Chapter Two
Aramis and d'Artagnan had made the right decision readying their guns when Athos warning them that they had company. He had still been holding his damaged doublet, so only had one had free. He naturally went for his sword. As the attackers charged he drew his sword and prepared to fight. As one man flung himself towards Porthos the Musketeer whipped his doublet in front of him. The studs on the collar making an effective weapon of their own. The first man was thrown off balance giving Porthos a chance to knock the first thrust of his second attacker aside.
The second man, shorter than himself and skinny did not look like he would take much to overpower. Porthos wondered if he could neutralise the man without the need to kill him. The man's clothing was torn and worn in several places, his boots had seen better days. He was generally unkempt. It was difficult to tell how old he was due to the obvious hard life he had led.
The first man returned to the fight once he had regained his composure, he was not as thin as the other fighter, but still appeared malnourished. He was definitely older, with a wrinkled face, several scars indicated to Porthos that the man might have been a soldier or sailor who could no longer find work.
As the two men attacked him, he flicked his doublet around his hand and wrist and used it to deflect several sword strikes. The men did not have much strength compared to a swordsman in his prime.
The men had circled slightly, forcing Porthos to turn, he knew he had his back to the stream and was concerned that the ground nearer it was uneven. But as with any swordfight, movement was inevitable, he just had to try to control which direction that movement was in.
Athos was also fighting two men, he appeared to be holding his own against them, which was no less than Porthos would have suspected. Both Aramis and d'Artagnan had despatched a man each and were dealing with another.
The older man fighting him took a wild slice at his neck, Porthos ducked out of the way and as he came back up kicked out at the man catching him on the thigh forcing him back a couple of paces.
The skinny man did not take too kindly to his friend being pushed back. He went on a very violent offensive, which Porthos dealt with easily. The older man may have been an old soldier but the skinny man most certainly was not. The frenetic activity only left the man open to Porthos' well-aimed sword which was plunged into and retrieved from the man's chest in a matter of seconds. The skinny man flopped to the floor, blood pooling underneath him.
Porthos did not have time to contemplate the death as he was engaged in more fighting with the older man.
A strangled cry from one of the men fighting Athos told him that the swordsman had also evened up the odds in his favour. But where Porthos had easily retrieved his own sword Athos had to bring his foot up to push the body back. The second's delay cost Athos dearly.
The second man he was fighting was quick to kick Athos in the chest, causing the man to stumble back to the floor, letting go of his sword as he did so. As he tried to scramble up, a second quick kick to the head saw Athos limply fall back to the ground.
Porthos had no time to worry about Athos as he was still fighting his own battle. The older man had used the distraction, brief though it was, to his own advantage and took a wild swing with his sword causing Porthos to take a step back. Forgetting his position on the bank of the stream Porthos put his foot on a loose rock which moved under him causing him to lose his balance and fall to the floor. He raised his doublet wrapped left arm above him and deflected a downward swing of his opponent's sword.
The man was not so easily defeated, he quickly brought the sword down a second time, only to find Porthos' own sword already plunging into his gut. As the realisation dawned on the man Porthos twisted out from underneath him. The man fell heavily beside him, the light in his eyes dimming quickly, a limp hand clutching at the sword which protruded from his stomach.
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The big man telegraphed his moves slightly, it did not take Aramis long to work out what was coming next. The man swung his arm to the side, Aramis ducked down under the sword as it arced over him. He rose and retaliated at the same time, his sword slipping between the man's ribs and deep into his chest piercing his heart. The man crumpled to the floor with little ceremony.
Aramis would find the time to pray for the man's soul later, at that moment, Athos' soul was more important. Athos soul was still with the man and Aramis wanted to keep it that way.
He had seen Athos being beaten to the ground as he pulled his sword from his opponent's chest. The man who had beaten Athos to the ground was raising his sword ready to plunge it into the unconscious man. As he moved towards the man, Aramis pulled a dagger from its place on his weapons belt. The man standing above the prone form of Athos raised his arms above his head. The man paused and looked down at his chest for a few seconds. As Aramis approached he could tell the man looked confused. The dagger impaled in his chest must have seemed out of place to the man. Aramis wondered if his last thoughts were to wonder where the dagger had come from.
As the now dead attacker fell to the floor, Aramis reached Athos. He pushed his unconscious brother onto his back. The swordsman was very still, bruising from the kick already obvious on his temple, a graze was weeping blood. Aramis decided it would only need cleaning, the injury would probably not even need to be dressed. But the obvious bump on Athos head was a worry. The man had been hit hard. Aramis did not like the look of the injury.
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D'Artagnan turned from the dead man. Aramis had finished off his large opponent and was in the process of dealing with the man who was trying to kill Athos. The marksman, with seemingly no thought at all, pulled a dagger from his belt and threw it at the man. It embedded itself in the man's chest. The man stared at the dagger for a second before staring at Aramis, who was not even looking at him. Aramis' only concern was the very still looking Athos lying at the feet of the man that he had just killed.
Looking across to the stream where he had last seen Porthos, d'Artagnan saw the Musketeer lying on the floor breathing hard, looking at his arm with a slightly confused expression.
Deciding that Athos was in good hands, d'Artagnan crossed to Porthos. He could not tell if his friend was badly injured or just trying to calm himself down after the fight. Porthos' right sleeve had rips across it, the fabric was already stained with blood. The bodies of the two men he had been fighting lay a few feet away, d'Artagnan could not work out when or how Porthos had obtained his injury.
He crouched down by Porthos who was scowling at his sleeve before pushing it up revealing a nasty graze that had broken through his skin in several places.
'You must have smashed your arm into the rock there,' said d'Artagnan nodding towards a larger rock with a rough surface. Porthos sword was lying in front of the rock.
Porthos continued to stare at his arm, 'I don't remember it happening.'
D'Artagnan held out his hand, helping Porthos to his feet. Porthos held his injured arm across his chest as d'Artagnan retrieved his sword and doublet. He looked back across to Aramis who was knelt beside Athos. The marksman was feeling along his friend's limbs and torso searching for any other unknown injuries.
Aramis looked up as they approached, he glanced at Porthos' arm.
'It's a scratch, I'll be fine,' lied Porthos.
It was clear to d'Artagnan that Aramis knew better, but he did not say anything.
'What about Athos?'
Aramis looked back down at the unconscious man.
'It's a nasty knock. A hard one. We'll just have to wait for him to wake up.'
D'Artagnan could hear the worry in his voice.
'He will wake up though...won't he?'
When Aramis did not respond, d'Artagnan knew it was a bad injury. Aramis was usually optimistic, but he was clearly worried about their leader.
Porthos had refocused himself, 'let's make camp then. We'll put all the bodies together over there,' he indicated an area just out of sight of their current position in a slight dip. 'Aramis, deal with him as best you can,' Porthos looked down at Athos for a couple of seconds before turning to d'Artagnan. 'Can you deal with the horses?'
D'Artagnan nodded.
'What about your arm?' said Aramis rising and stepping towards Porthos.
'It'll keep for a few minutes. I'll help d'Artagnan move the bodies then I'll wash it and you can do what you want with me once a fire's been lit.'
Aramis managed a smile, d'Artagnan wondered if Porthos was taking charge because he knew that he could not do anything for Athos, but Aramis could.
The activity kept them all busy for a few minutes. Due to the terrain, it took the two of them to carry each body to the allocated spot. Porthos had deliberately chosen a spot that they would not be able to see from their impromptu camp. As Porthos crouched by the stream and began to clean his grazed arm, d'Artagnan searched through the pockets of the dead men.
'They have nothing on them,' he said as he gently closed the eyes of the last man.
'We'll probably never know who they were,' replied Porthos as he wiped away the debris that had become caught in the cuts to his arm.
D'Artagnan looked across to Aramis who had taken a folded blanket from one of their saddlebags and had used it to act as a pillow for Athos.
'It's bad isn't it?' he asked quietly.
Porthos nodded, watching as Aramis used water and a cloth to clean the cuts to Athos' head.
'I think so,' was his only reply.
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'It's bad isn't it?' asked d'Artagnan quietly as he looked across towards their injured brother.
Porthos sighed, 'I think so,' he replied.
They had known each other long enough to read the subtle signs they each gave without realising it. D'Artagnan was feeling his youth, the worry of the injury to the man he saw as his mentor was bubbling under the surface. D'Artagnan could barely contain it. Porthos knew that he and Aramis had to remain calm for the younger man's sake.
It had been clear from the conversation with Aramis regarding the injury that it was serious. He would not commit to a prognosis. Aramis had limited capability as a field medic. He could deal with basic injuries, he could stabilise a man until a field surgeon could see to him, but not much beyond that.
Porthos finished cleaning the grazes on his arm, he was annoyed that he had managed to injure himself. If he had been wearing his doublet he doubted he would even have noticed he had knocked into the rock, he might have been a little bruised, but nothing that would have affected him. But the grazes were throbbing and would need to be dressed and kept clean. An inconvenience he could do without.
D'Artagnan had moved over to the horses. Porthos could hear him talking to them quietly as he took the saddlebags from them.
As he settled himself beside Aramis he noticed that the marksman had already sorted out a dressing for his injuries.
'You got nothin' else to do?' he asked.
'Not really, there really is nothing I can do for him, I'll try to get that bruising down a bit with cool cloths but…'
Aramis trailed off, Porthos could tell his friend felt a little useless.
'Then we wait,' he said.
Aramis nodded once before reaching out and taking Porthos' injured arm and inspecting the wound. Porthos watched his friend wrap the bandage around his arm carefully maintaining the balance between too tight and too loose with practised ease.
By the time Aramis was satisfied with his ministrations, d'Artagnan had joined them. He had collected some dry wood and began to create a fire.
'How long will it be before he wakes up?' asked d'Artagnan.
'There's really no way to tell,' replied Aramis as he moved a few large stones towards the fire arranging them to form an edge.
Porthos searched through their saddlebags for food. They carried limited provisions and had not planned on stopping again. He managed to rustle up enough food for the three of them. He knew there was a fair chance that when Athos awoke he would not be hungry. Porthos was pleased with himself for thinking 'when' not 'if' his friend awoke. He had seen fellow soldiers who had received head injuries never awaken. But he knew that would not be the case now. Athos would wake up.
'He has been hit on the head before…' said Aramis after a few minutes.
D'Artagnan was slowly feeding the small fire with kindling. The young man looked up at Aramis' words.
'I'm just saying,' continued Aramis, 'that he's been unconscious like this before and been fine.'
Porthos wondered if Aramis was trying to humour d'Artagnan who was obviously very worried.
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D'Artagnan was not really hungry, but he forced himself to eat. He got the impression Porthos and Aramis were doing the same thing. Aramis was changing the damp cloth he had laid over Athos' injury every so often.
The sky was darkening making the unremarkable wood take on a creepy look. The once dim areas became dark, the few shadows began to stretch. D'Artagnan found himself glancing across to the area they had left the bodies. He knew he was being foolish but being in such close proximity to the dead men did not help his feeling of unease.
Porthos and Aramis had tried to keep the conversation going but had eventually lapsed into silence. A silence that only highlighted the assorted natural sounds of the outdoors. As a farmer, he was used to the sounds of the outdoors but had never particularly enjoyed the unknown of the night-time.
A quiet groan had all three men giving the injured man lying between them their full attention.
Aramis shifted his position so that he would be in Athos line of sight. The injured man turned his head slightly and screwed up his still closed eyes.
'Athos…' said Aramis quietly reaching out and resting his hand on the other man's arm.
Another groan followed by silence for a few seconds. D'Artagnan watched silently, he noticed Porthos was keeping very still as well. It was almost as if any sudden movement would break the spell of their brothers returning consciousness.
The swordsman's eye fluttered a couple of times before he opened them fully. He looked up at Aramis but did not seem to focus on him. Athos raised his hand and tried to touch his temple, where the dark bruises stood out so starkly. Aramis caught his hand and shook his head as he gently moved it away.
'Athos, look at me…'
Athos took a couple of deeper breaths before looking at Aramis again, this time with more focus in his eyes. Athos may have been focused but he also looked confused. He stared at Aramis for several seconds before looking away. He looked up at the canopy of trees above him before turning his head the other way and finding Porthos. His confused look remained as he finally looked at d'Artagnan who managed to smile at his friend.
'How are you feeling?' asked Aramis quietly.
Athos looked back at Aramis, before pulling his arm free of the marksman's hand. Athos furrowed his brow.
When he spoke, with a quiet croaky voice they were all shocked by his words.
'Who are you?'
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