Athos ran toward the still form of Aramis lying on the ground but was attacked by a raider wielding a sword. The experienced Musketeer drew his sword with lightning speed, stopping the swing of the blade with a clash of steel. Sunlight glistened off the blades as the men sparred, swords swinging, as each tried to get the upper hand.
Athos easily stepped back to avoid a slash at his left arm. He ducked as a swing was aimed at his neck, turning a half-circle as the man tried maneuvering around behind the Musketeer. Athos lunged forward on his right foot with such speed he had the opponent falling back. The brilliant swordsman brought his rapier around and up; with a swift, slanted downward motion, Athos forced his opponent's arm downward while slicing a deep cut into the man's shoulder.
The raider stumbled back slightly at the injury, giving Athos the advantage. With a swing left and a slash right, the Musketeer easily disarmed the sword from his opponent's hand; and with one last circular motion, he sent the sword flying. Athos lunged forward, sending his rapier into the raider's chest, piercing the heart.
From behind, Athos heard the approach of more raider swordsmen and turned to face them. As he was turning, one of the swordsmen thrust his rapier and stabbed Athos' left shoulder in the back, just under the shoulder blade. The Musketeer bobbled slightly but quickly pivoted on his heel to position both the swordsmen in front of him. He blocked a thrust from one opponent, then pivoted again on his right foot to face the second. Using his left foot, he gave a swift kick to the second opponent's chest, knocking the man off his feet and onto his back.
Like a cat striking, Athos moved in for the kill and thrust his sword into the man's chest. He pulled his sword from the man's chest in time to block a glancing strike to the shoulder from the first raider. The Musketeer turned to his right, expertly swinging around to position himself behind the man, where he thrust his sword into the man's back. As the man fell, Athos kicked him forward to use the momentum to pull his sword free from the man's body.
Finding his harquebus lying nearby, Athos reloaded the weapon then quickly fired at a man approaching just feet away. Falling dead, the raider dropped his pistol, which Athos picked up to fire at a raider trying to flank behind him. The few remaining raiders ran back into the trees, giving Athos a moment to go check on Aramis.
The Musketeer fell to his knees beside the still and bloody form of Aramis. Suddenly overcome with nausea, he violently lost the contents of his stomach. The retching caused his pounding headache to return; his head throbbed with every beat of his heart. "Stand up, damn you," Athos growled to himself. He looked over at Aramis, his heart sinking with dread.
Athos pushed himself to his feet with a hiss of pain, "God please, be alive, Aramis." He dropped heavily to his knees beside his friend, stifling a cry of despair. He gently took the fallen Musketeer by the shoulders then pulled him onto his back. "God, no," Athos gasped at the sight of his friend's bloody face.
The left side of Aramis' face was smeared with streams of blood pouring from the head wound. Athos tried to find the entry point of the ball but there was too much blood and dirt to discern. "No. . . Aramis, don't do this!" Athos cried, frantically scanning his eyes over his friend's face and head.
With shaking fingers, he reached to Aramis' neck to check for a pulse, fearing what he would-or would not-find. With his fingers on the sharpshooter's neck, Athos closed his eyes and waited.
He felt nothing. "God, no. . ."
He pushed down harder on his friend's throat and waited. . .
A beat. . . another beat. . .
"Aramis?" The Musketeer's heart skipped-he held his breath, hoping against hope. Once again, he pressed his fingers on the bloodied throat and waited, not daring to even breathe. He released his breath and nearly collapsed in relief as he felt the pulse softly beating again. . . and again. "Aramis?" he cried, placing his head atop his friend's forehead. "Oh, thank God!"
Athos felt another wave of nausea as the ground around him began to move and spin. He laid his head on Aramis' chest to wait out the nausea, all the while never taking his fingers from his friend's throat.
~§~
"D'Artagnan! D'Artagnan, look at me, lad!" Porthos yelled, softly shaking his shoulders as he tried to rouse the unconscious man. He checked the neck for a pulse, certain he would not find the young man alive. When he found a faint pulse he let out a breath of relief, "thank God."
"You're bleedin' pretty bad, I need to get you out of here," he said to the wounded man. The large Musketeer looked around at the carnage and shook his head. He saw the dead Red Guards lying near the carriage, "damn," he muttered.
Porthos and d'Artagnan had been embroiled in a desperate fight with raiders who appeared to flow from the trees like ants. Porthos killed several of the raiders, taking them out with either his pistol or his sword with expert efficiency. The young Musketeer took care of two of his own before falling to a distant musket ball.
During the fighting, Porthos could hear sounds of gunfire and clanging steel from the other side of the carriage. He worried for his brother Musketeers caught up heavy fighting of their own. He wanted to be at their side, helping to protect them, but he had his own battle to fight alongside d'Artagnan.
Porthos paused to listen. The sudden quiet on both sides of the road made his stomach flip-flop. "Damn, somethin's not right," he said, looking to the trees with great worry. "I shouldn't move ya, pup, but I can't leave ya here; those raiders are prob'ly regrouping—and they'll be back."
Porthos gathered up their weapons, knowing they would need them later. He looked down at his young friend, "we got to get the hell out of here and check on 'Mis and Athos, somethin's not right, I can feel it."
Porthos gently scooped the badly wounded d'Artagnan into his arms, being careful not to jostle him. "They bet'er be okay over there, we need 'Mis now more than ever to doctor you." He tenderly spoke to the young Gascon in his arms as he walked.
Coming around the back of the carriage, Porthos could now see the deadly scene in front of him and it stopped him dead in his tracks. There was no movement on the field anywhere, from anyone.
Porthos started scanning the bodies scattered across the field, looking for his two friends. Looks like you guys had a hell of a fight too,he shook morbid thoughts from his head. Finally, his eyes landed upon the familiar leather doublet of Athos.
Porthos saw that the lieutenant was hunched over someone. "Oh God, it's 'Mis!" the Musketeer said aloud. Porthos quickly made his way over to Athos and Aramis, neither of his friends were moving. The large Musketeer took notice of Athos' shoulder, seeing a tear where a sword had pierced the leather. He could also see the red smear from blood as it dripped down the length of his doublet.
However, what made Porthos' heart skip a beat was the sight of Aramis' face streaked in blood, his hair also matted with blood and dirt. He instantly surmised what had happened to the sharpshooter and, for a moment, the larger Musketeer thought he might actually drop d'Artagnan from shock.
"Aramis?" Porthos called out. "Athos?" he stood, still holding the young Gascon in his arms. Carefully, he laid d'Artagnan down next to his two friends, knowing he had to check on their conditions. He paused, afraid of what he would find.
"Athos?" he asked, full of worry. Porthos placed a hand on Athos' back then pulled the wounded man into his arms, his head lolled into Porthos' shoulder.
Porthos shook his arms, trying to shake Athos awake. "Come on, damn you," he appealed. "Wake up!" he yelled, now losing his patience. When that didn't rouse the lieutenant, he patted the unconscious man's cheeks until he was slapping his face with panic.
"Sssstopppp," Athos slurred as he started to come around, batting at Porthos' hand.
Porthos shook him once again, "come on, we don't have time for you to sleep. The raiders could come back any moment now. We've got to get out of here." Porthos stole a worried glance around the field, growing more anxious by the minute.
As Athos became more aware, he remembered Aramis; alarmed and panicking, the lieutenant struggled to sit up. "Aramis, he's hurt bad!" Athos looked over at his friend who still had not moved since he saw him fall from the horse. "Porthos, is he. . .?"
Porthos let go of Athos so he could check on Aramis. He placed his fingers on Aramis' neck and waited for a sign of life. Finding a pulse, "I've go' a pulse!" he smiled, clapping his hands together in happy relief.
Suddenly turning serious, Porthos drew attention to young d'Artagnan lying on the ground beside Athos. "Our young Gascon here is not doing well," he motioned with his head. "Without Aramis, I don't know wha' we're gonna do."
Athos swung his head around to see d'Artagnan lying beside him, his heart sank at seeing the unmoving form. "No," he swallowed a sob rising in his throat. He punched the ground with his fist, "dammit!"
"I know," Porthos soothed Athos, placing a consoling hand on his shoulder. "They're both in real bad shape, but if we don't get out of here, ain't none of us makin' it."
"Yes, let's get the hell out of here," Athos agreed. It suddenly occurred to the Musketeer that they hadn't yet checked on the imposter king. Athos looked at the carriage then back at Porthos, "have you checked on the decoy?"
"No, I've been a little preoccupied," he snorted. Porthos glanced at Athos, "I'll go check on 'im, be right back." He looked around nervously, making sure it was safe before running to the carriage. He looked through the window, his shoulders slumping. Opening the door to the carriage he peered inside for a closer look, "bloody hell." The instant Porthos saw the hole in the decoy's head he knew the man was dead. Once glance at the messenger Captain Tréville had sent along with the decoy told the Musketeer the man was dead as well.
While Porthos was at the carriage, Athos gathered the strength to get up to his feet. Feeling dizzy he bent over to steady himself with his hands on his knees, taking deep breaths until the dizziness passed.
Porthos returned to find Athos bent over. "Are you alright?" he asked with concern.
Athos nodded, standing to full height slowly.
Motioning with his head toward the carriage, "decoy's dead," Porthos paused, " and the messenger is too, so we won't be gettin' any help." Looking back to the wounded Musketeers, "they need a physician . . . we've got to go now."
Athos glanced at the two wounded men on the ground then looked to the road, searching for their horses. He found their four horses huddled together in the safety of a nearby copse of trees. "There they are," he motioned with his head. "We're going to have to tether their horses to our own and double up. I'll take Aramis."
Porthos nodded, "stay here, I'll go get the horses." The Musketeer went to gather the horses together then brought them back to the carriage. "If you can start tethering the reins," he said to Athos, "I'll carry d'Artagnan and Aramis over here so we can load 'em up on the horses. You're in no condition to carry either one." Porthos looked at Athos' shoulder, frowning.
"It's not that bad. . . just a scratch."
"Hmf," Porthos grunted, "just a scratch. . . hell." He shook his head, glancing at Athos as he passed by to retrieve the wounded men.
Athos finished tethering the horses as Porthos brought the first of the wounded Musketeers over. "It's going to be easiest if we get Aramis up in the saddle first, making sure he's securely in place," Athos instructed to Porthos. "Then, you get up on your horse and I'll hand d'Artagnan up to you."
"Are you sure you can lift d'Artagnan with that hurt shoulder?" Porthos asked.
"I told you, it's just a scratch. Now, let's get them loaded up."
Porthos picked up Aramis and easily placed him in the saddle. Athos stood on the other side, helping to secure the unconscious man so he wouldn't fall off while they were taking care of d'Artagnan.
Porthos mounted his horse, ready to receive the young Gascon. Athos tenderly picked d'Artagnan up then carefully lifted him into Porthos' waiting arms. He involuntarily winced as he felt the wound in his shoulder tear and had to bite back a cry of pain.
The flash of pain across Athos' face did not go unnoticed by Porthos; however, he knew that it was pointless to argue with the man so he kept his objections to himself.
Athos mounted the horse behind Aramis then turned the horses back onto the road. "We need to go back to Paris so we can get them the medical attention they need."
No sooner had Athos spoken, when he saw another group of raiders coming out of the trees from the north. "Dammit to hell!" Athos cursed out loud to himself. He looked down the road going south and then back to the approaching raiders coming from the north, deciding what would be the best course of action. He glanced quickly to Porthos, "we have no choice. . . we ride south."
Holding tightly onto Aramis, Athos kicked the horse into a run, towing the sharpshooter's horse along with them. Beside him, Porthos tucked d'Artagnan closely to his chest and hung onto the young man with a tight grip. Kicking his horse into a run, he followed behind his two brothers ahead. . . with a group of raiders hot on their heels behind him.