Dispatched to Hell

Chapter Three.


'Please help me, knee keep in the river tryin' to get clean.

He says, wash your hands, get out the stain.

But you best believe, boy, there's hell to pay.'

The guards came at d'Artagnan from both sides. They had no weapons, but their fists were large and clenched and d'Artagnan knew he stood only a small chance of winning this fight. He backed up, swivelling his head back and forth to keep them in sight. The one to his right lunged forward and d'Artagnan swung his arm, whipping the chain attached to it in an arc and forcing him back. He whirled around to attack the other, but he'd already charged. D'Artagnan doubled over gasping for breath as a fist connected powerfully with his stomach.

The punches came faster now leaving him barely enough time to breathe between each jarring blow to his ribs and back. Refusing to go down, d'Artagnan gritted his teeth and widened his stance as the guards tried to force him to the floor.

When the pummelling stopped, he tensed in anticipation of further pain. He waited several seconds, his breath hitching, his arms reaching up to protect his head, but nothing happened.

A loud bang startled him, and he slowly opened one eye, then the other when he noticed the room was empty and the door was closed. He pulled his head back and arched his brows, then strained his neck to see over each shoulder. He was alone.

Clenching his stomach, d'Artagnan stepped back until he reached the wall and slid to the floor, his gaze fixated on the door. He pulled his legs up, rolled to the side and wrapped his arms around his midsection, hoping to squeeze the pain into submission. When it didn't' work, he tried releasing the build up of pressure in his gut by coughing. It only made it worse, adding a stabbing sensation to his already aching stomach.

He ran a hand through his damp, stringy hair, pushing it back off his face. This was not d'Artagnan's first experience with imprisonment. He'd been with the musketeers for several months now and had already seen the inside of one jail. But this was his first experience since earning his pauldron and was wondering if the beatings would be worse now that he held a true military commission.

~The Musketeers~

As Aramis slept, his body tossed and turned, a thin layer of sweat covering his skin. In his dream, a figure stood in front of him, over ten feet tall and surrounded by flames. Black, inky oil trailed from his lips as snakes slithered around him instead of material. The figure threw his head back in laughter and the snakes darted out, hissing and spitting.

Aramis recoiled against the wall and watched as the face of the demon contorted and whorled into someone familiar. It was Pellisier.

And in his clawed hand he held Porthos by the throat, shaking him like a child's doll. Porthos' legs swung helplessly as he clutched the hand squeezing his throat, and Aramis lurched forward, arms outstretched to save his brother, but his feet remained planted on the ground. He tried again and again, screaming and clutching at air as something stopped him from helping his friend. He searched frantically for some sort of restraint, but found nothing physical holding him back.

At the sound of a thud, Aramis turned back to see Porthos' shredded body lying at Pellisier's feet. Aramis trembled and crouched against the wall. He covered his head as tears stung his cheeks and his heart ached. Swallowing, he dug deep inside him in search of the bravery he knew existed. He could do this. He could fight whatever had a hold of him and save his brothers.

He made a move forward, but Pellisier now had d'Artagnan within his grip. The young Gascon was burning. The fire that flowed around the ungodly creature was now winding its way up d'Artagnan's legs, melting away leather and flesh and making the air thick with smoke.

Aramis cried out, reached out an arm…

A screeching sound broke through his nightmare, snapping him across what felt like time and space and dumping him back in his cell. He opened his eyes as his heart pounded in his chest to see the two brutish men he had seen earlier.

"Stand."

Aramis blinked.

"Stand!"

Bile rose in his throat. There was nothing he could do.

"Stand!"

Aramis was hauled to his feet, and unable to hold himself upright, the guards held him steady while another man entered the room.

The marksman closed his eyes as the room tilted. Then he felt something wet on his lips and his tongue darted out to retrieve the water, stinging as it slid down his parched throat. His body moved without thought as it pressed forward wanting more. And as the liquid came faster, sliding over his tongue without time to swallow, he sputtered and gagged. He was barely able to swallow the bread forced into his mouth next as he continued to choke on the water lingering near his vocal cords. But he ate, slowly and methodically, simply because he had no choice.

When the feeding was finished, Aramis was dropped to the ground and abandoned once again. He closed his eyes to stem the burning behind them. His jaw spasmed as he clenched his teeth; his cheeks aching when the muscles would not release. He drew an arm up his body and draped it over his head, wondering if his brother would be punished just once for his not getting up, or for all three times he'd been unable.

He clenched his eyes tighter as his shame overtook him, and with food and water now in his stomach, his throat spasmed. Knowing he could not afford to lose the nourishment he'd only just received, he swallowed repeatedly. But his efforts were not sufficient and a moment later, he was on his side retching acidic bile onto the ground beside him.

His throat now burned along with his eyes, both fighting against the tearing pain in his stomach for sovereignty. Too tired to fight off the pain, he let it have its way.

He flopped onto his back and let go of every mental and physical restraint he had, allowing his body the freedom to express its agony. It throbbed, twitched and convulsed, making every muscle feel as if it were in permanent contraction until it tired itself out and he fell asleep.

He woke hours later feeling worse than before as sharp, needling pain engulfed every inch of him. Too weak to protect himself from the explosions of fire repeatedly assailing him, Aramis cried out with nothing more than forced air escaping his lips.

The bones in his upper arms felt as if they were shattering as tight clamps squeezed them, pulling him upward. He opened his eyes to see a short man with the same inky black and billowing body of Pellisier standing before him. He held things Aramis could not identify, the items simply hovering in space where one would imagine hands would be. And instead of feet, there were empty buckets.

His mind was compromised and he knew it. He dropped his head and let it hang forward, but his addled mind found no comfort. Pale and tinged blue, his body stretched downward to where two white feet contrasted starkly against the dark ground.

It took Aramis several seconds to recognize it as his own and when he did, a flushing heat ignited in his stomach. He was naked.

The fire inside him spread to all his limbs and he wanted nothing more than to curl into himself and hide. He felt like everyone could see through the thin covering of his skin and muscle to the very depths of his soul.

In his entire life, Aramis had granted no one that privilege. There were some who knew him well, probably well enough to surmise what lay beneath the man he showed the world, but what he kept locked deep down inside him- something he barely understood himself- was no ones business but his own.

His head was yanked upright by someone pulling his hair, and while naked and trembling, the stranger scrubbed him with a brush from head to toe, including his hair and beard. Harsh bristles scratched every inch and crevasse of his body until he was raw.

With his skin burning and streaked with thin lines of fresh blood, the stranger dried him with a coarse towel that agitated his already sensitive skin. Aramis was then dressed in leather pants and a white shirt that were not his own, each limb thrust forcefully into the leg holes and shirtsleeves by the guards.

Aramis was then deposited back on the ground, where he curled under his doublet and fell asleep, the next time waking as the door to his cell creaked opened.

Pellisier entered, and with him, he carried a chair and a large skin of water. "Drink this," he said, tossing the container to Aramis- who had neither the strength nor wherewithal to catch it.

Pellisier shrugged and took a seat, crossing one leg slowly and precisely over the other and placing his hands in his lap.

Their stalemate lasted several minutes until Pellisier sighed and dusted imaginary dirt from his knee. "I will graciously ignore your lack of responsiveness if you would sit up now and drink."

Aramis closed his eyes. What he wanted was to rush forward and kill this man. To draw his death out slowly by slicing his blade down every vein he could find. But instead, he pushed it from his mind, and then slowly stretched out his arm. He wrapped boney fingers around the water skin and pulled it back toward him. He drank, not caring that most of the water dripped onto his chest.

"That is enough," said Pellisier, and Aramis dropped the water skin, letting the remaining contents spill onto the floor.

"I can see you are a man of fortitude," said Pellisier. "A man with strong wills and a stubbornness that knows no bounds. This is what I need, and this is what you will give me- without question and without hesitation."

The anger within Aramis began to rise, bringing with it a sense of clarity.

"You are most likely confused," stated Pellisier, rising from his chair. He paced before the marksman several times before he spoke again. "In time all will become clear, but for now you need not know anything more than I wish you well in the coming days. Our champion has grown tiresome and I feel I need another."

Aramis focused his glare on Pellisier, accentuating the natural arch of his brows as they drew together.

"I saw how you conducted yourself in Orleans, during that rather rambunctious ordeal at the tavern. You showed a side of humanity I rarely see, and I think you'll do just fine with what is to come." Pellisier bent down and brushed the hair from the marksman's forehead, a small smile playing on his lips. "Do you know what it is that's inside you? Yes? No? I think you do. I saw it the moment you pulled your friend back into his seat."

Rising and turning with a swish of black fabric, Pellisier moved to the center of the cell. "You will see it as well soon enough."

With a smile that turned Aramis cold, Pellisier started toward the door, picking his chair up as he walked away. Before he disappeared, he stumbled forward as his feet tangled with something on the ground. He looked down to see the water skin between his feet and when he turned back, Aramis was smiling.

"I will forgive you for the failure to drink," said Pellisier. "But for this, your friend will suffer."

~The Musketeers~

Breathe, d'Artagnan thought. Just breathe. Everyone breathes, it can't be that hard.

He lay on the floor as a man in long black robes sat and watched him. He'd been taking notes since the guards had left, and not once had he spoken to d'Artagnan. Which was fine with the Gascon because he was too busy concentrating on the tremendous pain in his left hand. The broken bones grated and twisted under his skin, making every inch of every finger throb in beat with his heart. The two men responsible for this had made sure they did it properly. It was one thing to stomp on a hand and break some bones, but it was another thing altogether to twist the foot that lies upon that hand.

D'Artagnan could barely look at his fingers as deformed and bloody as they were. No bones stuck out, but he knew that could change if he couldn't find a bandage or splint.

He diverted his attention by staring at the robed man in the chair. He could only imagine how much his suffering was entertaining him, and although d'Artagnan was trying his best not to reveal anything noteworthy, it was becoming more difficult as time passed and the throbbing increased.

Just breathe through this, d'Artagnan thought, as he closed his eyes.

He thought of pleasant things, like sword practice with Athos, early mornings on his farm in Gascony, but it was the vengeful thoughts that actually distracted him from the pain. He pictured himself cocking his pistol, the barrel aimed at one of the guards, as the other lay splayed on the floor with his sword through his heart. D'Artagnan's lips turned up in the corners when he saw himself squeeze the trigger, splattering blood and tissue on a distant wall.

"What are you writing there?" he asked.

When no answer came, d'Artagnan turned away. He could hear the scratching of the man's quill as it moved across the page, and occasionally he heard the man sigh. D'Artagnan could not fathom what the man found so interesting, other than his pain and discomfort…

"What exactly do you want from me?" he asked, this time his voice firm as his brows pulled together. He inched his shoulders along the wall to help hoist himself upright. "Are you recording my suffering? Are you seriously enjoying this?"

D'Artagnan's eyes were wide and focused. "You sadistic bastard."

The man looked up from his writings and placed his quill inside his book before closing it. He picked up the ink well on the floor by his feet then stood. For a moment he stared at the Gascon, his facial muscles slack and his frame relaxed. Then he turned away and headed out the door.

~The Musketeers~

Treville stood outside the King's personal apartments waiting his introduction. When the large, gilded doors swung open, Treville made his way directly to where Louis sat behind his desk signing papers, several members of his court standing idly by waiting eagerly for the King to throw them a crumb of recognition.

Treville huffed, but kept his countenance professional when Louis looked up at him.

"I hear more of my subjects have gone missing?"

Treville cleared his throat and shifted his weight. The light, lilting nature of the King's voice was gone. His shoulders were also closer to his ears, and the hand that gripped the quill was red, as if it had been holding on for dear life for way too long. "That is true, your majesty," he said, carefully pacing his words. "But may I just…"

"Have you narrowed down the search?"

Treville drew in a deep breath. Louis was being short and his easy smile had not graced his face upon seeing him, as it usually did. "We are narrowing down the possibilities," he replied. "For every piece of land or estate where we don't find them, we close in on where they are actually located."

Louis smiled, but it was flat and disappeared as quickly as it appeared. "That seems like a rather tedious way of doing things."

Treville ground his teeth."Unfortunately so."

"As for my men?"

A groan nearly escaped Treville's lips as he forced down the words he wanted to say. "As like the other missing men," he said. "There has been no word."

Arching his quill in the air, Louis let it drop the last few inches to the desk before rising. Head down, his lips pressed thin and his hands clasped in front of him, he stepped around the desk, each footfall deliberate.

He came to a stop only steps away from the captain and raised his head. "When this scoundrel started taking my subjects, it merely irked me," he said. "But as more petitioners arrived asking for my help, I realized someone was poaching on my lands."

Treville took deep breaths to relax the muscles in his face, preventing them from tightening and furrowing his brow. He'd never enjoyed being dressed down by his King, but with each word the King spoke, his volume increased.

Louis closed the gap between them with a single step. "When two of my musketeers were taken, I took it as a personal affront. Those poachers have encroached upon my personal property! They might as well have taken the rings right off my hand!"

Treville held his ground as the King leaned into him with flushed cheeks and bulging neck veins.

"I understand, your majesty," said Treville.

"You do not!" Louis turned away to brace his hands on his desk. When he turned back, his face was still flush but his shoulders and chest were moving much more subtly. "Musketeers represent me and therefore must be treated with more respect than some villager ploughing the lands. They are not miscreants from the Court of Miracles; they are the King's men. And I will not tolerate people thinking it is appropriate to treat them as commoners. Commoners are common. Musketeers are honoured soldiers. Therefore, if one is stealing a commoner, he has no business stealing a musketeer. It suggests this felon regards my musketeers as commoners, which they are not. They are a part of me, and I am most certainly not a commoner."

Treville's teeth nearly broke under the weight of his clenched jaw. Although there was probably a good point to be found somewhere in the King's rant, it was lost amongst the rather bad ones.

"Do we understand?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," replied the captain.

Louis waved a hand toward the door. "I want the one responsible for this to be punished. I want him used as an example to those who dare attack my personage. Now go. Find my men."

Treville bowed and turned on his heels. He made his way toward the door as fast as his legs could take him, mumbling, "they are not property."

His anger carried him through most of the palace. It wasn't until the rear portico that he was stopped by a familiar voice. He spun around and waited as the Queen approached, her ladies in waiting not more than six feet behind. "Your Majesty," he said, bending at the waist.

"Hello, Captain."

"I've just come from the King."

A delicate movement of the Queen's lips suggested a smile. "I'm surprised he had time," she said. "He's been so preoccupied with the dealings of this Physician's Guild, he's barely come up for air."

Treville was in somewhat of a rush. "If I may beg your pardon…"

"I hear some of your men have been caught up in this…" she paused, and her eyes drifted away from his.

Treville felt her anxiety hit him like an invisible punch to the gut. He swallowed and tried to ease her discomfort by being succinct. "Yes. Two," he said.

The Queen bit her lip. "Their names?"

Treville drew in a deep breath, speaking when the air passed quickly through his lips "D'Artagnan and Aramis."

There was the slightest quiver in the Queen's lips, and if Treville had not been watching her so closely he would have missed it.

"I'm sure they will be fine," he said. "They are amongst the finest of the Musketeers."

"And the bravest," she said, her fingers dusting over her chest as if looking for something.

Treville bowed. "Thank you, Your Majesty," he said. "Now, if there is nothing further I must get back to the garrison."

~The Musketeers~

The green of the countryside bordered by a blue sky, lulled Athos and Porthos into a calm, their thoughts and worries no longer as frantic as the hustle and bustle of Paris. Their concern had not waned, but as the smell of wild flowers and fresh air surrounded them, they relaxed enough to formulate plans instead of being bogged down by angry, vengeful thoughts directed at a still unknown opponent.

They'd packed light, making their journey across the central part of France quick and easy. But there was a lot of ground to cover. By nightfall, Athos and Porthos had searched two estates, one farm and only a meagre portion of forest. They'd not found a single missing person, or any clues signifying any sort of hideout either, but were relieved to discover that no new kidnappings needed to be reported.

As the sky turned dark, signifying night, the two musketeers made camp on the River Loire near Tours, where they met up with two of the Cardinal's Red Guard.

"Alain. Edmond." Porthos nodded at each guard as he sat across from them. A fire crackled and spat between the two rival groups as a rabbit, courtesy of the guard, roasted over the pit. Wine also flowed freely, with more than one bottle open at a time.

"We have men stationed at the port in Le Havre," said Alain, sitting forward to rest his elbows on his knees. The light from the fire exposed deep lines and eyes that drooped in the outer corners, and Athos felt that if he could see his own reflection, it would most likely appear the same.

"That's good," he said.

One side of Alain's mouth twitched up. "I wasn't looking for your approval."

Athos clenched his jaw and took a sip of his wine. "Find out anything useful?"

Alain cast his eyes downward.

"Did you know 'em well?" asked Porthos.

Alain shrugged while Edmond nodded. "One was my brother in law," replied the latter. "Taken right out of a tavern in Paris while I was playing cards!" He threw his wine into the fire, pitching burning sparks into the air as it flared.

"It was a tavern for us as well," Porthos said, leaning back. When the fire settled, he hunched forward again, poking at the rabbit with a stick as he rested his chin in a hand propped on one knee. "Should 'ave been paying more…"

"When?" interrupted Athos.

"Days ago," replied Edmund.

"When do the reports say the first disappearance was?" asked Porthos.

"Weeks ago," replied Athos.

The creases around Alain's eyes deepened. "When were yours taken?"

Athos felt his left eye twitch, but he refused to expose his vulnerability. "Days ago as well," he said, rising from the fire. He walked away, heading toward the river. His whole body trembled now, begging to release pent up energy. The only thing stopping him from exerting that energy in some violent form or other was a dull, clamping ache around his heart.

When he reached the bank, he stood near the water's edge and watched as the moonlight played on the surface. Behind him, he heard the soft crunch of boots on damp grass. Athos did not look over his shoulder, nor did he reach for the hilt of his sword. "I don't want to talk about it," he said.

"Who says I wanna talk?" replied Porthos, entering his periphery.

They watched the rippling water as it rolled onto the riverbank, neither looking at the other. Back at camp the two guards were eating the rabbit and finishing off the last of the wine, but neither musketeer cared.

"Where are they, Porthos?"

The question was asked so quietly Porthos nearly missed it. He turned to the swordsman, putting one hand on his shoulder and the other he placed on his own chest. "I don't know where they're bein' kept," he said. "But I know where they are." Porthos tapped his chest. "And as long as they're here, they can't be too far."

"I wish I had your sentimentality."

Porthos slid his hand down the swordsman's shoulder to the centre of his friend's chest. "You do, my friend," he said. "You just need to learn how to let it out." He tapped Athos' chest gently before turning to leave.

After a few beats, Athos turned after him. "I tried that once," he said.

Porthos stopped and glanced over his shoulder.

"It did not go well. I'm better off this way."

"Well, we like you just fine the way you are," said Porthos. "Don't go changing on our account."

With the moon behind him, Athos' small smile was lost in the shadows. He turned back to the river and listened as Porthos retreating footsteps faded in the distance.

This was his fault. Everything was his fault when in active duty of the King. He was the leader of their small, inseparable group, and all actions were not only a reflection of him, but also an extension of him. So with two missing, possibly dead, it felt as if a limb had been torn from his body- one for each brother.

He sat down and put his back against a rock, taking a hit from his canteen as he laid the situation out in his head; the history of recent events and what he intended to do now. He took another full swig, letting it ease his buzzing thoughts. Men were disappearing from a relatively distinct area of France. None were being found- dead or alive- and there were no signs of any large camps or …

Athos sat up.

He pushed himself to his feet and headed back toward camp, the length of his strides increasing as he neared. When he burst into the clearing, he took barely a breath before speaking.

"Supply chains," he said.

"Follow the supply chain," Porthos said, jumping to his feet.

Athos nodded. "One would need a very large group of men to organize something this big. For every prisoner there would be at least… what, two or three guards?"

"Maybe more," Porthos said. "And that's a lot of mouths to feed."

Alain frowned. "Not if the prisoners are being killed or sold after they're captured."

Porthos turned narrowed eyes on the guard. "Don't go there."

Athos pulled his bedroll from his saddlebag and laid it near the fire. He stretched himself out on top of it and reached for the canteen on his belt. He took a long swig, settling it on his lap when sated, and pulled his hat down over his eyes. "Tomorrow," he said. "We start looking at this from a different angle."

To be continued…