Authors note: There's some ridiculous gunpowder nonsense in this chapter, I am playing the poetic license again.

Chapter Seven

Porthos was dismayed at the number of men Perrault still had with him. The men had circled the cottage. Some were stood in pairs, far too close together for Porthos to eliminate one without the other being aware. But a few had spread further apart, the thick wood forcing them apart and with broken sightlines.

He moved around behind his first target. A wiry young man, who despite his youth had picked up a nasty scar across the back of his neck. The muscular man was poised for action, but his whole attention was on the cottage and not his surroundings. The men were convinced that the Musketeers were all in the cottage. Porthos could understand their wish to get on with burning the building and killing the occupants. Only Perrault was wary enough to want to ensure he was getting rid of all the witnesses.

Porthos managed to get within a couple of yards of the unsuspecting man. He sized the man up and worked out his best attack. The ground around the man was clear, there would be no giveaway rustle of leaves or snapping twigs. After a check in the direction of the next nearest men, Porthos made his move.

Silently he closed the gap between him and the young man. He did not like to kill the man but knew that it would be a choice between his life and those of his brothers and the stranger he was about to attack. He could not risk simply rendering the man unconscious, he did not know how long it would take him to deal with the other men.

With deft speed Porthos wrapped his arm around the man's neck and dragged him back, being sure to muffle any sound the man might have made before it could escape his lips. The man struggled, but Porthos held fast, he dragged the man far enough away from the cottage and the other men to trip him to the ground landing heavily on the man's back as he continued to squeeze the life out of him. The slow process was not ideal, but he had been unarmed, strangling the man was his only option. It was not pleasant but soldiering rarely was.

As the man stilled, Porthos remained where he was for another few minutes. Porthos took the time to glance at the man's weapons, a loaded gun with spare ammunition and a decent dagger were tucked into his belt. The man did not have a sword.

Porthos had noticed that Perrault's men had been wearing a variety of weapons, a couple had been carrying muskets.

He looked around; his first victim had not been missed. With a grim smile, he let go of the dead man. After relieving the man of his weapons Porthos homed in on his next target. An older man who had the poise of a seasoned soldier. But he was in the best position to be attacked.

Porthos moved around behind the man who wore no doublet but did have a tatty jerkin of dark brown leather.

The second kill was a far simpler, if messy, affair. Adopting the same approach as before but this time armed with the dagger Porthos grabbed the man and in one swift motion plunged the dagger deep into the man's throat preventing him from making a sound other than a quiet gurgle as his life dripped away along with the blood that now stained the dark brown jerkin. Porthos dragged the man away, secreting him in the undergrowth.

With two guns and ample ammunition, Porthos felt a little better prepared to take on the rest of the noble's men.

Picking a route through the woods that did not make any noise was not an easy task for Porthos. He had to continually scan his surroundings for any of Perrault's men and check where he was putting his feet to ensure he did not draw attention to himself. As he walked, he came up with a plan. He needed the men to think they were being attacked by more than one man, and Porthos knew how he would achieve that goal.

He found a tree with a hole where a branch had once been, long since lost to the elements, the hollow caused by the missing limb was shallow enough for Porthos' purpose. He carefully tipped up some of his precious gunpowder into the hole, making sure to trail the powder over the flinty rocks he dropped in the hollow.

It was a gamble, thought Porthos, he would have preferred to have Aramis make the shot, but he was, he hoped, good enough to make it.

Creeping away, he pulled out the stolen guns from his belt one at a time, he checked that they were both clean and primed.

Perrault and the pock-marked man were standing a little closer to the cottage than the other men. The noble was trying to talk to the besieged men. Porthos smirked when his brothers continued to remain silent. A ploy that he guessed was intended to delay Perrault, he would have no idea what the men in the cottage had planned. He would not know what state of fitness the men were in.

Finding himself a suitable spot to fire from was Porthos' next issue. He did not want to give away his position as soon as he fired so had to make sure any smoke from his gun would not be seen. The perfect spot presented itself to him, he smiled as he moved to stand by the tree with a branch at the perfect angle and height to act as a rest for him.

Perrault was still trying to persuade his brothers to give themselves up, that he only wanted to talk to them. Porthos sighed and shook his head, he wondered how long Perrault would wait until he tried to set fire to the cottage.

Porthos was not inclined to find out as he settled himself squarely behind the tree branch, getting himself comfortable for the shot that could make or break his distraction of the men. He wanted to cause confusion, perhaps scare some of the men off. He was not sure how many men there were, he just hoped he could deal with them and that Athos could escape the cottage in the chaos and help him.

He lined up the shot, he paused, taking two slow calming breaths. He waited for Perrault to call out to the cottage again, for all the men to be focused on the small building.

Porthos fired his gun.

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Athos could not help a smile when they heard the gun being fired and the accompanying noise of a small explosion. He looked at Aramis who was also smiling but had not opened his eyes.

'I told you,' Aramis said quietly. 'Best distraction maker I know.'

They listened to several of Perrault's men shouting. They could not make out everything that was being said, but the words 'soldiers' and 'not waiting around here' were quite clear. Whatever Porthos had done he had succeeded in scaring the hired men into thinking there was more than one man attacking them.

Athos decided to risk a look out of the window, he twisted around and carefully peered over the edge of the window frame. He spotted four men running off, back towards the clearing. Another couple were backing off in another direction, carefully looking around themselves as if they were going to be jumped on at any seconds before turning tail and making off.

The pock-marked man was shielding Perrault from any potential attack, but it was clear they did not know where that attack might come from.

'Aramis?'

Athos turned back to see d'Artagnan trying to straighten their friend up. Aramis had slumped to the side awkwardly.

'He's passed out again,' said d'Artagnan as he twisted the unconscious man to lie on his side, pulling his doublet off the bed and folding it up to use as a pillow for him.

'I am not surprised. Although he might have timed it better,' replied Athos with a wry smile.

D'Artagnan moved back to lean against the wall, 'I'm not feeling that good myself,' he said.

Athos nodded; he had suspected that both his friends were hiding how much their injuries were affecting them. The need to look after himself when he had cut his arm had kept them both occupied for a few minutes, but they were all exhausted which, when added to their existing issues, had led to both men suffering.

If anything happened to Porthos, Athos knew he would effectively be on his own.

The occasional gunshots and shouts continued outside for several minutes. Athos watched as d'Artagnan winced each time a loud noise reverberated around the small cottage. Athos wished there was something, anything, he could do to alleviate his friend's symptoms but knew there was nothing.

He moved back to the window, watching Perrault talking to the few remaining men. He was directing them to circle around the area. Some appeared to be keeping watch on the cottage whilst others were dispatched to fight back against the unseen foe. Athos could see four men and the pock-marked man heading in the most likely direction that Porthos was in. Athos hoped his brother was ready for the five men.

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Treville gave up any pretence of a quiet approach. He glanced across to his men and gestured for them to follow him as he took off at a run in the direction of the gunfire and shouting.

They had been walking carefully for several minutes, but the first gunshot had made them pick up the pace. When they heard the explosion, they had all stopped again, the men looked towards Treville. It had only taken the Musketeer Captain a few seconds to reassess their situation. The likelihood that it was his men being attacked was great, and Treville could not allow that.

Musketeers and cadets alike surged forward, there were not many of them, but Treville trusted each of them, from the newest cadet to the most seasoned commissioned man. He knew they would fight for their brother's safety; he knew they would not let him down.

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Porthos had hoped more men would have run away when he began his distraction. He had also hoped more men would stay with the cottage rather than look for him. He watched with increasing concern as five men, including the brutish pock-marked man headed in his general direction. Porthos weighed up his options. He knew he could move away and try to take out a few more of them stealthily. That was the preferred option. Unfortunately, the option was not open to him as the five men spread out enough to see any attempt Porthos made to get away from the area.

He looked at his two guns, both reloaded and primed. He raised the first one sighting the man in the middle of the five, the stout looking middle-aged man probably did not even have time to realise he had been shot in the head before he crumpled to the ground.

The move made three of the other four men duck down, trying to find cover. The pock-marked man stood his ground raising his own weapon quickly and aiming in the direction that he had seen the smoke from Porthos' gun. The man fired, but the shot was wasted. Porthos was surprised the man had even taken it. Any soldier would know that after making the kind of shot Porthos had done it was not wise to stay in the same place.

No. Porthos had moved a few meters to the left and levelled his second gun at the spot he had seen one of the men duck down. He sighted the man as he peered out from behind the bramble where he was hidden. The brief appearance was enough for Porthos. He fired the second gun, the ball skimming across the top of the bramble and finishing its journey in the man's neck. A gurgled cry and movement from the bush told Porthos his shot had been successful.

But with both guns spent and no time to reload Porthos was faced with three angry men who were out for blood.

The pock-marked man tossed his gun aside and wrenched his sword lose, advancing on Porthos who reciprocated the move with his own acquired sword. The other two men made similar moves.

Porthos was not about to abandon his brothers, he knew he had to fight the men and he was ready for them.

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Treville was a little surprised to find four men barrelling through the wood towards them. The men were a little more surprised to find a dozen soldiers heading in their directions. The running men tried to change direction to avoid the soldiers but only managed to either knock into each other or get themselves entangled in one of the prickly bushes in the area.

Without missing a beat, Treville pointed at Luc and a couple of the cadets. The men all nodded and skidded to a halt in front of the no longer running men. Luc drew his gun, the two cadets copied him. Treville knew they would have at least four prisoners to take back to Paris with them. None of the men had looked as though they were of noble stock. The perpetrator of the attack on his men was still at large. Treville very much wanted to meet the man, he hoped he would get his opportunity.

A small, obviously abandoned, cottage came into view. The Musketeers and cadets spread out as they each saw more men in the area. Treville saw Pierre, Marc and Barbotin move quickly towards a group of three men who were about to be joined by another three. The men were squaring up to Porthos who did not seem to be aware that help was at hand. Treville got the distinct impression his Musketeer was about to take on the six men single-handedly.

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The three men facing Porthos paused for a moment, each man sizing up the other. Porthos already knew what the pock-marked man was capable of, Aramis would be bruised for some time after being hit by the man. The other two were of a smaller build but looked as though they knew how to handle a sword. The older of the two was missing a couple of teeth, leaving him with a gaping grin, his sunken cheeks gave him a skeletal look. The other man still had the cocky look of a swaggering youth. Porthos well remembered d'Artagnan carrying the same look for the first few months he knew him.

Porthos was sure the pock-marked man would be the one he would have the hardest time beating, but three men was not insurmountable odds. He had fought more alone before and won, although the setting had been different, there was not much else he could use as improvised weapons in his immediate vicinity.

But Porthos felt confident.

For a few seconds.

When three more men moved forward, swords already in their hands, advancing with menacing expressions, Porthos decided to rethink his tactics. Six men. Six was a difficult number on his own. The area he had found himself in was quite densely covered in shrubs and a few trees acted as useful barriers. He was not sure who would benefit more from all the tripping hazards and hiding places. Porthos began to realise it probably was not him.

He knew he could not win the fight he was about to have, but he was going to make it as difficult as possible for the men, and if he could, he would take a couple with him.

The pock-marked man sneered at him. Porthos sneered back.

'You can't win, not against six of us,' said the man in a mocking tone.

Porthos did not reply, he continued to take in as much information about his assailants as he could. One of the newcomers was shaking slightly, one was favouring his left leg. The cocky youth did not seem completely focused. Porthos wondered if the men had been drinking, perhaps celebrating a finished job when they were pressed back into service.

As the pock-marked man took a step forward Porthos glanced behind the six men. He could not stop a wide grin forming. He steadied himself firmly, ready for the fight. The pock-marked man paused, a look of confusion crossing his ugly face. Porthos raised an eyebrow and gestured to an area behind the men with his sword.

'Do you think me stupid?' asked the man.

'No,' replied Porthos, 'I know you are.'

Two of the younger combatants could not resist looking around whilst the older, supposedly wiser, men remained focused on their quarry.

A couple of poorly chosen expletives from the men who had looked around, followed by a brief escape attempt, stopped by a gunshot caused the more mature soldiers to finally glance around.

Pierre flipped his gun in his gloved hand, ready to use the weapon as a club, its use as a gun gone with the man who had tried to run.

'Thought you might like a hand,' said Marc with a nodded greeting towards Porthos.

'I could've taken 'em,' said Porthos with an air of superiority, followed by a chuckle.

The pock-marked man turned back to Porthos. Without any preamble, he surged forward with the skeletal looking man. Porthos had no time to see which of the other men ended up fighting with which Musketeer. He was confident Pierre, Marc and Barbotin would deal with the three men with ease.

The skeletal man used efficient strokes of his sword, he was light on his feet and knew what he was doing. Porthos was forced to keep moving as the man tried to manoeuvre him into tree roots or low branches. The pock-marked man darted in and out whenever the skeletal man took a step back. Porthos could not get away from either man, but he knew that he was not alone, where he had been about to fight to his death, now he merely had to fight until one of the other Musketeers could lend him a hand. He hoped he could conclude his fight with the two men before he was offered help. But he would not begrudge it if it came.

Porthos had no idea where his brother Musketeers had appeared from. He was aware of other fights breaking out around the area, he guessed Pierre, Marc and Barbotin were not alone. How had they known where they were? How had they known that help was needed?

Questions Porthos would have to wait to ask.

With a brutal strike the pock-marked man forced Porthos against a large tree's trunk, the man wasted no time stepping in and slicing Porthos across the shoulder with his dagger, the blade missing his neck by precious few inches. He could feel blood dripping from the wound almost immediately, the angle of the cut inhibited his right arm. Fortunately, Porthos was as good with his left arm as his right.

The pock-marked man took the momentary pause as Porthos pushed himself back up from leaning against the tree and passed his sword to his left hand, to run away. Porthos was a little surprised at the move but did not have time to dwell on it as the skeletal man renewed his attack.

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