Hi all - Thanks so much for the ongoing support for this tale - it really makes a difference to the writing experience to know people are enjoying it ^_^
Many thanks also to Mountain Cat for this chapter's poem. Kipling wasn't covered in my studies, and I am not overly familiar with his work, but this little piece seems to fit nicely with the atmosphere that this tale hopefully creates. Unfortunately for the boys, the 'powers of darkness' encountered are of a more tangible variety than Kipling's - particularly in this chapter.
Chapter 4
A stone's throw out on either hand
From that well-ordered road we tread,
And all the world is wild and strange;
Churel and ghoul and Djinn and sprite
Shall bear us company to-night,
For we have reached the Oldest Land
Wherein the Powers of Darkness range.
~ Plain Tales from the Hills - Rudyard Kipling ~
"Put it down," Porthos' voice growls in his ear.
When Athos makes no move to obey, the Musketeer's hand grasps his collar, the knife coming around to press against his windpipe. "Put it down or I'll cut your throat."
Heart hammering, Athos stares down the Marquis - the Devil watching quietly as their naive assumptions crumble. This fight would not be fought on even ground.
Aramis' urgent voice throws his thoughts into disarray. "D'Artagnan - we have you. Stay still for God's sake. What's he done to you?"
A sidelong glance shows the Gascon unharmed, fighting with the marksman's restraining hands. Mist is rolling through the entryway, white tendrils curling around the two Musketeers' feet as they struggle.
"It's only my hand." D'Artagnan pushes at Aramis as the man attempts to haul the Gascon bodily to the ground. "Can't you see? It's only my hand."
"Drop it," Porthos growls again, shaking Athos. The gravel of his voice is choked with concern, his grip tense with the desire to see to their youngest.
Athos' confusion mounts, the cold steel preventing him from questioning Porthos' actions. Unwilling to test his friend's patience, he lets the sword slip from his fingers.
Aramis looks up from where he has successfully restrained D'Artagnan, pinning his seemingly wounded brother down while D'Artagnan fights to be free. "It's glass - a stab wound to the chest - but there's so much blood. Why didn't you wake us, Athos?"
But Aramis' red-rimmed eyes are not seeking his - and are fixed instead on the Marquis.
The ugly nature of the deception now clear, he wearing the Marquis' face, and the Marquis wearing his, Athos takes advantage of a small easing of pressure to speak his friend's name. "Aramis -"
"How do you know my name?" Aramis questions, lips parted in confusion, before Athos can explain.
"How does he realise our fears?" The Marquis counters, measured tone reminiscent of Athos' own. "Do not underestimate him - we've all seen what he can do. Do not trust his words."
Athos lets out a low noise of denial, but Porthos' rage is palpable through the body pressed against his back, and the knife edge prevents him from further refuting the accusation.
Aramis nods, brow remaining creased, but his concern for D'Artagnan overriding all else. He swats at the smothering mist that is obscuring his sight. "What did this?"
"If he dies…"
"I'm not dying," D'Artagnan gasps, succeeding in briefly fighting off Aramis' hold. "Aramis leave me be. You're bewitched. That's not Athos." He flails an arm at the Marquis. "Athos is here."
The Marquis easily dismisses the words, "He's losing blood - he's delirious."
The amusement behind the stranger's voice boils Athos' blood. He damns the consequences, and takes advantage of his friend's concern for D'Artagnan by grasping Porthos' wrist.
Porthos starts in surprise, redoubling his grip on the knife, but too late. Athos forcefully turns the blade, all too aware of the risk to his vulnerable throat, and then he is free, lunging forwards to collect his sword.
The Marquis reels back, and Athos briefly revels in the creature's fear. His aim is true, but moonlight touches the steel on its path to the stranger's throat, lending doubt to the motion. Yet Athos feels the familiar resistance - sword slicing into flesh - and the Marquis staggers under the impact. The creature can be wounded.
Then Porthos is crashing into him from behind, and Athos' knees are hitting stone as they fall together. His outstretched arm, with its tenuous hold on his sword hilt, is more hindrance than help. An intimate understanding of Porthos' prowess in unarmed combat fuels his fervent struggles. His friend is unmatched in the ranks, and the Inseparables have long since learnt to decorously avoid the challenge.
The blow to the side of his head comes as a surprise, and Porthos is all at once unshakeable, a knee pressing Athos painfully to the ground as his powder flask cuts into his hip.
"Do you have him?"
"I have him," Porthos confirms, struggling to pin Athos' arms but steadily gaining control.
Athos curses his own foolishness. How must his desperate bid for freedom appear in the eyes of his deceived friends? The low lying mist washes over them both, a white wave that chills the skin and stings the eyes.
The Marquis' footsteps scrape on the stone.
Athos cranes his neck, but cannot see.
Then his wrist spasms under the sudden crushing weight of a boot, the sword hilt is pried from his grasp, and the prick of a blade at the back of his neck stills further struggles. Porthos finally gains control of his arms, pinning them behind him and dashing any hope of escape.
"Thank you - my friend," the Marquis says as Porthos binds Athos' wrists with a swiftly severed length of their rope. The hesitation and omission of Porthos' name registers with Athos, but the indignity of a cloth being thrust between his teeth eclipses all else.
Finally he slumps, admitting temporary defeat and breathing with difficulty through his nose. He would like to think his pride has taken enough of a battering over the last years to stand any trial, but the indignity of the situation, and his friends' unwitting compliance, is galling.
"He got away from me," Porthos grunts. "Your shoulder?"
"The wound is not deep," the Marquis replies, a bitter edge to the words. "But perhaps we should take precautions..."
D'Artagnan's panicked shout heralds the sudden pressure that pins Athos' outstretched leg to the ground. The sensation only clarifies into pain as the Marquis withdraws, the slick sword tip sliding free to leave Athos gasping in its wake. If he had doubted the truth of their situation, the cold bite of the blade has dispelled all suspicion.
"Athos?" Porthos' shock at the sudden act of vengeance ripples through the man's frame. The large hand around Athos' wrists loosens ever so slightly, but the swordsman cannot take advantage of it - crippled by a fresh wave of pain.
Then the smothering hold suddenly lifts, and Athos is being pulled upright by his trapped arms. Testing a little weight on his injured leg has the swordsman sinking into Porthos' hold, and despite his friend's current hostility Athos welcomes the support.
Nausea quickly taking hold, he seeks at once for D'Artagnan, finding the Gascon still pinned beneath Aramis. The marksman has straddled his legs and is carefully working at something Athos cannot see. D'Artagnan's eyes seem drowsy, his struggles subdued.
"Athos?" Porthos asks again.
Cracks are appearing in the Marquis' composure, hair falling before his eyes and stance listing towards his injured shoulder. Athos is darkly satisfied to see it, but the satisfaction is quickly quelled by the Marquis taking up the remaining length of rope.
Sharp teeth briefly bared, the stranger twists the rope expertly in his fingers, winding and pulling it into the familiar hangman's knot.
The sick weight in Athos' stomach grows, and he tears his eyes away. Hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder, Aramis eyes are narrowed in confusion, fixed on the knot forming in the Marquis's hands. "Athos, talk to us - what are you doing?"
And then with decisive speed, the Marquis is looping the knot over Athos head, pulling it tight - the rope lightweight but strong enough to do the job.
D'Artagnan has stilled, eyes wide in sudden horror. "Do you really think," he says, fighting against the slurring of his speech, "that Athos - Athos - would hang a man without question?"
Porthos reaches out a hand to still the Marquis' movements. But the Marquis shrugs off Porthos' resistance, tossing the end of the rope over a rotting beam and turning to confront the Musketeer. "Are you questioning me?"
Porthos bristles with surprise, the Marquis' imperious tone evoking that superiority which Athos himself studiously avoids.
"What are you doing?" Porthos asks with calculated belligerence as the Marquis ties off the rope. "Don't we need him alive to get us out of here?"
"My friend," the Marquis says, moderating his words with quiet reassurance. "It's just a precaution. You've interrogated men - put the fear of God into them to get your answers. This is nothing more."
Athos bites down on the cloth, willing Porthos to see. The damage done by the narrow blade is untold - the fiery throbbing - the warm flow seeping into his boot - would he know if an artery had been pierced? And if he should he falter with the rope around his throat - he would hang.
"You don't need to prove your love for the boy like this," Porthos says in a softened tone. "Trust Aramis. He's done miracles before."
The Marquis nods, his eyes shining with interest at Porthos' sincerity. "Trust me, and help Aramis - a moment and I will join you."
Porthos presses his lips together - but surrenders Athos into the Marquis' hold. Athos slips a little at the lack of support, but manages to keep his feet as Porthos moves over to kneel by Aramis' side.
"I'm growing hungry," the Marquis breaths once Porthos is clear. "Will you reconsider?"
Athos exhales hotly through his nose, but gives no further response until the creature grips his jaw and slides a cold finger against his skin to clear the gag from his mouth.
"Parlour tricks," he grates through parched lips. "You have no true hold over them." It wasn't strictly true. His friends had slept without waking, and he himself had felt soft earth posing as stone beneath his knees. Perhaps even now Aramis feels the warm rush of D'Artagnan's blood on his hands. But nonetheless there were limits to the creature's control.
"What is power but to turn another to your will?"
"Your influence is transitory - your control short-lived."
"Time is of no consequence. How swiftly could I tip a nation into war? A few minor incursions? a personal slight?"
There was truth in that. What havock could such influence wreak in Paris? But if the creature had such reach, such ambition, why content itself with simply slaking its thirst here in this remote village?
The Marquis waits for his response, cold fingers digging into his cheek. "And how long would it take for your surgeon to slice into the boy's chest? And when medicine fails, to bury him alive. They will not hear the screams, but you will."
Athos swallows, his dry tongue forming words with difficulty. "For their lives," he breaths, the indelible rope providing no other course. "What price?"
"The child or your men. That is the only choice."
"The child may be a vision of your making - "
"She may."
Athos shifts his eyes, finding D'Artagnan's amid the chaos that surrounded them. Eyelids heavy, his friend seems to understand what is being asked, and shakes his head.
Athos says nothing, unwilling to commit to their damnation to words.
The Marquis releases his hold. Athos' leg buckles, but he remains upright - fear lending strength while the taut pull of the rope threatens to break his fall. He knows not if his catching breath is relief or fear for what is come, but Aramis looks up at the sound.
Porthos is assisting Aramis in removing the bulky bandages from the marksman's right hand so that he might regain his dexterity. Forehead shining with sweat despite the cold, the marksman draws the Marquis into their plight. "The bleeding is slowing, but there are shards of glass caught in the wound."
D'Artagnan's nostrils flare at the words, hot breath streaming into the cold air as he struggles to keep his eyes open. "Aramis -"
The Marquis kneels down and grasps D'Artagnan's jaw in turn, stilling further speech with what might have looked like affection. "Hold still, my friend. It will soon be over." He looks to Athos, eyes questioning whether the Musketeer is still obstinate in his refusal to give away the child.
D'Artagnan takes the opportunity to spit at the Marquis' face, and the creature relinquishes his hold.
"Athos -" Aramis says with reassurance. "Do not take it to heart. He's lost so much blood and knows not what he does."
"The hell I don't," D'Artagnan slurs, writhing weakly away from Aramis' reassuring hand.
The Marquis looks primed to strike D'Artagnan for the insult, but instead turns to Aramis. "Perhaps you should take my knife," he offers with cold intent. "It has been sharpened recently."
"I have my surgical knife," Aramis replies after a confused pause, his movements stilling to look up at the Marquis.
They see through you, Athos thinks with silent fervour, again willing his friends to see the truth, but the Marquis removes himself from Aramis' side, blocking Athos' view just as D'Artagnan cries out.
Notes:
Extra thanks to those who included ideas with your comments on the last chapter - it was great to hear which are your favourite characters, and what you'd like to see happen. If you have any additional thoughts, I'd love to hear them.
I was having a little writing slump and re-read all your lovely comments for this tale, which helped complete this chapter. Thanks again for the support ^_^
