A/N: Thank you again for following, favouriting and reviewing for me! You do inspire me to keep writing. Things are getting a little bit more interesting for our favourite musketeers now. I've written most of this on just two hours sleep as I was at work all night last night. It's strange the times when inspiration hits: I had just finished wandering around a tunnel full of sharks when I realised exactly how I wanted to end this chapter. (Maybe I will be able to get a shark into a story one of these days). Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, and please forgive grammar and spelling mistakes, I have checked and double checked it but like I said: two hours sleep. Please let me know what you think of it!
They rode for most of the afternoon in a silence broken by the odd conversation here and there. They talked of simple things, Ariene asking for news of Paris during her absence. The letters from her aunts talked only of the latest gossip and fashion: they had liked to ensure that her dress followed the correct French fashion rules despite her absence at their court, and her Father had not seemed to consider her worthy of discussing politics and current affairs with. His letters were short and assured her only of his health and asked after hers. Aramis was more than obliging in answering all of her questions of the goings on of Paris in the past five years, even if she did notice that most of his awareness of the major players in French politics was through their wives.
"You do seem to have made the acquaintance of a lot of the ladies of the court Aramis." Her comment drew a snort of laughter from Porthos, who jolted his horse into speeding up a little so he could draw level with his friend.
"Interesting word, acquaintance." He teased. "What does it mean again, Aramis?" The dark haired man retorted with a phrase not generally considered fit to be repeated in front of a lady, which caused Athos to turn his head back and glower at his two friends and D'Artagnan, who had been riding next to Ariene, to look scandalized. There was a short silence, as Aramis considered the phrasing for his flowery apology, until Ariene let out a rather unfeminine grunt of laughter. Porthos joined in and soon, the four of them were giggling away as they walked their horses down the road, Athos doing his best to remain sternly disproving at the front of the group.
Suddenly, without warning, there was a loud cry and dark shapes jumped out of the shadows cast by the setting sun. The musketeer's horses, used to such events, merely sidestepped and allowed their riders to command them to respond to the new danger. Ariene's horse, used as she was to pulling a slow rolling carriage around the sedentary streets of Calais, reared in panic as the men jumped out of the bushes. Ariene lost her grip on the mare's reigns and fell heavily to the floor with a cry.
At the first sign of trouble, Athos had drawn his sword and tightened his grip on his horse. His mount responded to his touch, wheeling around to charge back to the small group who had been a few strides behind him. Aramis and Porthos had already dismounted and were engaged with four of their attackers, the clash of metal on metal as their swords, and the angered cries of his friends mingling in the background. A scream turned his head as their charge's horse reared, throwing her to the ground and bolting. Athos realised with a jolt that, despite her musketeer attire, Ariene was unarmed and vulnerable and their attackers numbered many. One had already noticed her on the ground and seized the opportunity, running towards her with a sword raised. Athos spurred his mount forward, lifting his sword to knock the man out of the way. Another scream left Ariene's mouth as Athos' sword sliced through her attacker, blood splattering her face. Athos' drew his pistol and shouted down to her.
"Run. Ariene, run!" When she failed to move he shouted for his friend. "D'Artagnan! Get her away." He did not stay to ensure she was safe, trusting the young Gasgon to carry out his orders without question. Athos' jumped from his horse and threw himself into the ongoing battle, fighting side by side with Porthos and Aramis. He felt the hot sting of metal slicing into his flesh as the sword of one of the attackers caught the side of his arm. Athos swore and retaliated, loosing himself to the familiar feel of the adrenaline rushing through his blood.
The battle was short but ferocious and all three of the musketeers supported cuts and bruises by the time they had won. Out of breath, Aramis leant against the tree and coughed, his blade still in his hand. He surveyed the carnage around them.
"Well, so much for a quiet easy assignment." He raised an eyebrow at Porthos who smirked.
"I'm starting to believe there is no such thing." He bent to roll over one of their attackers. "Rather of lot of them for a highway robbery, do you not think? And rather brave of them to attack musketeers on the road. Think there's something else going on?"
"When is there not." Aramis muttered. "Athos, are you alright? That might need stitches." The man in question looked down at his arm, dark with his own blood and shrugged.
"'M fine." He muttered, preoccupied with searching through the bodies, looking for any clue as to their purpose. Porthos was right, the situation was odd. While they were travelling on one of the busiest roads in France, the time of year was wrong for travellers and they had not come across any others during their first day on the road. Traditionally, the winter months were not high risk for robbery on the road. And for a group of bandits to attack a group of heavily armed musketeers… something did not quite add up.
"There's nothing out of the ordinary on any of these bodies." Porthos muttered. "They just don't look as if they have been living the lives of highwaymen." Each of the corpses were well dressed and the men looked well fed, their cheeks lacking the usual gaunt look the musketeers were used to seeing in such men.
"Hmm." Athos grumbled, his almost permanent frown back on his face. As the adrenaline from the fight wore off his arm was started to throb.
"Where's D'Artagnan?" Aramis glanced around for their apprentice musketeer.
"He took Ariene to safety." Athos' words were tight. "We should find the horses and make for the inn. We don't know how many there were, they could have been followed. We'll report the attack when we reach the town."
They couldn't reach the town fast enough to satisfy his worry and Athos had set a punishing pace once they had found the horses waiting patiently a little further down the road. Ariene's spooked mount was nowhere to be found and Athos had not wanted to waste precious time in finding her. She would, with a little luck, have turned her head towards home, and would be in back in her own stable within the next few days. Chasing after a wayward horse was not high on his list of things to worry about. Chasing their wayward recruit and the girl they were meant to be protecting was. Aramis and Porthos followed Athos as they urged their horses forward, keeping an eye out for any signs of trouble along the road.
"Athos!" A shout from Aramis halted the small group almost instantly. They dismounted together and Aramis led the way to what had caught his eye, the other two racing after him. On the ground some few metres away from the edge of the road was two bodies could be seen lying half in a bush, and only a slight distance away from the outstretched hand of one of the bodies, lay an extremely familiar pistol.
"D'Artagnan!" Porthos had seen the pistol at the same time as Aramis and the two reached the bodies at the same time. Turning the closest one over, he couldn't help but let out a soft cry of relief as he gazed into the unfamiliar face of one of the highwaymen, his eyes open in fear of death. Aramis uncovered the face of the second, confirming that neither of their companions were present. Athos, a mere breath away from punching one of the trees in a mixture of relief, frustration and worry, bent down to retrieve the pistol they had all recognised as their friends.
"This has been fired recently." He commented in what would have been considered a nonchalant way to anyone that did not know him, but Porthos and Aramis picked up on the tightness of his voice and the hard look in his eyes.
"Neither of these men have gunshot wounds." Aramis glanced over them briefly. "How did they get D'Artagnan's pistol." He turned worried eyes to Porthos, who shrugged, his own eyes on Athos who was poking around the rest of the area. There were obvious signs of a fight, broken branches in bushes and a fair amount of blood marking the grass.
"Aramis." Athos called his medically trained friend to his side as he stared down at something in the grass. Aramis, alert to the odd, strained tone of Atho's voice, hurried over, Porthos not far behind. The three musketeers stood staring in barely concealed dismay at the large pool of blood that Athos had stumbled upon. Lying on the ground half covered in the dark, sticky liquid was a coat that each of the recognised. The coat that Ariene had stolen from the inn earlier that day and had been wearing as a defense against the cold all day. "That's a lot of blood Aramis." The closest thing they had to a field doctor nodded, his face grave. As the last light of the setting sun illuminated his face, he touched a hand to Athos' arm and spoke words that sent a chill down his companion's spines.
"Too much blood. Who ever lost that much blood just lying here… I don't like their chances."