A/N: A big thank you to everyone who reviewed chapter one and showed an interest in reading more – it's incredibly inspiring (I might even be inclined to edit faster and post updates at greater speed)! Also, an extra thank you to those who favorited this story so soon – this story still has a long way to go… after all, we haven't gotten to the hurt/comfort yet *wink*.
Through a cloud of pain, Athos watched the shapes of men on horseback flash through the trees.
"Aramis!" d'Artagnan called, drawing his sword and pistol. He rushed forward to stand beside the marksman. Aramis's expression darkened, fire snapping to his eyes. He pulled his own pistol and turned to meet the fast approaching enemy.
The haze of pain subsided enough to allow Athos to assess the situation, realising in that moment that his friends had chosen to stand like barn doors to a hurricane.
"Find cover!" he barked, "Think damn you."
He saw Aramis's shoulders stiffen as he made to disobey the command.
"Go, Aramis." Porthos urged.
It was d'Artagnan who proved the most sensible. He nudged the marksman's shoulder and nodded to a tangle of scrub not far to their left. Aramis resisted a moment then turned to toss Porthos his spare pistol. He cast Porthos a withering look that seemed to say 'Don't shoot yourself with it,' and followed d'Artagnan into the bushes.
Athos freed his firearm from his belt as the group of bandits wheeled into view through the trees. He levelled the barrel at the enemy, not entirely sure that it would fire but deciding the sentiment was important enough.
Beside him, muddied to his chin and stuck fast to his thighs, Porthos opened the pan and cocked the hammer, lifting Aramis's gun to the first target that rode up to the tree line. A smile lurked around his mouth but it wasn't a happy smile, more like the grin of death come calling. His friend's anger was far from forgotten.
Athos examined the horses of the six approaching men, not seeing a single white sock among them, and loosed a small breath of relief. He wasn't sure what Porthos would do if his horse appeared here in front of him with another rider on its back, but he was glad he didn't have to find out while they were both mired in mud like a pair of lost lambs.
The bandit in the lead threw up his hand to slow his men as he spotted them. He stopped at the edge of the swamp, his men ranging behind him, more than a few with pistols already trained on the musketeers' chests.
Athos smoothed his expression, his eyes turning hard. He would not show even a flicker of worry or pain to these men.
"Well, look what we have here!" The lead man chuckled, "A pair of famed King's Musketeers, caught in a compromising situation. How unsurprising. Where are your friends? I'm sure they wouldn't leave you to this mess for long." He motioned for a few of his men to break up and start searching.
Athos examined the man towering over them from horseback. Only the man's grey eyes were visible above the scarf they all wore as masks. The man's voice sounded intelligent enough, learned but not necessarily cultured; from a merchant background perhaps. There was a soldier's experience clear in the way he carried himself and rode his horse. The clothes he wore were nondescript and the only thing of note besides the broad-brimmed hat was the flash of a gold ring on the middle finger of his dominant hand. The green jewel in its housing flashed as the man tipped his pistol to Athos's chest. There was little to glean from all of that, but Athos filed his observations away for later.
"Your arrival is untimely," Athos said to the man, "our friends have already left to fetch aid, else you might have found us not so easy targets."
"Is that so? Pity, if you had stayed at the inn you might have kept your life." All four men before them raised their pistols to fire.
"Do you wish to die man?" Athos barked out to stop them. "If you shoot either of us you will be dead in turn. Neither of us dies without firing a shot."
"Double damned," Porthos agreed with a firm nod, Aramis's spare also leveled at the leader's chest.
The leader held up a hand to forestall his men. "Perhaps you're right. If you two are content to stay where you are, I don't see any reason to be hasty." The man drew up his pistol and coaxed his horse smoothly backwards out of line. The rest of his men stayed as they were – an impressive display of discipline.
Athos's heart leapt to his throat. He prayed the pistol in his hand would fire, as he would need it to in a moment. Then the leader gave a loud whistle from the trees and the four men peeled away, leaving Athos and Porthos to their folly.
Athos grit his teeth, a slight shake in his hands that might have been the rush of battle or the insidious clutch of cold.
The bandit's complete withdrawal had been a surprise, but he was fully capable of looking a gift horse in the mouth and he scanned the trees for any sign of movement as the sound of the men receded into silence.
For a long undeterminable span, Athos and Porthos were alone.
"What did you do Porthos? Breathe on them?" came Aramis's call from the tree line.
"Stay where you are," Athos said, his voice calm but no less commanding.
Porthos's head snapped around to look at him.
"I don't trust this," Athos said in answer, still scanning as much of the bank as he could see without twisting his body and aggravating his knee, which was throbbing with an internal fire.
A detached part of his mind noted that his knee was about the only place he couldn't feel the cold.
Overhead the sky had darkened, the soft grey deepening to iron as the sun sank unseen towards the horizon. The air had a heaviness to it, a heaviness that spoke of snow.
Athos fought off another shiver. He glanced at Porthos and noted that the larger man was also feeling the cold, his frame stiff and his jaw clenched. Things would be much worse for them if they weren't free of this mire by nightfall.
"Enough of this," Aramis snapped, he stepped out of the trees.
"Aramis no!" but his call was too late. The crack of a musket broke the stillness.
The tree behind Aramis exploded in a burst of splinters; the marksman barely flinched as he swung his rifle up and around to fire in retaliation. There was a distant cry as Aramis found his mark and then there was a roar as bandits spilled out of the trees around him.
Athos cursed aloud, not convinced that Aramis had any right to be standing after that flashy move of insanity.
Porthos roared and fired, downing the first man who came charging towards Aramis.
Aramis dropped his rifle and his drawn pistol felled the second man. Then he drew his sword and rushed to meet the third, dipping into the trees as another musket fired from a different point along the bank.
The ball whistled through the trees harmless. But not doubt the man would have the chance to reload.
There was the sound of blades clashing as Athos turned to track the second sniper.
There. He spotted the flicker of movement along the bank as the man packed his gun, much nearer than the last. Athos braced through the pain as he turned. He switched his pistol to his left hand, opened his chest, extended his arm, sighted along the barrel, and prayed.
The mechanism clicked. The powder fizzled. Then the gun bucked as it fired.
The man went down – though Athos wasn't confident he'd hit him square.
Beside him, Porthos shouted a warning to Aramis. Athos turned back in time to see Aramis spin away from the sword of a man who had managed to flank him. He was fighting two opponents now. Then the low shape of a third arrived to join the fight. Porthos jerked and bucked at the mud holding him fast.
Damn it, where was d'Artagnan?
Athos tore his eyes away from Aramis to scan the trees, trusting that the marksman could hold his own. He tried not to gauge the validity of that trust by Porthos's thrashing, which was growing increasingly frantic.
It was as Athos scanned the trees and the bank with strained calm that he noted something important. The cold that had been sliding up his chest that he had taken for the betrayal of his own body to the cold, was actually the black water rising around him.
No that wasn't right. The water wasn't rising, he was sinking. Sinking slowly, but sinking none the less. And faster now with Porthos churning the mud in an effort to escape. The mud had reached his navel and the persistent nagging of it grew even worse as it crept towards his floating ribs. Athos didn't dare take his eyes from the trees and he knew better than to order Porthos to stillness.
There was a cry as a man died on Aramis's blade. Athos glanced at Aramis in time to watch him wrench his sword from the dying man's chest and turn to parry a strike.
The marksman was beginning to tire. Sweat glistened on his face beneath the brim of his hat, his normal fluid grace falling to short bursts of economy. There was no concern in his dark gaze as he met each opponent's blows with practiced precision and his expression was flat, detached in a way that harkened back to the soldier Athos had first met.
The opponents he fought were not simple bandits – that was clear in the way they recovered from Aramis's counter blows. The marksman's efficient double-time parry riposte only managing to drive his opponents back a pace at each turn.
Porthos was right to be worried, but the dread coiling tight in Athos's chest forced his gaze to wander again, searching for their missing man.
Then his gaze landed on a new threat skirting the swamp. The bandit was clearly intent on the fight in the trees, a pistol in his hand and his eyes square on Aramis's back. The bandit paid no mind to Porthos and Athos as he edged near.
Intent on Aramis and his own fight with the mud, Porthos hadn't spotted the man and the subsequent danger.
"Porthos," Athos said. "Porthos!" Athos grabbed the larger man's shoulder, jerking him to stillness. Porthos whirled on him, anger full in every twitch of his body and feature.
"That man there." Athos nodded to their target, "Quickly. Knife!"
Porthos snapped to attention, drawing his curved blade as the man on the bank stood to take aim. Porthos twisted into the throw and the knife buried itself in the bandit's back.
Just then, one of the swordsmen miss-stepped, his foot catching on a root. Unaware of the near death behind him, Aramis lunged, batting the man's sword aside to skewer him.
With Aramis's blade lodged in his partner's ribs, the second man tried his own attack.
Aramis spun away, dropping his weapon to take up the falling man's blade. He swept the borrowed sword across the final bandit's throat. The man choked on blood and Aramis stepped in close to finish him. Sword point protruding wet from the man's back.
Aramis let the body fall without taking back the sword. He stumbled, exhaustion clear as a crisp winter night on his pale face. There was a tree at his shoulder and he reached to steady himself. His chest heaved as he leaned to catch his breath.
Still there was no sign of d'Artagnan.
Athos watched his friend recover his strength, worried on two fronts but taking it as a good sign that the marksman didn't dive off to care for a fallen comrade somewhere in the trees.
Then as if to play games with all the prayers on his lips, gunshots echoed from the bandit's camp.
Aramis jerked his head up, his brow knitting in concern.
And Athos knew where to find his missing man.