Author's Note: I'm both proud of this chapter and a bit anxious about posting it. I'd greatly appreciate a review to know how it comes across. Happy New Year!

From the Ashes

By Ecri

Chapter 7

Resistance and Rescue

D'Artagnan shivered in the cold cell. He thought of the coming spring, but he would never see it. Bitterness surged up from somewhere deep inside, and despite his promise to Athos, he felt hope slipping from him. He would die at dawn. There would be no pardon. He shivered again and tried to pull himself into a tighter ball. The fire had long since died, and the torch in the wall sconce was sputtering. Soon he'd be in darkness, but, knowing that dawn's light would bring his death, he found himself welcoming the dark.

He heard a sound that made his head snap up and look to where he knew the door was. There was never sound here after dark. The guard was usually asleep in his chair outside the door. The rest of the building was quiet. The town deserted as people had returned to their homes for the evening.

The sound came again, and d'Artagnan realized it was a key. Someone was opening his cell door. His first thought was panic. They'd decided to hang him tonight to avoid what would surely be a spectacle as the townspeople would turn out in the morning to watch him die. He raised himself up into a half crouch, his arms, chains dangling from the manacles, raised before him in a futile, but instinctive bid to defend himself.

The door opened. He could hear the guard speaking. "…be quick about it and make it look like suicide." D'Artagnan saw coins pass from the man to the guard, and then the guard disappeared. D'Artagnan knew he wouldn't be back before this man could kill him. He looked around for something he could use as a weapon. It would be pointless. He couldn't win, but suddenly he realized it wasn't in him to give up and be quietly killed. Perhaps it was the arrival of his friends that inspired him to be more than he thought he could be. Perhaps it was merely desperation to hold onto life even if only for a few more hours. Whatever the reason, his decision was made.

He would go down fighting.

The light from the torch wielded by whoever entered was blinding. D'Artagnan blinked rapidly willing his eyes to adjust. "Who is it?" He called out as he shuffled further from the door.

A laugh.

"What do you want?"

Another laugh.

D'Artagnan opted not to waste his breath until he got a response.

The door closed and the light shifted. D'Artagnan realized the person who'd entered was replacing the burned out torch in the wall sconce with the lit one he'd just brought inside. He heard a thud as the old torch was dropped.

His eyes finally adjusted, d'Artagnan gasped in surprise. "Marcel Lambert."

"I'm glad you recognize me, Charles. At least you'll know why I've come to kill you."

"I didn't kill your father, Marcel." D'Artagnan held out a hand to placate the man, horrified that it was trembling.

"You expect me to believe that?"

"Why would I? I know too well that kind of pain." His heart flooded with new grief at the thought of his father. For an instant he imagined Alexandre d'Artagnan rushing through the door and explaining everything away, embracing him and bringing him home. He pushed the dream aside. "I wouldn't inflict it on anyone."

"You were always a hotheaded one. First to fight, first to draw…"

"They hang me at dawn! Why dirty your own hands?" D'Artagnan had to know. To him, this made no sense. Of course, he was getting used to that. Nothing had made sense to him since he held his father, bleeding, dying in the rain.

"My hands won't be dirty. This is a righteous killing." He lashed out with his sword, but d'Artagnan stepped backwards, stumbling in his haste to be out of the way of that blade.

Marcel laughed again. "Hardly the fancy footwork I'd have expected from you, Charles."

D'Artagnan didn't waste his breath with banter. He watched his opponent, his body tense to anticipate Marcel's moves. He had no sword, but he had his wits, though he feared they, like the instincts he'd long depended upon in any fight, had been dulled by a month in a cell with little food and water and nothing but grief for company.

Marcel lunged again, and d'Artagnan threw his chains around the sword disarming him.

Marcel let loose an angry roar and scrabbled for his sword. D'Artagnan swung his chain again and hit Marcel in the temple. Momentarily stunned, he stumbled. D'Artagnan scrabbled on the floor hoping to reach the sword first.

He failed.

Once again armed, Marcel lashed out, but his fury had taken over his better instincts, and d'Artagnan easily dodged. They fought then, d'Artagnan mainly trying to stay away from the blade and talk sense to the man, and Marcel letting his anger and grief make a poor swordsman of him.

D'Artagnan upended the cot in the corner of the room and used it as a makeshift shield, keeping it between them while he used one hand to toss the blanket in Marcel's direction and foul up his sword work.

He succeeded in knocking Marcel's sword to the floor, but Marcel threw himself in d'Artagnan's direction and ripped the cot from his grip. Marcel pummeled d'Artagnan. Lack of food and proper rest combined with the stress of the last month or more left d'Artagnan in less than prime condition, and Marcel knew how to take advantage of that. Fierce blows caught him in the stomach and in the face. Wherever he could land a blow, Marcel made it count.

Taking d'Artagnan by the shoulders, Marcel shoved him viciously against the wall.

D'Artagnan felt his head impact and bounce back again. Dazed, he lost several moments unable to do anything to defend himself, and briefly unaware that he should defend himself. Marcel took advantage of it, striking him against the wall again and again before holding him there with one hand and hitting him in the stomach with the other.

Coming slightly to his senses, d'Artagnan struggled to get away drawing away from the wall and to the right. Marcel had anticipated the move and shoved him at the same time. D'Artagnan fell hard. The wind went out of him as he struck the floor, and he was stunned motionless for a moment.

Marcel recovered his sword and slashed in d'Artagnan's direction, but he was off balance. D'Artagnan rolled instinctively, somehow sensing the blow, and the sword drew blood in a long shallow streak across d'Artagnan's back. He cried out more in surprise than pain, and his hand moved across the floor as he tried to push his way up. In scrabbling around on the floor, his hand found the forgotten unlit torch Marcel had dropped when he'd entered the cell. Getting to his feet, he brandished the cold torch like a club in front of him, hitting out blindly and managed to knock Marcel down. Seizing the advantage, he threw himself at Marcel landing on the man's back. Wrapping his chains around the man's throat, he pulled back with all his might and forced the man upright again.

Marcel struggled against the hold. He dropped his sword and used both hands to pull the chain, trying in vain to break d'Artagnan's hold, but it was a hold born of fear, desperation, and rage.

"I…didn't…do…it," d'Artagnan struggled to say as he twisted the chains tighter.

"Liar!" Marcel shouted. "You are a murderer and you dishonor your father's memory!" Marcel would have said more, but d'Artagnan's rage swelled and he twisted the chain tighter. An unearthly howl came from deep inside him, and he poured out his grief, his rage, and his utter desolation…everything he'd felt since his father's death.

It was then the door burst open.

The Musketeers

"D'Artagnan!" Athos cried out as he entered the cell, and he was undone by what he saw. He had expected to have to save the boy's life and here he was screaming, raging, holding a man by the throat with an almost primal, feral ferocity. The Musketeer's eyes widened in surprise and he stepped forward. His mind raced to find a way to stop the boy from murdering the man he held in a shockingly iron grip.

"D'Artagnan, it's Athos! Listen to me. Release him!"

There was no change in the tableau except that d'Artagnan's victim seemed closer to passing out. "D'Artagnan! Now! Release him! I'm here, boy. Let him go! If you don't, you will never forgive yourself."

"A…Athos?" D'Artagnan mumbled, and in that instant it seemed sanity returned. As if only just realizing what had happened, he released his hold on both Marcel and the chains. Marcel crumpled to the floor gasping and coughing, trying desperately to take in a normal breath. D'Artagnan stared at his hands as though amazed at what they had almost done.

Athos ignored Marcel. He saw only d'Artagnan. As soon as the Gascon released Marcel, Athos rushed to his side. D'Artagnan, his strength gone, fell to his knees, but Athos caught him before his knees struck the floor. "I've got you," he whispered as he held the boy. "I've got you."

Athos moved him towards the wall, propped him there, and reached for the cot and set it upright intending to ease d'Artagnan onto it to examine his injuries. A soft noise behind him drew his attention and he rose to face it. When he stood, Marcel, armed once more, held his sword out as though to attack d'Artagnan, who had by this time slid down the wall to sit in a heap on the floor.

Athos drew his own sword so quickly Marcel was left blinking in surprise at seeing it in the Musketeer's hand and pointed at his chest.

"Withdraw." Athos spoke softly, but there was a world of menace in both his voice and his eyes.

"He murdered my father!"

It looked to the Musketeer as though the man believed those words, but he would worry over that at a later time.

Athos took a step closer to the man, positioning himself between him and d'Artagnan, who still sat senseless where Athos had left him. "He did nothing of the sort. He is a more honorable man than I have met in all my years in service to the King. It would never occur to him to kill an unarmed man. Now, persist if you must, but if you do, know this: I. Will. End. You."

Marcel stared into Athos's eyes. Whatever he saw there coupled with the Musketeers words caused him to drop his sword.

Athos kept his own weapon where it was. "Now, leave." He gestured towards the door and waited until the man was gone.

Once he'd left, Athos dropped to his knees at d'Artagnan's side. He studied the younger man who sat on the floor hands limp in his lap, eyes closed and head hanging down so his hair obscured his face. "D'Artagnan?" Athos spoke softly, gently. He didn't want to startle the lad.

D'Artagnan, still insensible, moaned but did not open his eyes.

Slowly, gently, Athos moved him to the bed and began to look over his injuries. To his relief, he found no broken bones. His lip was split, however, and there were bruises all over his midsection. There was also a rather large lump on the back of his head and a long, shallow cut across his back.

He was no sooner wishing for Aramis's presence than the other man was opening the door to the cell. Whatever quip was poised on the sharpshooter's lips was gone the moment he took in the scene in the cell. He turned and called over his shoulder. "Porthos, bring water…" taking a glace at the young Gascon, he cursed and added, "and light."

Aramis made his way to Athos's side. "What happened?"

Athos shook his head. "It's a story for another time. For now, I will tell you what I know of his injuries, though I am sure you'll make your own diagnosis." Athos detailed what he had found as Aramis's hands moved over d'Artagnan. He paused at the ribs, and Athos breathed a sigh of relief when he confirmed that none were broken. The bump on the head was a worry, and he lightly tapped d'Artagnan's cheek to bring him around.

It was then that Porthos entered. He carried two buckets of water. With him was Gustave. Now untied, the Lambert brother seemed contrite. He carried two torches. Behind him came a cowed, remorseful Marcel followed by Bertrand, the third brother, carrying firewood. The two brothers fell to stoking the fire while Gustave set the torches in the wall sconces—one by the door and one near to the bed.

Porthos meanwhile moved swiftly to kneel at Aramis's side. He bit his lip as he took in d'Artagnan's condition. "How is he?"

"Better than he should be, but worse than I would like," Aramis admitted.

"D'Artagnan! Wake up, d'Artagnan!" Athos called. With another groan, d'Artagnan opened his eyes. Athos was the first person he saw.

"Athos…" he trailed off and raised a hand to his eyes seemingly about to shade them from the light, but abandoned the movement. His hand hovered there as though not sure what to do. He moved it to the back of his head where the bump was, but Aramis slapped it away. D'Artagnan's hand hung there as he focused once more on Athos. " Athos…did I…tell me I didn't…"

Athos caught the flailing hand. "You have not harmed anyone, d'Artagnan. Aramis will see to your injuries, but we must talk while he does. The hours grow short, and our surmise that the Lamberts were responsible for framing you appears incorrect." He glanced at Porthos for confirmation and the larger Musketeer nodded.

D'Artagnan sighed and shook his head once before clenching his eyes shut at the pain the action produced.

"You have a nasty bump on the head, d'Artagnan. Please be more careful," Aramis suggested softly.

Slowly, d'Artagnan looked up at his friends. "I don't know who else it might be," he confessed.

"What about the big fellow?" Porthos asked holding his hand up to indicate the massive height of the man who'd let them in to see d'Artagnan that afternoon.

"That's Lemieux. He's only been in Lupiac since last May."

"And he's in charge?" Aramis asked in surprise.

"He had papers. He's been appointed Magistrate of Lupiac."

"And who's appointed him then?" Porthos asked, suspicion darkening his eyes.

"The King. Lemieux says he reports directly to the King on all matters in Lupiac." D'Artagnan replied.

Aramis, Athos and Porthos glanced at each other in such a way that d'Artagnan could see something was amiss.

"What? What is it?" he asked.

Athos looked the young man in the eye. "D'Artagnan, the King does not trouble himself with the day-to-day affairs of Lupiac aside from the collection of taxes. Lemieux, whoever he is, would not report to the Crown the disputes of farmers over fence lines."

D'Artagnan had not been in Paris long, but it had been long enough to give him an idea of just how insignificant life in Gascony was in the eyes of Parisians. "You're saying he lied. He has no official appointment. He merely walked in one day and took power." D'Artagnan frowned. "But why? What does that gain him? He's become the most powerful man in Lupiac, but what good is that?"

Athos was impressed by the boy's questions, especially in light of his current condition. He was learning to ask the right ones, and there was a bit of his old fire there in his eyes. "You tell us. Has he manipulated anything? Has he gained anything since coming here?"

D'Artagnan was about to say no, but he hesitated.

"What is it?" Aramis asked. "No matter how small."

"He's taken on a few farms."

"What does that mean?" Porthos had gotten to his feet and now stood with his back against the wall, arms crossed.

D'Artagnan shifted a bit on the bed, clearly intending to sit himself up, but gasped in pain. Refusing to give in to it, he struggled to a sitting position but was left winded and unable to answer. Gustave cleared his throat and supplied the information for the Musketeers. "If a farmer dies with no heir, or if a farmer abandons his farm, Lemieux takes it on. He appoints someone to farm the land, and all the profit goes to the Crown."

"Abandons his farm? Surely that's not common!" Aramis's eyes were wide in surprise.

"Common, no," d'Artagnan admitted, "but Monsieur Duchamps left one morning in late fall. The house was empty. The horse was gone. Someone remembered him mentioning going to live with family, but it was vague. Lemieux said he would take on the farm until we found out one way or another what had happened to him."

"Dying without an heir…what's that about?" Porthos asked.

"Again, it's not common," Marcel supplied, "but there was a fire last June. The Beaumont family home was destroyed. There were no survivors."

D'Artagnan had been watching the Musketeers closely. He shook his head, wincing once more at the pain, but pushing on regardless. "How could I be so blind? He's killed them all, hasn't he? The Crown gets no money. He's keeping it." D'Artagnan began to struggle against his chains trying to get to his feet. Rage was in his eyes.

Athos, though glad to see it there, put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. "D'Artagnan, you can do little from a cell awaiting execution. Let us do this."

D'Artagnan paled at the mention of his impending death and settled back. "Why am I still alive?" He asked the question of the room in general, but his eyes soon found Athos's. "If he murdered Monsieur Duchamps and the Beaumonts for their land, then why did he not murder me rather than frame me for murder?"

"They saw it," Porthos said.

"What?" Athos stared up at the large Musketeer.

"The Lambert brothers saw the murder from the hilltop." Porthos explained. "He must 'ave realized it. He framed d'Artagnan to keep suspicion from 'imself." He glanced at Aramis for confirmation.

Aramis was nodding. "He probably planned to have them commit suicide or move far away from Lupiac after the hanging. Poor dear boys just lost their father…something like that… Instead, you stumble onto the body, the Lamberts arrive thinking it must have been you they saw kill their father. He thinks he's the luckiest man on earth. You go to prison. He hangs you. The Lamberts disappear sometime after that. He gets two farms that fast."

Athos turned to Aramis and Porthos. "We have little time, and we must uncover enough to save the boy from the hangman."

Aramis nodded. "We can certainly cast enough doubt that the people here will fight back."

"We don't know how many people are working with him. He brought two men with him. It may be that some of Lupiac's citizens are being used, but some may be complicit." He looked from Aramis to Porthos. "We must tread carefully." He turned back to d'Artagnan. "You will need to keep from saying anything to Lemieux that will tip him off to what we're doing. He must not realize what we have figured out here."

D'Artagnan nodded. "He will learn nothing from me."

"Good lad," Porthos said.

Aramis kept working on the wounds, and Athos and Porthos turned their attention to the Lambert brothers stepping out into the hall to afford d'Artagnan some privacy. "As for you," Athos said, letting them see some of the fury he'd held back. "You tried to kill him. A man who was chained to a wall and sentenced to die in a few hours anyway, and you came in here to run him through. Not a fair fight by any definition."

"That it wasn't," Porthos agreed eyeing the trio as though he were trying to decide which of the three should die first.

"Forgive us, Monsieur," Bertrand said. "We lost our heads in our grief. We were blinded by what Lemieux told us."

"What was that, then?" Porthos had to know.

"He told us that d'Artagnan had confessed. He said d'Artagnan had relished the act of murder and that he'd described it in obscene detail. He's told anyone who will listen." Betrand looked away in embarrassment.

Porthos whistled long and low. "That explains why everyone in Lupiac believes the tale. They think he admitted his guilt."

"Was there no trial?" Athos asked.

Betrand shook his head. "Lemieux said that since he'd confessed there was no need."

Athos shook his head and pulled Porthos aside for a private word. "D'Artagnan didn't mention that."

"Well, 'e was pretty far gone when we got here. Didn't seem 'imself. It's a lot to go through on your own." Porthos said.

Athos nodded and turned back to the brothers. "Where would Lemieux keep his papers of appointment? Where does he live? Does he work alone? Who were those large men in the office? "

Bertrand shrugged. "He lives in a house across the main square from here. The men are mercenaries as far as I can tell, but they are good monsieur, they are very good with their swords. As for his papers, I suppose they'd be either in his office or in his home. I suppose it would be cumbersome to keep them on his person."

Athos nodded. "We'll have to search. Office first, but knowing how our luck runs, they'll either be on him or in his rooms."

They searched the offices but found nothing from the King, forged or otherwise. "There's no time! We have to call Lemieux out!" Porthos shouted dropping a ledger in frustration.

"We have to find the papers." Athos picked up the ledger. "If we do, we can arrest him for forgery, for seizing power without authorization, and likely for repeated murders as well as treason."

"D'Artagnan dies at dawn or did you forget?" Porthos asked, fury dropping his words to a whisper, his eyes blazing in his fury.

"I forget nothing," Athos said with the air of a man who had much he wished to forget.

Porthos nodded, regret in his eyes. "Sorry, Athos…I didn't…."

"Athos! Porthos!" Aramis's voice called from the cell.

The two raced back fearful of what they might find.