with men like Levard, and he knew the same of Athos, but both were forced to resign to the fact that as the King's Musketeers, they had to do things a certain way.
As the others slowly made their way to the farmstead, Aramis tied his horse to the small tree by the house. All the windows were covered by shabby makeshift curtains even though it was the middle of the day. Odd or not, this allowed Aramis to remain unseen. He took his musket and slunk away towards the wheat field. The still green crop was not very tall, but it gave him enough cover and he had a good view of the scene. He watched from afar as the others came from around the other side of the house.
The men scrubbing their heads with soap stopped what they were doing. They spat on the ground and wiped their faces upon the Musketeers' approach. From high up on his horse, Athos spoke to them,
"We're here for Levard and his followers, as well as whoever has harboured them."
The two men looked at each other and then back up at Athos. The man on Athos' left stepped forward, the dark hair on his head patterned with tiny white bubbles,
"There's no one by that name here. We're simple farmers. We harbour no one."
Athos looked behind him at Porthos. He had one of his pistols at his thigh, subtly aimed at the man on the right. Porthos quirked his brows and gave him a typical Porthos grin. D'Artagnan beside him also gave a nonchalant nod. They saw right past this man's lie. They were ready for whatever came next.
"So you wouldn't mind us looking around then?"
The sudsy man looked again at his friend, who only had a nervous look about him, his eyes darting from one musketeer to the next.
"I think we mind a bit…"
"Good!" said Athos cheerfully, disregarding the man's reluctance. And he dismounted, d'Artagnan and Porthos following suit. As Athos made his way to the house, Porthos went over to the barn and d'Artagnan threw his arms around the damp shoulders of the men, who only reacted by stiffening skittishly.
"This way, gentlemen," he said and followed Athos who crept into the house with his pistol drawn. It was a simple home. The furniture was old and the walls were bare. In the front room, a man was sat reading a weathered Bible in the dim light by the front window. He was acting as if he hadn't noticed the strangers' arrival.
"Levard," Athos sighed instinctively. The man closed the book and looked up. Half his head was bald, a mess of rosy, bumpy burn scars covering the whole right side of his head and face down to his shoulder. His dark eyes held nothing behind them. He looked at Athos with a devious smile. There was no denying that this was the radical Levard.
Meanwhile, Porthos had managed to shove open the barn door. For a working farm, it did seem rather empty. It was dark inside, most of the light coming in through the gaps in the walls. But when Porthos entered, the midday sun shone through the huge open door, illuminating the whole space. Porthos walked slowly and carefully, not knowing what might be in there. Dwindling, rotting hay stores lined the walls, loose stalks blanketing the dirt floor. Suddenly, Porthos sneezed. Like his laughter and his yells, he sneezed tremendously loud. He sniffed and blinked away the moisture in his watering eyes. The next time they had a mission in the countryside, he was going to find a way to get out of it.
Porthos proceeded to rummage through the dry fodder, looking for anyone who might be hiding in it. He went along the long pile, soon resorting to shoving the butt of his pistol deep into the hay.
"Have you read this?"
Athos and d'Artagnan were silent as Levard reclined in his chair with the worn leather upholstery. He waved the Bible in his hand before tossing it onto the dusty floor with a flick of his wrist.
"Don't bother," he said. Athos raised his pistol at him as d'Artagnan shoved the still sudsy men into the next room and pushed them both onto the twin beds with a placid smirk. He wasn't one to treat deceivers with much kindness.
"We're not here for your theatrics. I am Athos of the King's Musketeers, and you Levard, are under arrest for your acts of terror and treason."
Levard laughed, unfazed by the weapon aimed at him.
"And you complained about my theatrics!"
"I'm asking you to come quietly. Though I am already of the mind to just shoot you."
It would appear that no one was hiding in the barn, but at the back of it, the butt of Porthos' pistol hit something with a dull thud. He brushed some of the hay away to reveal a small barrel. Knowing better, but still praying for rum, he lifted the lid. The barrel was full to the brim with gunpowder. After he put his pistol away, Porthos frantically brushed more hay to reveal another barrel. Then another. Then ten, then twenty, all stacked on top of each other and lining the whole back wall. Staring at this deadly collection, Porthos was breathing heavy. This was definitely enough powder to destroy a cathedral or two alright.
"ATHOS!" Porthos boomed as he stormed out of the barn. From inside the house, everyone except for Levard turned their attention to the sound. Aramis popped his head up from his spot in the field to see Porthos stomping past the well. Anticipating a forthcoming mess, he slid over to the house and stayed crouched close to the wall.
Athos took a step back to see out the front door, his weapon still pointed at Levard. In a flash, the heretic launched himself at the musketeer, the pistol firing into the ceiling as Athos toppled into d'Artagnan. Levard bolted out of the house. Porthos drew his sword and rushed at him, but he evaded.
Inside, the two men seized the opportunity and leapt over the musketeers while they were still on the ground. Athos tried to swipe at one of their legs as they too went out the front door, but missed.
Porthos chased Levard. He was running towards the barn.
"Aramis! Shoot him!" called Porthos into the open, not knowing where his friend was, but not even a second later when Aramis was just about to fire, he quickly exclaimed, "Wait no! Don't shoot him! Don't shoot him!"
Levard had ducked into the barn. The last thing they wanted was for the powder inside to detonate.
Levard's two followers scampered outside and hastily pulled the reins of the Musketeers' horses that were positioned patiently by the well.
"Levard!" one of them shouted after his leader. They were trying to get away, but they only got as far as the side of the house where cut wood was haphazardly stacked and covered in grit from the road. Athos and d'Artagnan had gathered themselves up and ran to apprehend them, their swords at the ready. Just before the two musketeers could use them however, the wood was knocked over, almost hitting d'Artagnan who hopped over the pieces, and Levard's men retrieved their own weapons that were hidden in the woodpile.
Grumbling to himself, Aramis followed Porthos into the fray. He was several paces behind when Porthos ran into the barn, where he found Levard scrambling at the bottom of a pile of hay. Porthos extended his sword at him from a few feet away.
"This ends now," he said. Levard got up slowly but did not turn around to face him.
"That it will," he purred. Porthos heard the familiar click of a closing frizzen and then Levard spun around, the barrel of the pistol brought up to Porthos' heart. Thinking quickly, he lunged and batted the pistol to the side with the tip of his sword as it was firing. The sparks alone could've set the barn alight. Porthos fell to the ground.
"Hey!" shouted Aramis as he reached the door of the barn. His musket was aimed at Levard. His appearance was striking, but it was not because of the man's scars that Aramis was hesitant to shoot. It was Porthos that had told him not to. But now Porthos was down. Surely he'd want him to make the shot now.
Athos and d'Artagnan clashed swords with their combatants. The men fought ferociously, but the Musketeers had the superior skill. D'Artagnan came down hard on his opponent, knocking him onto his back, but he kept fighting. He rolled to the side, dodging a downward stab from d'Artagnan and ended up back on his feet.
With every movement of his sword, Athos stepped closer to his opponent, who quickly found himself backed up against the wall. His face was contorted in desperation as he tried to match the speed of Athos' strikes. It wasn't long before he failed and Athos landed one across the side of his neck. He slid down the wall, clutching the wound. The blood that warmed his hand was shockingly red as it seeped into his shirt.
D'Artagnan continued to struggle with his adversary who screamed in his face as he pushed to take down the musketeer. Their blades caught each other and the two were in each other's grip for a few moments, their eyes daring the other to make a move. It was d'Artagnan that moved first. He pushed up. Screeching steel rang in their ears as the blades disconnected. He spun around and grabbed the man's shoulder from behind before driving the tip of his sword through him. The sounds of the crunching of bone being scraped and the ripping of flesh were sickening. The man looked down. The same shocking red that covered his friend glistened on the blade protruding from his gut.
On his belly on the floor of the barn, Porthos was not fighting the encroaching darkness that usually came when he had just been shot or otherwise seriously wounded. He was, however, fighting a tickle in his nose.
Levard dropped his spent pistol, but he did not raise his hands in surrender. Aramis glanced at his friend on the ground. Porthos was alive, that much he could tell.
"Look behind me," Levard said ever so casually, "Just look behind me."
Aramis did so. He saw the partially hidden stacks of barrels at the back of the barn, not ten feet away. He knew them to be full of gunpowder.
"You shoot me from where you're standing. Well… Boom!"
Aramis made quick calculations in his head. He may be an excellent marksman, but with this positioning and close range, even he could fail. If he crouched and shot upwards, or stepped to the side, maybe he could land a shot on Levard and not touch the powder. But Levard was so unpredictable, and he was standing so close. The ball would go through him no matter what. Levard was right. In a space like this, the risk was too great.
Aramis decided to charge. He strutted up to Levard and went to strike him down with a blow, hard and heavy with the end of his musket, but Levard was quick and surprisingly strong. He countered the attack and gripped the weapon while it was still in Aramis' hands. Levard's unsettling bored expression turned into one of anger. He reminded Aramis of a wild dog.
"You shouldn't have done that," he snapped, and he started pushing Aramis, the musket between them. His strength was astounding. Aramis could not keep his footing, he kept being pushed back further and further. Both men had a firm grip on the musket. They continued to struggle outside, neither willing to let go as that would surely spell death. Aramis eyed the still burning slow match. If he managed to rip it out, it'd render the weapon useless, but in the middle of this bizarre dance they were doing, Aramis didn't see how that was possible. Through his own grunting, Aramis heard a booming sneeze. Levard heard it too and faltered for a moment, a very brief one, but a moment Aramis would not waste. He let go of the weapon entirely and ducked. He spun around as he came back up. They were still so close to each other, the end of the blue sash around Aramis' waist whipped Levard's leg as he moved. Aramis stumbled backwards and unsheathed his sword. Levard now had the musket. Aramis thought that he'd feel more at ease being armed, but this was not the case. He still felt rather defenceless. Though is a musketeer ever truly without defence?
From behind them, Porthos rushed out. The left arm of his uniform sported a hole in the leather, the rest of which was barely slick with blood. He was completely fine.
"Stay back, Porthos!" Aramis called out to him, and he begrudgingly did so as d'Artagnan and Athos came over.
"Your accomplices are dead. If you put the weapon down, we'll let you live," said Athos. Levard was aiming at Aramis but he hadn't yet squeezed the trigger. He was surrounded by four musketeers with only one shot. He was taking his time. He broke out into a deranged cackle and shouted,
"But the punishment for my crimes is execution!"
He laughed maniacally but did not compromise his posture or aim. D'Artagnan, afraid for Aramis, chose a more forceful approach, yelling,
"Put it down now!"
Slowly, gradually, Levard's laughter died down and ended with a sigh. He brought his eyes up to the man in front of him, the eyes that held nothing behind them. He stared at the little golden cross hanging around Aramis' neck, just resting on the first frog that was actually done up on his coat. And he gave a huff. And he steadied his hold on the musket as he said to Aramis,
"Luck is my saviour."
Then without taking his gaze from the cross, he twisted to point the two-handed weapon at the open door of the barn. It was a clear shot down the length of the building. With the barrel of his own gun no longer staring him in the face and very quickly realising what was about to happen, Aramis went to cut Levard down. The musket went off with a bang right in his ear as his sword came down on Levard's arm.
Immediately, one barrel exploded in a blast that took some of the roof down. And it was then that everyone tried to get away, cowering and sheltering under their own arms. The horses back by the house reared and squealed. What came next was the loudest sound any of the Musketeers had ever heard as subsequent explosions erupted, sending flaming debris into the air. And an airy gust of searing heat, like dropping your hand into a fire. The force of the explosions forced them all back. D'Artagnan and Athos were furthest away, they toppled to the ground like abused dolls in a nursery. Porthos was closer, he flew backwards and landed hard with a thump, several feet away.
Levard and Aramis were blown back violently. Directly behind them was the well. Levard smashed into it, damaging the roof and dislodging several stones. They fell into the dark abyss. And so did Aramis. His back hit the stones hard and he fell backwards, headfirst. No splash was heard over the sound of the final explosion and the ringing in everyone's ears.