Domineco's turned out to be a palatial estate north of the harbor, with its own water gate and dock visible from the southern arrival route where they had been following the coastline. The road curved around to a gated front as well, the baroque-style architecture of the chateau just visible through a stand of old, overgrown poplars. The front gates stood wide open.
"I don't like this one little bit. That don't look like no fencin' salon." Porthos steadied his horse with a pat as the gelding danced skittishly when a dog howled in the distance. "It's my considered opinion we should turn around, collect our package, and head out of town tonight after all. This is not a battle we should be fightin' with just the four of us."
"There were at least a dozen at the hostelry," Athos observed.
"Not insurmountable odds." Aramis swung down from his horse to walk through the gates, listening as he took in the immaculately manicured grounds. "I've got the first half dozen, the rest of you can take the remainder."
"Considering the size of the house, there are likely to be more. And if we fall, d'Artagnan will live long enough to regret it."
"Oh no, we're not not doing this because of me."
"They're coming," Aramis said, remounting with a leap. "Decide now."
It was agreed among them that at any point in time one individual felt overwhelmingly certain about something, their word was law. Porthos invoked it. "There isn't even a resemblance of a fair fight here, Athos," he said urgently, grabbing d'Artagnan's horse's bridle and turning them both. "Executive decision. We're not going in there. Move!" He did not wait to see if the other two followed, nor did he let go d'Artagnan's bridle until both horses were moving swiftly in tandem back down the road.
Within moments Porthos heard two more sets of pounding hooves, the whistle of a pistol ball, and several more sets of pounding hooves. He grabbed his own pistol and turned in the saddle, keeping between d'Artagnan and the slavering horde behind. "No matter what happens, you keep riding!" he shouted. "Don't slow up, don't look back, just keep riding and if we're not behind you when you get to town, go straight to the local constabulary."
d'Artagnan did not bother answering, just drew his own pistol and matched his horse's gait to Porthos' mount. Athos and Aramis pulled up even.
"Don't waste a shot!" Aramis yelled.
"Aim to unseat!"
"What he means is aim to maim!"
There were seventeen, on fresh mounts, armed to the teeth and mob angry.
Aramis took out the front two, but the pack only swung around their fallen comrades in a manner suggesting this was not their first hunt on horseback. They closed ranks again, surging forward with the speed of a horde of ravaging Huns.
Athos and Aramis dropped back again behind Porthos and d'Artagnan. Athos hauled out the musket he carried but rarely used and tossed it to Aramis, who caught it deftly and calmly shot a third directly between the eyes. He was not the company's marksman by chance.
Athos winged a fourth. d'Artagnan, to the surprise of his companions, produced a second pistol and got a fifth, though the sixth shot missed. Porthos' shot went wide as well and he slowed to hand over his second pistol to Aramis. A sixth rider fell as a second round of shots whizzed past the musketeers and d'Artagnan.
Eleven left. Without warning, Porthos' banshee screech split the air like thunder as his horse reared into a turn and the pair were racing madly back the way they had just gone.
As if they'd worked out the maneuver ahead of time, and practiced until it was flawless, Athos and d'Artagnan spun back around to the left, Aramis around to the right, with Porthos charging straight down the middle of the road.
Horses whinnied, tree bark exploded, road dirt sprayed up around flying feet, leaves rained down as though a capricious autumn wind ripped them from their moorings as three musketeers and one avenging youth rode directly into the ranks of the remaining group.
Two more went down from sword thrusts; one to an eye, the other a body thrust that would likely result in a slow, painful death. d'Artagnan took two more as he slid from his horse.
And then it was a melee' in the middle of the road.
Pistol butts and swords.
Riderless horses spinning without direction.
Thrust and parry.
Savage screams!
Advance! Retreat!
Grunts and blows.
Deflect. Slash. Slice.
Athos' sword flashed with the strength and purpose of an avenging angel. Three more were disarmed and disabled in short order, a fourth fell with a broken neck.
Another slumped pierced from opposite sides by Aramis and Porthos. d'Artagnan staggered back from a glancing fist to the heart that swung him around, the momentum carrying him into the path of a masked man who dropped unconscious from a pistol butt to the face.
The last one menacing d'Artagnan sagged clutching his neck from a thrust clean through. For a moment he hung from Porthos' bent rapier like a toy with the stuffing pulled out, then sank to his knees as the musketeer yanked it out. The corpse crumpled in a bloody heap.
"Told ya we could take 'em," Aramis gasped, sinking to his own knees. "Did we even ... stop to think ... this might be an ambush?"
Athos did a quick visual reconnaissance, saw no fatal wounds on his own people and dropped to his fundament on the verge, head hanging between his knees, chest heaving with the effort to breathe. Porthos joined him, flopping back on the grass, and threw an arm over his eyes.
d'Artagnan stood alone in the middle of the carnage, bleeding from a cut lip, one eye already blackening spectacularly, left hand pressed tightly to his burning side. "Is it always so ... quiet?"
"Not so quiet," Porthos grunted. "That's the battle rush that fills up your ears so you don't hear nothin' but your own blood roarin'. Trust me, there was pleny'a yellin' 'n screamin'."
"They're not all dead." d'Artagnan turned in a slow circle. "Four of us," he said on a choking gag and threw up. He landed awkwardly on all fours as his knees buckled, and threw up again. He could still crawl however, and he did so, tossing weapons wil-you-nil-you out of reach of anyone whose eyes were not staring sightlessly into the blue sky.
No one tried to stop him, his companions knew from their own first battle experiences, to let him be.
By the time he crawled back to Athos' side, d'Artagnan was trembling from head to toe. "I don't know ... if I'll make it back." He collapsed in a heap of tangled limbs.
Athos lifted his head to whistle for his horse, only to realize the job hack he'd been riding was unlikely to come to his call. He was not ready to get up however, and turned to look over d'Artagnan who had slumped again his knee.
He laid a hand on the youth's shoulder, turning him over carefully. "Out cold." He straightened the tangled limbs, taking the opportunity to check for any unseen injury as well, grateful when his questing hands met no further broken bones, though he did turn up a few more bloody lacerations, and some very bruised knuckles.
Porthos lifted the arm over his eyes and sat up, putting fingers to lips to whistle for his mount.
Aramis came up leading all their horses. "Not ours, they don't come when you call."
"Oh. Yeah, guess not."
"We should get back to town and report this."
"We should take the rest of the horses as well, but I don't think we're up to it." Athos was none to steady on his own feet as he rose, refusing Aramis' offer of a hand up since it looked like if he did, they'd both just topple over again.
Aramis was sporting a shallow cut across the neck and a nick that was bleeding profusely on the outside left thigh. His clothing likely hid as many bruises as Athos was beginning to feel on his own body. Porthos' face was streaked with blood from a pistol ball crease down the left side of his head; he was also missing a boot. It took both Athos and Aramis to get him to his feet.
"How many fingers?" Athos asked, holding a hand up in front of Porthos' face.
Porthos grabbed to steady it, since the hand was shaking badly, and counted with his own fingers. "Five," he growled, letting go to reach blindly for his horse.
Athos guided Porthos' foot into the stirrup and at least one of them was mounted. Only three to go. He stood for a moment waiting for his own dizziness to pass before letting go the support of Porthos' stirrup and went in search of the missing boot. It happened to be a pair Porthos was particularly fond of, over-the-knee with no cuff and ties at the back. How he'd lost it was a mystery, but he would not be happy if they left without it.
Athos wandered back up the road, toeing at bodies until he found it, gripped tight in a dead man's hands, the face marred by a broken nose and neck. He had to pry it from the bloody fingers and wasn't sure if Porthos would want it after all, as bloody as the boot was.
If it was fixable, Monsieur Valle would be able to restore it to wholeness again.
"Found it," he reported, handing it up to Porthos who sat his horse in a dazed sort of stupor.
"Ahhhh, thought it was gone for good. Thanks. Athos, we need to get out of here. There's those behind us we left in the road that may not all be dead either. Any that aren't are likely to be stirrin' by now."
"We do. Aramis?"
"Yeah, I know. But I don't think we're going to wake up d'Artagnan. Looks like a bump on the head."
"Can you ride with him?"
""Probably." Aramis collected their pistols d'Artagnan had retrieved and handed them out, then climbed aboard his horse while Athos hauled the limp body over his shoulder. Between them, they managed to maneuver the sagging puppy up in front of Aramis where he could still hold the reins and keep an arm around the youth.
Porthos passed over a kerchief and Athos tied off Aramis' leg wound before gathering up the trailing reins of d'Artagan's well-mannered nag. He put a boot into the stirrup attached to his own saddle and with his last bit of strength, flung himself onto his horse. It was a fortunate thing his foot caught in the stirrup or he might have gone right over the other side.
The three o'clock meeting had taken all of fifteen minutes. Ostensibly riding, though for the most part the horses took the initiative, they headed back into Calais.
7/11
