I will try to keep up a more or less reliable posting schedule every Friday. Have fun. Find any mistakes? Please let me know. I aim to improve.
Chapter One
Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be rememberèd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.
William Shakespeare – Henry V
Recent weeks had not been kind on Paris. Sure enough, it had never been known as a city where milk and honey flowed but it had taken care of itself and its people and flourished with the hubbub in the streets. Children playing hide and seek while mangy dogs were fighting ambitiously over left over bones, women tattling to their neighbors while their little ones were chewing on wooden pegs that kept falling down and men gloating loudly over whatever it was that their wives had strictly told them not to do in the first place. The streets had been the veins, pulsing with life. Never empty, never quiet, never safe but always home.
Then, things had changed dramatically and it had all begun with a few dead goats.
They had not just been found dead but ripped apart with body parts littered over an area measured in acres, not feet. The following night it was a whole stable of horses, the sight not any prettier. The night after it was the miller's 16-year-old daughter who was found mauled and naked in a pond just behind her family's home. Her eyes facing her death wide openand the horror she had felt in her last seconds burned into them like a painting on canvas.
That's when the people started to talk about a monster that had been sent to punish them for their guilty pleasures. Self-appointed holy men bobbed up on every street corner, standing on wooden crates to preach fervently and pointing their fingers at every man and woman and child accusingly for falling for the devil. People on the streets blamed random strangers and trusted neighbors. They blamed the Spanish, the prostitutes, the protestants. Market days got sullen and even though patrols were doubled – the Red Guard's as well as the Musketeer's – the row of gruesome murders went on. Over a dozen dead within the last two months, mostly women and adolescents – some mutilated beyond recognition – and no witnesses to speak of. A witch-hunt began unlike anything Paris had ever seen.
Distraught animals – dogs, cats, a few famished wolves and even half a dozen large pigs – were being slaughtered. Devil's pets, they called them.
Young men, their life still ahead of them. New in town because they had foolishly hoped to find work and a better life. Murderers, they called them.
Young women beaten to death because they were carrying herbs to the market. Witches, they called them.
Mothers, sisters, fathers and sons. There was no innocence left.
Then the first voices could be heard calling for the King to execute his God given power to stop this evil. Of course, the King didn't exactly care about dead subjects. Nor did he care about such inconveniences as dead cattle.
"Double the patrols!" he had demanded casually, as if it was not the most evident thing to do and Treville had nodded dutifully only to quadruple the patrols instead.
But the streets were empty by now. And sure enough, it wasn't just the cold weather that kept the people inside. It was fear. Taverns stayed closed and those that were still open were only sparsely frequented. As soon as the darkness crept over the rooftops though, the streets lay abandoned. People hid behind the privacy of their homes, fancying themselves to be out of harm's way.
Right into the deceptive peace the King announced his yearly New Years Ball, which was supposed to be the day after the first Full Moon of the year.
Nobles from all corners of France were expected and the King wanted "Everything perfect!"
That's when some distant cousin of the king, Duke Francis from Nantes – traveling to Paris to attend to the ball - was attacked just outside the city walls. His horses were massacred, two of his servants killed, one missing. Parts of him at least. During the attack, the carriage had been knocked over and he and his wife had had the luck to be almost buried under it, sparing them the fate of their unlucky entourage.
"Preposterous!" the man did not tire to grouse after he had been saved by a patrol of Musketeers and escorted to the palace. "Preposterous, I dare say," he all but yelled, his clothes still muddy and his wig aslant and in disarray as he came forward to be seen by the King, who had welcomed him in a hurry and was now brooding on his throne, obviously none too happy about the late disturbance.
"My wife is inconsolable," the Duke whined and made an awkward effort to adjust his wig. "All the garment for the ball has been ruined. And… and the jewelry…" he added as if in afterthought.
Athos threw a glance at Porthos who was silently coughing into his glove, trying to cover up the sounds of disbelieve, and couldn't help but share the feelings of irritation when outside these walls people were dying while the King's precious peace could not be troubled by such mundane things as the death of commoners. They had seen what happened at the scene, had been the ones to find the ranting Duke and his hysterically sobbing wife. Had helped them out of their trap, which had saved their lives. They had ushered them away from the massacre, had cleared a path from body parts and corpses so the nobles didn't have to look at it and their eyes would not to be stained by the ugliness of death.
When d'Artagnan had done his share of work none of his companions had commented on his disappearance even though they had heard him empty the content of his stomach behind a tree. They had only done what was expected of them and had safely accompanied the two guests to the palace.
"Cousin, dearest," the king interrupted with an impatient grunt and got up, walking down the few steps towards the noble man. "Do not fear. Your loss will be taken into account. Now, shush, go to your wife and enjoy your stay. I will take care of everything." Performing a wide motion with his arm he gestured towards the door and none too gently propelled his guest out of the hall. With a glance over his shoulder as if he had not yet said everything he wanted to the plump man waddled away, the doors closing behind him with a loud rattle.
"I told you to double the patrol," the King hissed and stared at Treville.
"And we followed your orders, your majesty," Treville replied patiently. "My men, as well as the Red Guard's, have been patrolling the streets without cease for weeks. But it is impossible to be everywhere at the same time. We..."
"No more words. No more excuses, Treville. I am disappointed."
Athos, who was standing behind Treville, could see his Captain's shoulder visibly deflate.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
From the corners of his eyes, Athos could see the shared looks between Porthos and Aramis while to his left, d'Artagnan tensed, probably very busy wrestling down his innate sense of justice.
"Now go and bring me that Beast. I..." The King stopped and pondered for a moment before raising his head a little higher. "I want its head on display on the night of the feast."
With these melodramatic words he strode off, the Cardinal on his toes adding a smirk into the Captain's direction.
Treville sighed, staring long seconds at the now closed doors.
"Captain," Athos stepped ahead. "I suggest we go back. We might be able to find tracks as long as they're fresh."
"No," the Captain replied without making eye contact. "It's the middle of the night. I will not risk losing men over hasty response. We are unaware of what we're dealing with and I do not want you to go in a rush." He turned towards the four men and one by one, took in their weariness and the way the last week's constant vigilance had taken its toll. "No. Go and rest! You will ride out in the morning."
Athos nodded and was about to turn when Treville spoke again, his words laden with underlying tension. "Be careful, Athos. That's an order."
Little did he know what good that would do.
They rode out the next morning before the sun had begun to show. The air was crisp, biting their skin and turning their breaths into clouds of slowly recoiling mist. They rode in silence, meeting none other except for a small patrol of Musketeers just returning form their watch. Nodding, they rode past each other and without another incident left the city through the northern gate, which had only just opened.
The sun began to rise majestically behind a foggy sky and the land spread before them. The perpetual frost glinted sharply, covering everything in a blanket of glittering hostility. Still in silence, they pressed their horses into a light gallop until they could see in the distance the carriage lying on its side. Next to Athos, d'Artagnan suddenly fell behind and the older man, too, reduced his pace into a light step.
"Is something bothering you?" Athos asked and glanced sideways, grudgingly taking in the too light attire of the young man. He really needed to get that boy some adequate clothing, especially since he knew that his young protégé had no money to do it himself. While the gained pauldron had done him wonders in matters of self-confidence it didn't come with a lot of financial benefits. What the young man saved by not having to pay rent to Bonacieux since he was now assigned a small room in the garrison he had to spend for equipment for himself as well as his horse. Athos knew he had invested in a pair of new boots – he fondly remembered d'Artagnan's adamant pursuit to "please do not ruin it" in the last month's long-lasting rain shower – but padded mantles were expensive. The regular piece he was now wearing hardly did anything to ward off the chill. At least he had added a fur-lined vest to his uniform.
"Yes."
"Good."
The silence between them felt oppressive with unspoken words and finally d'Artagnan sighed. "I'm not looking forward to seeing this… place again."
Athos nodded. "If you were, I would be bothered."
That was all the young man needed to hear. With a quick dip of his head and a short whistle, he spurred his horse into a light trot and quickly caught up with Porthos and Aramis.
"Did you find anything?" he called out and Athos nodded to himself, pleased with his protégé for gathering his wits in the face of what he knew they would find.
Next to the carriage, Porthos sat on his haunches, intently looking at something he had found on the ground.
"Oi," he answered d'Artagnan. "'alf a footprint from an animal, if I 'ad ta guess. A pretty big one."
Aramis glanced over his friend into the woods and added with a frown: "And they lead into the woods."
'Of course they do,' Athos thought with a bad feeling in his heart and followed Aramis' gaze. The forest on their left was thick and overgrown with shrubbery which even in the winter'sbareness would be cumbersome to cross. In terms of tracking that wasn't necessarily a bad thing but they would have to do it without their horses.
"We will have to lead the horses," d'Artagnan spoke aloud the train of throughts Athos had just been thinking. "I'm pretty sure somewhere in that forest there's a pretty large ravine. This is where they… it… " His gaze wandered over what could only be called a battlefield. "…whatever might have found shelter there."
"Indeed, we almost got lost there a few years back," Aramis added and Porthos objectied grumpily: "Did not get lost. Merely… took a small detour."
"Your definition of detour is remarkable, my friend," Aramis laughed and bewildered, d'Artagnan looked between his two friends.
"I do remember that particular detour," Athos added, the hint of smile on his lips. "The one thatalmost cost you your horse and you refused responsibility for the campfire for weeks."
Porthos looked embarrassed which made Aramis snicker good-naturally while d'Artagnan gave the impression of bursting with curiosity yet being too well-mannered to ask. "Come one, young one," Aramis grinnedmischiviously. "Let me tell you a tale about a young Musketeer who had grown up within Paris' walls and thought he could conquer the elements the way he dealt with city nuisances. It's hilarious!" Leading his horse with his left, Aramis put his right arm around d'Artagnan's shoulder and guided him away from the soul-crushing carnage and towards the forest border.
"This is going to be fun," Porthos mumbled, looking like a man resigned to his fate but dutifully trotting after them. d'Artagnan's amused exclamation of "No, really?" gave Athos comforting shivers of gratitude and with one last look at a blood-soaked limb which might or might not have been a lower leg Athos, too, followed.
It was good to know the others had his back when it came totheir young Gascon.
Winter days were short. The few hours of sunlight even more restricted by a now closed cover of clouds, the sun since long having withdrawn. Hiding behind a blanket of branches and pinewoods the sky never really lightened up completely when the tracks ended and they found themselves at the beginning of the ravine. So far, the route had been without signs of disturbance except for a dead fox, its bloody bowels more on the outside than the inside but it had been cold and stiff. In silent agreement they had taken out their weapons, listening more closely now. Surprisingly, the forest was peaceful, mostly even void of life. Now a weathered trail to their left led down towards a narrow path, enclosed on both sides by high stone walls which could be mounted to their right by a steep slope consisting of large boulders and areas of undergrowth and moss.
"Now what?" asked Porthos, eyeing the path suspiciously.
With an upwards squint to the fading daylight, Athos lead his horse to a nearby tree. "We leave the horses and separate. d'Artagnan and I, we will try to get to the top. You two," he looked at Porthos and Aramis and pointed downwards with a nod of his head. "Take a look this way. Do not go too far. We will meet in half an hour back here."
"Do you think it's wise to separate?" Aramis inquired, one eyebrow raised to the rim of his hat.
"No, I don't," Athos dead-panned and eyed d'Artagnan, who was blowing warm air into his hands. "But we are out of options. Daylight will be gone shortly. Until then we need to have something to report back to Treville."
"When you put it that way...," Aramis said and shrugged his shoulders, grinning at Athos and d'Artagnan. "Just don't come running when the beast bites your heads off."
"Thank you, Aramis," d'Artagnan replied good-naturedly. "When it comes to that I'll remember your kind words and run a little faster to lead it back to you."
"That's the spirit, my young friend," Aramis grinned.
One by one, they tied their mounts next to Athos' and after re-checking their weapons started to climb. Porthos and Aramis down the path, Athos and d'Artagnan up the slope. The latter provided enough cracks and roots to hold on to and quickly they reached a flat terrain allowing them to walk upright. d'Artagnan was the first to stand up and take a look around, his sword ready in his hand. Athos caught up with him a few seconds later and after they gathered their breaths prepared to advance. A small path lead alongside another rock face. Boulders of different sizes littered the ground and every once in a while they kicked a loose piece or two over the ledge, holding their breath out of fear of causing an avalanche that might prove dire for their friends in the lower parts of the small canyon.
They had managed only a few yards when d'Artagnan carefully took a long glimpse over the brink, apparently lost in his thoughts. He then settled back close to the wall and concentrated on setting one foot next to the other. "When I was nine or ten," d'Artagnan suddenly began to talk. "I went hunting with my…" There was an almost imperceptible pause before he continued. "… father for the first time. He intended for me to take the shot that would provide us a proper goose for St. Crispins Day." His voice sounded hushed but strong and Athos waited, realizing that it was probably the first time the young man spontaneously and without being prompted spoke freely about the past.
The path widened a bit and they could walk side by side, the feet silently treading on mostly grass and moss that was crunching under the soles of their shoes. A small, nostalgic smile spread on the Gascon's face and Athos carefully pressed on. "Whathappened?"
"Ah," d'Artagnan grinned and carefully looked around a corner, his weapon held in front of him, just in case. "He wanted us to lie in wait on a large boulder. I admit, I was a terrible climber and it took me forever to get up with a lot of coaxing and encouragement. But, somehow I managed and we waited all day long. It was freezing and every time I moved, pebbles came loose, rolled down and made a ruckus loud enough to frighten off anything in the perimeter. My father was about to lose it with me… " At this point he snickered softly. " … and surrender to have vegetable stew instead when this huge turkey showed up. I could see my father was about to make the shot himself but my nine year old self was eager to show him that I was capable of doing it myself. So… I pulled the trigger before he could … or I think I tried to. I don't remember exactly how I managed to fall down the boulder. I only remember hitting the ground, still holding on to my weapon. Astonishingly, the animal, was utterly stunned and didn't even blink, didn't even try to flee. What it did, though, was staring at me and… I took the shot anyway."
"And?" Athos asked, casually.
"Let's just say we ate turkey for quite some time. He was so proud… even though I had managed to break my arm in the fall. I always thought, he was proud of me that I didn't miss the shot but…" There was another break, when d'Artagnan seemed to collect himself. "A few days later, he sat down with me and said he would have been proud either way."
Listening intently, Athos let his eyes wander. They did have a good overview of the forest below them. The sky above them looked gray and massive clouds had begun to gather, menacing snow. If they didn't find something soon, they'd have to return empty-handed before the weather or the approaching night would prove more fatal than some beast or a fall down the slope.
"He said, he was proud because I took the shot in spite of having fallen down. In spite of the pain I was in. And he said, it reminded him of my mother, who always wanted her way, no matter the circumstances."
"Your father was…" Athos didn't come any further. The only warning they had was a deep, rumbling growl that sounded almost melodic and ended with a strange, reverberating vibrancy, like an echo. Then something big appeared a few yards in front of them, almost as if it was coming out of the solid walls.
'A cave…' Athos realized and stood still, hoping that d'Artagnan didn't do anything rash to direct the thing's attention at them. But it was already too late. It had probably heard them for some time.
The next seconds, in which Athos tried hard to take in everything he could see, felt like an eternity. The creature had the size of a small bear or a very large wolf. But it couldn't have been a normal wolf as it also featured bulges of what seemed like bone plates and extra tusks on the side of his head. Dirty fur, bloody and clotted in places, completed the picture and huge talons, as long as the handle of Athos' sword protruded from its immense paws. The creature's beady eyes – wasn't there a red tinge to it? – were glued on them and from its flew there was dripping a mixture of saliva, blood and the unidentifiable remains of what had once been an animal. At least Athos hoped, it had been an animal.
"Athos?" d'Artagnan mouthed almost inaudibly. But it still sounded too loud in Athos' ear. The young man was holding his loaded weapon at waist height, his finger itching on the trigger.
Athos nodded.
'Take the shot and make it count,' he thought as the beast advanced and d'Artagnan pulled the trigger.
The sound of a gunshot broke into the tranquil silence. It reverberated from all sides, bouncing off the walls and Aramis could feel its force thrumming in the stones through his gloved fingers where he was leaning against the hard surface.
He and Porthos shared a moment of understanding before they turned on their heels, trying to run over the uneven ground, failing miserably in a few places where ice had spread, creating slippery sections that had them crawling and holding onto the walls. The sound was only slowly ebbing away when small pebbles and dirt started to rain down on them. A distant growling sound indicated another obstacle they had not expected and the small pebbles were quickly turning into larger ones, forcing them both to go for cover in an alcove that protected them at least partially from the dangerous shower. Chunks the size of large fists were hitting the ground in front of their feet and it looked almost comically the way Porthos was dancing around the most potent ones.
Knowing that the shot could only mean one thing they didn't wait for the avalanche to completely come to a halt before they were already running on. They had strained to listen for something else but the avalanche had drowned out any other sound that might have come from an ongoing fight. With their minds going through all kinds of scenarios they reached their starting point where they had separated and followed the path their friends had taken.
Soon, they found themselves on a small clearing, almost like it had once been broadly carved into the rock face. There was enough room for half a dozen people to stand upright, protected from the weather and it ended in a hole in the rock that lead into a cave. A musky scent – earthy and moldy – washed over them, its origin somewhere deep within the drab tunnels.
A puddle of blood, still glistening and wet, was located near the brink of the platform. More trails of blood were scattered on the rocky ground near the entrance to the cave, some of them with distinct traces of imprints made by footwear. Then something that looked like a bloody handprint.
Something glinted near the cave and Porthos leaned down, rising with a familiar rapier in his hand, its usually glinting steel covered with more blood. d'Artagnan's.
They looked at each other, finding a strange comfort in the other men's terror.
"What the 'ell 'appen'd 'ere? Where ar' they?" Porthos asked, words rushed and crisp, like the frozen puddles beneath their feet, and Aramis shook his head, not sure what to say. "We… we 'ave to find 'em."
"Athos?" Aramis called, ignoring the feeling of dread, that whatever had caused his friends to disappear could reappear. "Athos! d'Artagnan!"
His own words were thrown back at him, manifested in a thousand voices that traveled along the canyonwalls.
"Aramis!" Porthos suddenly yelled with grave urgency and Aramis saw him bent over the brink, looking down at something. He stood next to him and following his gaze found a figure lying a few feet below them on a ledge barely wide enough for one body to fit. Pressed against the wall, like he had tried to put as much space between himself and the deadly drop. Lying in a puddle of blood – which Aramis couldn't find the source from - the body was not moving and one arm was lying in an angle that could not possibly be natural.
"ATHOS!"