A cry of pain had him whirling once again, the cold dread deepening as Tristan curled into himself still managing to cling onto the reins, though barely from the way he swayed in his seat.
"Aramis NO!" he yelled across to their marksman, who looked to be turning his mount in order to deal with Durant face to face. Even Athos flinched at the snarl which ripped from Aramis at the order, though he turned his horse back onto their same road, edging closer to Tristan who had his eyes closed fully in pain and was not able to steer his own. Aramis lay a hand over Tristan's, pushing it lower to hold onto the front of his saddle instead and letting the reins hang loose, trusting the horse to follow the others now it was no longer being steered.
They tore across the grounds, leaving the road almost immediately and making for the edge of the tree line which signalled the forest surrounding d'Avery's lands, attempting instinctively to hide their direction from the men who no doubt were in the throes of tacking up their own horses for pursuit. Athos knew they had to get as much distance between themselves and the hunters whilst they still had chance.
"Athos we're going to have to stop, he's losing too much blood," Aramis' cry rang across from their line of thundering hooves.
"We cannot," Athos replied grimly, knowing Aramis' very nature would rebel against this order and for the first time in a long time making him wonder if his word alone would be enough to stop the marksman going rogue.
"Athos!" Aramis replied aghast, an arm out attempting to steady Tristan, who had begun to lean dangerously in his saddle.
"If we stop now they will cut us all down," Athos replied steadily. Hating himself for potentially dooming their newest recruit in favour of saving the lives of all of his men.
"I can tend to him mounted at the very least," Aramis said cooly, impressively holding back his obvious want to rant and rail at Athos' words though his own were tight and stilted.
"We can hold them off for a few moments," d'Artangan said from Athos' other side, low enough for the others not to hear in an attempt to not undermine Athos' command.
"Work quickly," Athos bit out, pulling his horse to a heaving standstill and turning him around to face the path they had taken to scout for any pursuers. Porthos and d'Artangan followed suit, instinctively fanning out in order to glean a better advantage point.
Tristan's horse moved a few paces forward but pulled up to a standstill following the cues of his stable mates, though he pranced a little. Nervous at having a free rein. Aramis brought his own mount closer, talking easily to the animal and attempting to repress the emotions and tensions running through his own body in order not to spook the reins, he wrapped them along with his own around the pommel of his saddle before unwrapping the blue sash he wore around his waist.
Leaning forward, he pushed Tristan back in order to ascertain his injury. The bullet had torn through Tristan's back, low on his left side, and had exited the front leaving a gaping and jagged hole. Blood poured from both wounds leaving his face pale and sweaty. He was barely aware of Aramis awkwardly tying the sash about his person, padding both sides of the bullet's path with ripped linens from the stash he kept handy in his saddle bags. He did, however, tense with a puff of expelled air and a low, boyish moan as Aramis bound the sash tightly with as much pressure as he could muster. All the while murmuring nothing words of comfort to the obviously scared young man.
"Aramis, we are running out of time," Athos called back to the marksman, noting a dust cloud rising in the distance, speaking of a number of horses travelling at speed.
"I have done all I can for now," Aramis replied, his voice tense as he unwrapped the tangled reins and placed Tristan's back into his fumbling fingers.
The Musketeers all turned, kicking their horses back into a canter, knowing that at a full gallop their mounts would tire too quickly to continue their escape but wanting to urge them onwards all the same. Athos hated the feeling of being hunted down like an animal but also knew that in this instance they had no chance of standing their ground. Especially with one of their own carrying such a mortal wound.
"What I wouldn't give to be able to wring their sodding necks," Porthos growled from beside Athos, his words barely heard over the thundering hooves. His tone coupled with the bruise blossoming over his eye made for a threatening picture few would dare to oppose.
"You and me both my friend but this time we must run."
Run they did. But after a couple of hours of crashing through the undergrowth, the fading sunlight forced their breakneck speed to be diminished to a trot through the closing trees for fear of their horses miss stepping in the darkness. Athos held his hand up to pull them all to a halt after a particularly bad stumble by d'Artangan's horse almost caused the man to be thrown from his saddle.
"We're going to have to continue on foot," he began gravely, noting the heaving chests of their beasts and the way the sweat coating their bodies shone out in the moonlight.
"We can never outrun them on foot," d'Artangan said quietly, slowly stroking his mount's neck in an effort to calm the exhausted animal.
Looking around in the darkness, Athos noted the bedraggled state of the troupe of men. Taking a course through the woods had meant none had passed unscathed through branches whipping at their hands and faces, the thin cuts and dried blood on each man's exposed skin was testament to that. Bruises from the battle had finally taken hold and stood out starkly even in the moonlight. The blood which had dribbled from his temple was itchy and flaky and he sympathised with Aramis, whose split lip had coated his chin in a macabre way, matching the wet darkness sticking to d'Artangan's cheek from a cut to his face. They were all of them exhausted. A long day's ride coupled with a laboured fight and then pursuit through the trees had pushed their bodies to the limit. The adrenaline had long since gone from their systems, leaving behind a trail of strained and tired muscles.
None of their appearances could compare with that of Tristan though, who was barely conscious and leaning forward, head almost pressed to his horse's neck. His face was pale with the obvious signs of blood loss and his eyes were lidded. His body ready to give out at any moment and only a soldier's stubbornness keeping him vaguely alert.
"The horses cannot continue in the dark but we must keep moving if we are to have any chance of outpacing d'Avery's dogs," Athos said firmly, knowing full well what he was asking of his men. Paris was a day's ride away via the broken roads, but on foot through the trees it could easily stretch to three, if not more. His hope was that they would chance upon someone willing to transport them back to the capitol on the way. He was not foolish enough to think they would manage the journey easily in the state they were currently in. His throbbing head pulsed particularly vehemently at that moment as if reminding him of that.
"Their 'orses won't be doing any better in the dark," Porthos said, his vote of confidence boosting Athos and chased his own misgivings away somewhat.
"But what of Tristan?" Aramis. Barely whispered in order to try to spare Tristan's pride, but he needn't have bothered. Tristan was many miles away from any conversation they were having around him at that point.
"We're going to have to try to carry him between us," Athos said tersely. He knew he was asking them to put themselves at the limits of their endurance. They knew his words to be true. They could get no further on the horses and they could not afford to spend an evening allowing them to rest and waiting on the sun without severely putting themselves at risk of being overcome by d'Avery's men. He saw the resignation crossing each of their faces. But he also saw the grim determination. They were soldiers, their lives were not meant to be easy. And the hardships they had faced allowed them to grow stronger for the next insurmountable task. That they had to carry a wounded brother along for the ride only strengthened their resolve though his addition would no doubt be only an added strain. Leaving him behind was beyond out of the question.
"Strip the horses of everything you can carry without over burdening yourselves," Aramis barked out to the others. He had the most experience of any of them and the others nodded at his order, not even thinking to question his command. "We will remove their tack and send them onwards. They will find their way home if they can."
The Garrison horses were picked to be hardy creatures but also for the spark of intelligence which was present in some animal's eyes. If it was possible for any beast to be able to make it back to their stables safely it was those.
They wasted little time on the order, searching through the saddle bags for the most useful trinkets for the moment and for the foreseeable future. Athos noted Aramis pocketing his roll of leather which he knew to contain the few surgeons tools he had the skill to use and barely suppressed a shudder of sympathy for the ordeal Tristan had in the hopefully not too distant future. An unpleasant ordeal for sure, but one which was completely necessary if he was to survive his first mission.
After stripping the saddle bags of anything of use, they wasted little time in unbuckling the tack from each animal. Leaving Tristan's till last allowing him a few more precious moments of rest. When it came to his turn, Porthos tipped the boy into his arms and carried him carefully to the foot of a tree as though he weighed no more than a leaf.
"Yah," Athos cried, slapping the rump of his stallion and sending him crashing through the bushes into the night. He turned in time to see Aramis pull his main-gauche from his back before bending down to their pile of tack whereupon he began slicing through the hardened leathers at certain points, rendering it useless.
"They've already taken enough from us don't you think?" he quipped as he rose from the now ruined equipment and spotted Athos' raised eyebrow.
"Too true my friend," Athos replied, a sadness taking hold of his chest as he turned to their ailing comrade and his mind was flooded with thoughts of Gerard.
He faced the others, seeing them all readied for their flight into the darkness. Each man sporting a myriad of weapons which glinted in the night.
"Shall we then gentlemen?" he asked, shouldering the saddle bag of provisions he had gathered and heading through the close scrub of undergrowth.
"No, let me," he heard from behind him, turning in time to see Aramis holding Porthos back with a gentle hand before bending low and lifting Tristan over one shoulder, his head hanging over Aramis' back, eliciting a groan from the barely conscious man as his wound was jarred. "Easy there now," Aramis said, his voice tight from the exertion, "Try to sleep if you can."
So they marched. Through the impenetrable darkness of the foliage. The moon was almost full but the light barely pierced the trees and it was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead of the procession. Every fibre in Athos' body warned at keeping their noises to a minimum, his nerves frayed by the thought of their footsteps being dogged. He was not used to being the hunted party. But in truth they could make as much noise as they wanted. It wouldn't take an experienced tracker to be able to read the path of four walkers through the dense forest come the morning. Every movement seemed to snap a twig or bend a blade of grass.
He knew in his heart their pursuers would have made camp for the evening, coming to the same conclusion as they had about the abilities, or lack thereof, of the horses through the scrub. If the trade off for a slightly faster path through the woods was making a din to wake the dead then so be it. They would be thankful of the distance come the morning.
He half turned his head at a curse shot from behind him, seeing Aramis stumble and almost lose both his footing and his grip on Tristan in one as his boot caught on a tree root. They had been at it for over an hour, the long grasses tugging at their legs and sapping their energy quicker than walking on a road alone would have, and the look on Aramis' face told of the cost the extra added dead weight of Tristan was taking on his body. The grim set of his mouth also dared any of them to ask him to share the burden.
Aramis had grown close to the new recruit over the past weeks and, knowing the marksman's very nature as if it were his own, Athos knew he would be feeling guilty that he had not managed to save him from his grievous wound. Never mind that in simply choosing this life, there was no guarantee for the boy that leaving the Garrison doors would ever mean coming back through them in one piece. Or even with his very life intact.
Seeing the sweat dripping down all their faces even in the cool of the night, positively soaking through Aramis' leathers, Athos halted, stopping them at a word.
"We need to rest a moment," he said, seeing the relief in their eyes chased away by the set of their shoulders in unison as he knew he would.
"We cannot," d'Artangan began, Porthos already nodding in agreement.
"Every minute off our feet is ground lost," Aramis added, panting. His breath, puffs of cloud in the chill.
"We can take a moment at the least," Athos reiterated, refusing to take no for an answer though his chest swelled with pride at their words, "none of us have taken refreshment in hours, and Aramis, you should take a proper look at Tristan's wound."
At the mention of Tristan, the determination of the others seemed to falter. They'd none of them been able to ignore his pitiable mewls of pain at every bump in the road, though Aramis had tried to take the smoothest path. And the heat from his body had begun burning through Aramis' layers of clothing as they had marched, worrying him though he knew there was not much they could do in their current predicament.
Finally they nodded slowly in unison at the decision. Porthos stepping forward to help relieve Aramis of his burden, noting with a frown the fine tremors running through the marksman's body as he lifted Tristan from his shoulder.
"Whoa easy," d'Artangan said, stepping forward fluidly to grab Aramis' arm as the sudden removal of the weight left him swaying once his body and the exhaustion caught up to him in a rush.
"'m okay," he mumbled, blowing out his cheeks and wiping the back of a gloved hand across his forehead, though he braced himself against d'Artangan for longer than a moment before he managed to right his equilibrium.
Porthos turned to a particularly thick carpet of grass and lowered Tristan's body down onto it carefully, trying his hardest not to jostle the boy. Tristan's eyes were closed but they roved under his lids and a whine broke from his mouth. He was clearly in the throes of fever, a fact which struck each of them in the heart, for fever could carry you off just as swiftly as a bullet.
Aramis removed his gloves, stuffing them into a pocket as he all but fell beside Tristan, onto his knees. He fumbled for the saddle bag at his side, opening it ready to grab whatever he would need after exposing Tristan's wounds to the air. He did so carefully, unwinding his blood soaked sash and peeling back the linens, stuck to Tristan's skin with gore. He recoiled slightly as the smell hit his unprepared nostrils, the bullet holes already red and puffy and leaking all manner of foul smelling liquids.
"Infection has set in," he said to no one in particular. His statement more than obvious to all around him.
"What can we do?" Athos asked, not allowing himself to turn away from the sight.
"What we really need is boiling water and a surgeon but I fear we shall have neither?" Aramis said, almost in question.
"We do not have the time to spare to make a fire," Athos said with regret.
Aramis nodded, his lips in a tight line at Athos' words. He knew deep down they could not linger. As he had said earlier, every minute not on their feet was lost ground. But the medic in him screamed to do something, anything more than what little he was able to do in the circumstance.
"Looks too far gone for the needle anyhow," Porthos said from the side, a little green about the gills but determined to help too if he could.
"You're right my friend, unfortunately the best I can do is to drain it and bind it," Aramis said, sorrow lacing his words.
The air turned grim around the gathered men as what Aramis had said sank in. Without speaking and seemingly as one, d'Artangan and Porthos moved in a way which would make it easier to brace against the young lad laying prone on the floor, knowing that what Aramis had planned for him would not be pleasant.
Rooting about in the saddlebag, Aramis brandished a small bottle of spirits which he had brought along for just the potential circumstance of cleaning wounds, though he'd had no idea it would be used one something so grievous when he had packed it what felt like weeks ago.
Looking to the other two he nodded once, seeing their arm muscles tense, holding Tristan to the ground as he placed his hands first around the wound on his stomach. He pressed. Hard. Sending streams of pus oozing down Tristan's side and bright blood not long after. The boy bucked feebly but did not wake and only murmured in his fevered dreams.
Aramis repeated the gesture on the lad's back where the entry wound was slightly more infected. Tristan bucked again. After making sure the holes ran freely with blood and not gunk, Aramis took a steadying breath before pouring the spirits over the now angry looking bullet holes.
Tristan screamed.
The very sound rent the air as he threw himself around, his small size belying the strength of his corded muscles as he tried in vain the tear himself from the Musketeer's hold of him and get away from the fire burning in his side. Athos moved to muffle the boy's mouth, but stopped dead as the sound cut out suddenly. Tristan's brain tapped out and he passed once again into oblivion, dead to the world once more.
Porthos unclasped his hands from Tristan's ankles and stood slowly, laying a comforting pat on Aramis' shoulder, whose breathing was a little ragged in the still air. All the nearby forest creatures had been momentarily silenced by the terrible sound which had broken through the night and the men found themselves suddenly surrounded by a thickening silence.
A moment or two later, Aramis shook himself out of his reverie, taking fresh linen squares from his bag and wadding them into the wounds before retying the sash about Tristan's waist.
"Right," Athos said with a cough to clear his throat, feeling like a naughty schoolboy breaking the revered silence of a church, "take a drink and some food if you can and we shall be off."
None of them felt much like eating, though they all swallowed some bread with a little water, knowing that the only way they would any of them stay on their feet was to keep their tired bodies fuelled.
"My turn," Porthos said to Aramis, as the marksman made to bend towards Tristan's form once again. The tone of his voice brooked no argument, and Aramis took a step back. In truth he wasn't sure his muscles would have co-operated to lift Tristan dead from the ground.
Porthos heaved the youth over his shoulder as though he weighed nothing and strode forward through the trees and into the gloom, the others following in his wake.