"I dunno, Father." Porthos laid out his hand with a shake of his head - a seven, a five, a six and a three. "Maybe Venituna just ain't your game. Or maybe cheatin' just ain't your style."
Grandier shook his own head mournfully. "I suspect one needs a penchant for sleight of hand in order to make this work properly." He tossed his own cards on the table, three sixes and a four.
Porthos, slouched in his chair, leaned forward to pick up the deck to reshuffle.
"Shouldn't you be waking Aramis by now to take over the watch? Surely we've been at this for at least a couple of hours, there's not that much night left."
"Nah, if he's still sleeping it's because he needs it. But you should get a few hours of sleep yourself." Porthos' hands stopped sluicing cards. He sat up, sniffing as he stilled. "Hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"Horse. In distress. Snuff the candle and wake the rest." Porthos, rapier in his left hand, pistol in his right, was already sliding along the inner wall toward the nominally lighter square of window at their end of the hall.
Fire! It sashayed along the eaves of the stable like a line of ballet dancers, graceful in its lethal leaping symmetry.
The inn itself was a huddle of mismatched additions in various styles of architecture, the original piece looking Norman with its round, two-story tower bulging off the front corner of the middle section. The add-ons carried the provincial varying roof lines and high windows, all built around a central courtyard reached through a series of pointed arches. The only continuity had been the use of the same stone, probably quarried nearby, and the gently sloping red slate roofs adorning each addition.
The stables had been built of stone too, but the roof was thatched and would be entirely ablaze in a matter of minutes.
Athos, limping, was shoving the tang of his sword belt into its spot as he came out of the room. "What?"
Aramis and d'Artagnan, both pulling on clothes, followed practically on the comte's heels.
"Fire. Probably a diversion. Can't leave the horses in there though." Porthos was halfway down the stairs.
"Wait for Aramis to give you cover," Athos hissed in a loud whisper, then wondered why he was whispering. "Grandier, wake the innkeeper if he is not already up. DO NOT GO OUTSIDE UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES! d'Artagnan, bang on doors. Gather everyone in the most secure room you can find and block the windows if you can."
"Could be just a fire," Porthos observed as he took the last six stairs in two hops.
"Treat it as an ambush!" Athos leaned over the railing to yell.
d'Artagnan, weaving a bit, was already banging on doors, shouting FIRE as Grandier, following Porthos' example, took the stairs down two and three at a time.
Doors flew open up and down the corridor. In seconds the landing was a madhouse of screaming guests frantically clutching jewelry, portmanteau, and nightcaps, milling about bawling like sheep without a shepherd.
Aramis, wrapping his hand in his blue sash, smashed the left side of the window at the end of the hallway, knocking out a human-sized hole in the glass.
" d'Artagnan, get these people downstairs. Don't let anyone out! If it's an ambush, they'll expect people to come rushing out the back since the stables are on fire. If it's our friends, they won't care who they kill. If it's someone after Grandier, they may be more circumspect. Don't take any chances. Send Grandier back up here to load for us." Athos dashed back into their room to check the window overlooking the side grounds. "Nothing," he reported, using his pistol butt to break out the window on the right. "See anything?"
"Nothing suspicious." Aramis took a chance and leaned out the window to yell down, "Ready when you are, Porthos."
"NOW!" Porthos burst from the ground floor back door.
"HELLANDAMANTION!" Athos howled, as d'Artagnan appeared on the musketeer's heels, both of them bent double and zigzagging across the open space between the back of the inn and the stables. They split to go around the large marble fountain decorating the back aspect of the inn.
"They're on the roof!" Aramis threw himself half out the window as shards of marble, lethal as the flying lead, sprayed the running pair. "I can't see a damn thing, no way to return fire from this position! And they're turning the fountain into a weapon as well!"
The barn roof belched smoke and embers, swallowing up Porthos and d'Artagnan as though dragon flame devoured them, though lead continued to spray up dirt and grass and more marble splinters.
"PORTHOS!"
"D'ARTAGNAN!"
Grandier came pounding up the stairs, praying, "O Lord, You are our refuge and our strength, a very present help in times of trouble. You know the plans you have for these precious souls, plans for welfare and not evil! You have their futures in Your hands, keep them safe. Amen. d'Artagnan said I was to load. I can shoot too. Is this about you or me?"
Neither of the musketeers heard him.
"PORTHOS!" Aramis screamed again.
Athos was hanging out his side of the window as well, straining to peer through the smoke. Every ornamental bush and plant swayed with the suck and draw of the fire, casting bizarre shadows across the grounds. "PORTHOS! D'ARTAGNAN!"
"If they're not inside by now, they're dead," Aramis said dispassionately. "Six, maybe seven, possibly eight on the roof. Shots came from at least three different angles." He leaned out again, precariously. "There, there, and-" he twisted to point toward the middle roof as Athos grabbed a handful of coat, "there. Likely another at the southeast corner. Could be one right over top of us." He ducked back inside and Athos let go. "Muskets for certain, flintlocks most likely. If they have people on the other side, Porthos and d'Artagnan are sitting ducks."
"Then we need to be in the barn."
"No, we need to be on the roof." Aramis prowled the hallway, looking for an access panel.
"Another wing?"
"There'll be one in every wing. Here! Grandier-"
The priest was already beside him, bending so his shoulder braced Aramis' thigh, hands laced to provide a cradle for a foot. Aramis shoved an extra pistol in his belt, put a boot into those fingers and with one hand on Grandier's shoulder pushed up to work the latch, throwing open the hatch uncaring if he announced his presence. Grandier heaved and he was head and shoulders through, pistol in hand.
A single shot rang out followed by a thud on the roof above their heads. Athos and Grandier froze, Aramis' legs disappeared and his face, a pale space in this darkness of the hallway, reappeared. "One down!"
"Get me up there!" Athos dropped the musket and raced to the opposite end of the hall.
"You've only got one good leg-"
"There are at least six of them! Get me up there!" Athos shoved off Grandier's waiting hands, levering himself onto the roof next to a surprised Aramis.
"Are you insane?" Aramis hissed, throwing a boot back down the open hatch, then a stocking, and then the other boot.
"Runs in the family, brother," Athos hissed back, pulling off his own boots and stockings. "Grandier," he stuck his head back down inside, "hand up the musket."
The cleric dashed to snatch up the musket, ran back and shoved it up through the opening.
"Go see if you can work a miracle with the other guests, they'll be in a panic. Organize a bucket brigade, but don't let anyone out until one of us gives the all clear."
"Right!"
From the roof, Aramis had a bird's eye view of the barn roof. For a moment his heart stopped. And then, above the voracious roar of the inferno, he heard shouting. He could not make out the words, but the sound of voices was enough to restart his heart and get him moving, soft-footed, across the roof, Athos right beside him.
Below in the barn, d'Artagnan dragged off the jacket he'd barely gotten on, using it to flay embers kindling in the stacked bales of hay. "We'll have to lead them out, they won't go on their own!" He was staggering on his feet, but retrieved the first two horses on the left as Porthos collected two on the right.
It was as light as day inside, the devouring fire providing plenty of illumination, though it belched black clouds of smoke that had had them coughing before they'd even made it inside the stable.
"Out the back," Porthos yelled, whipping off his head scarf to cover the eyes of a balking bay.
Four horses out and no shots from the woods beyond the barn. Low anxious whickering became frightened whinnies and then trumpeting sounds of panic.
They grabbed four more as the hayloft caught with a whoosh, sucking air from their already straining lungs. Tongues of flame shot out from the rafters, smoke curled sinuously through the wooden slats of stalls and there were eight free; six still to go.
d'Artagnan threw his coat over his head, opened the stall door for his horse and snatched the halters of another two, whistling for his horse as he struggled to drag them to the opposite end of the barn.
A burning rafter crashed behind them and d'Artagnan's pair bolted for the exit. Porthos was dragging the last three from the right side out into the night and d'Artagnan flung himself around uncaring that the floor pitched and heaved beneath his feet.
Overhead, the center beam shifted, creaking ominously over the roar of the fire. His horse, the whites of its eyes showing all around the pupils, shied back as d'Artagnan all but fell into the stall, rearing when the youth attempted to catch his halter. Desperation lent both ingenuity and aid. d'Artagnan snatched the halter as the horse came down, wrenched his head around and scaled the wide-spaced boards of the stall, dragging the horse close enough to throw a leg over his back and grab his mane.
They shot out of the stall, jumped another fallen rafter in flames and dashed for the door, narrowly missing being buried under half a ton of burning hay as the center beam collapsed and the entire roof and hayloft caved in.
Porthos dragged him off the horse and practically fell on him, rolling them both in the dirt to extinguish the glowing flakes of ash lighting on the youth like fireflies. "Are you burnt?"
"No, I don't think so." d'Artagnan did not protest when Porthos pulled him to his feet and turned him roughly to inspect his back.
"Just a little singed, thank God!" Porthos yanked the youth to his chest, hugged him tightly and set him back on his feet. "It wasn't worth your life, going back in there! Stay with the horses, I'm going to find the rest." And he was off at a run.
d'Artagnan, knees the consistency of cooked pasta, sank to the ground panting, fourteen whickering, nickering horses jostling around him. "Get up, get up," d'Artagnan growled, pushing with all his strength against the ground. The ground pushed, unyieldingly, back, and his limbs remained stubbornly noodle-ish. The best he could do was crawl, very carefully and none too fast, under, through and around still nervously stamping hooves to the outside of the milling herd.
Porthos jerked around as the crack of a pistol ball eclipsed the roar of the fire behind him. With a roar of his own he sprinted back the way he had come, skidding to a halt at d'Artagnan's feet. With a single snatch he flung away the body draped over their puppy and grabbed the Gason by the front of his shirt. "Are you hurt?"
"No," d'Artagnan gasped. "Or only a little," he admitted, when Porthos dragged him up for a closer inspection. "Just a graze. Never heard a thing ... then a sword at my neck. He thought I was - a sitting duck - shot him over my shoulder." He slumped against Porthos' broad chest again. "Really, really tired, Porthos."
"Yeah, I know, but ya gotta hold up a little bit longer, boy. Come on, can't leave ya here obviously. Athos and Aramis are on the roof, can't help 'em from here."
"They'll ... be together ... shoot ... you ... if you try to go up there ... now."
Porthos ignored the comment, throwing an arm around the youth's lean middle and half dragging him through the milling horses.
There was no hail of bullets this time, as they crossed the thirty yards of open space to the back of the inn. Though they heard two more shots, a shout and a distinctive thump, followed by a raspy sliding sound before a body rolled off the roof to land two feet in front of them. The center roof had no parapet. Blood splattered everything within a two yard radius.
"Not ours." Porthos grunted, grabbing the feet to haul the body far enough back to open the door and shove d'Artagnan inside. "Find Grandier and make sure he's all right!" He waited neither to see if the Gascon remained on his feet, nor for an answer. He was around the corner of the main wing, hugging the shadows as he scanned what he could see of the opposite roofs.
While he didn't have quite as much experience as Aramis, climbing in or hanging out windows, Porthos had scaled many a building in his misspent youth, though he was a bit taller, broader and heavier than the last time he'd tried it. He grabbed a hank of ivy, gave it an experimental tug and then a twist and started up the wall hand over hand using the stuff like rope. He had to stop on a second story window ledge and catch his breath, but only for a moment and two minutes later he was dragging himself over the low parapet.
"Peent," he whistled, as he slid over the edge, repeating the call twice more, loud and sharp as the nighthawks did. Off to his right, the call was returned, and then to his left, copied. The bulk of the house lay west to east, with a north-facing front and a southern exposure on the back where the courtyard had been built. Bending to keep the parapet on his left, Porthos moved swiftly on silent feet towards the copied call.
"Goddamn idiot," Athos muttered, back pressed against a chimney as he reloaded for both of them. "Like as not we'll end up shooting him up here in the dark." He tolerated heights, but had no love for them. Aramis, on the other hand, loved the thrill and was treating this little adventure like a walk down the Champs Elysees.
"Not a chance," Aramis murmured peering around the edge of their cover. "This is like shooting pigeons," he grumbled, sliding open the powder pan as he pursed his lips and puffed on the fuse. His shot cracked loudly, even over the gasping fire. "Three down. You'd think they'd figure out there's only two of us-" he paused to repeat the nighthawk call, "three now, and try to rush us. Why come up here in the first place? Did they think we're stupid enough to let them pick us off like sitting ducks?"
"Between them, they might have a whole brain; they are instinctively cunning though." Athos closed the pans, blew off the excess powder and exchanged the two pistols for the musket. "Are we moving?"
"Not until Porthos catches up with us," Aramis said, whistling again. He cocked his head suddenly, threw himself around Athos and cracked a fourth over the head, snatching the falling pistol out of the air as he shoulder slammed the dropping body so it tumbled head over heels down the slope of the roof to fetch up hard against the parapet. It did not get up, but Aramis followed anyway, throwing the man's bent sword over onto the front lawn before retrieving a second loaded pistol from the back of the brigand's waistband and a knife from the boot. His ear had discerned the stealthy tread of the boots even over the ...
Another shot, and the sound of a scuffle, then the nighthawk's call again, away to their left.
"Missed that one," Aramis panted, clamping his bare toes on the slick tiles as Athos reached out to drag him up the last few feet of the slope. "That's five. Odds are much closer to even now, unless they held back a contingent."
Athos whistled back and two minutes later, Porthos ghosted up the way they had come, from the southwest. "Least you saved me some fun," he whispered, white grin flashing broadly. "There's two I saw on the southeast corner, this side of the roof."
"That'd make seven," Aramis stated. His original estimate.
"They're not smart enough to have held back a contingent."
"Do we consider that a sure thing or proceed with caution?"
"A sure thing," Athos replied, handing Porthos one of the extra pistols Aramis had shoved into his hands. "And we proceed with caution anyway. Spread out so they can't get past us this way."
"One's already down, tried to decapitate d'Artagnan. Didn't go clear around the house lookin', but they may have an escape route." Porthos was grateful for the cleaner air up here.
"You two can handle these last ones then, if there are even any left up here. I'm going back down to reconnoiter the grounds."
"Get Grandier to go with you," Porthos called softly after their departing leader.
Athos touched his hat brim in acknowledgement but did not reply and a moment later his black clothes dissolved into the darkness as though the night had swallowed him whole.
He dropped back through the access hatch without bothering to check the hallway first. He doubted there were any inside, though if there were, they would shortly be just as dead as those they'd encountered on the roof.
Athos ran down the stairs, the battle rush lending a false strength he knew he'd pay for, especially with the twisted ankle, but in the moment, he did not care. He paused briefly at the bottom, to get his bearings, then followed the sound of angry, shouting voices to an inner room and banged on the door. "d'Artagnan! Grandier!"
The door swung open before his fist fell upon it a second time, and he was face to face with the innkeeper. "The priest went to scout the grounds." The man turned slightly so Athos had a glimpse of d'Artagnan surrounded by a bevy of females all trying to remove his clothing.
"Good, keep him in here. Bar this door from the inside and don't open it again until one of us tells you too." He waited only long enough to hear the bar slide home, knowing it would not keep out anyone determined to get in, but it would slow them down.
Athos grabbed his sword from its sheath as he swung around the hallway corner into the reception area, body slammed the front door back on its hinges and tore into the night. He had not taken time to pull his boots back on so his running footsteps on the deep velvet grass were silent and stealthy.
He rounded a corner into an equally silent fight, almost spitting himself as Grandier, face shining with sweat in the waning light of the moon - the only light on this side of the inn - yanked his sword free and swung to face this new threat. Behind him, a body toppled slowly, hands clutching at its belly.
"Whoa! It's Athos!" the musketeer grunted, swaying back as he dug his heels in to avoid being run through.
"Dear God! I nearly killed you!"
"Occupational hazard." Athos bent over his knees, breathing hard. "Yours makes eight." They heard another shot from above and then the nighthawk call, three times, quick and sharp, in succession. "Come on." He straightened, taking the priest's arm. "What are you doing out here anyway? I told you to stay inside."
"Why should I cower safely in the house while the four of you die on my behalf?"
"Firstly, because if something happens to you and any one of us lives through this, we'll have been derelict in our duty!" Athos whispered, "And secondly, because these are not your enemies, they're mine. So I would be doubly accountable if something were to happen to you. Now get back in the house!"
"Watch out!"
Athos ducked as he spun, his rapier flashing with deadly speed and accuracy, slicing through boot leather as if it were nothing but butter, stopping only when it hit bone. He yanked the sword free as he tucked and rolled out of reach, though it wasn't necessary. His attacker went down like falling timber without the tendons at the backs of his ankles to keep him upright, a new birthed scream cut off almost before it was born as Grandier's sword grip smashed across the back of the attacker's head.
"Better he not announce where we are," the priest said calmly, flipping the rapier in his gloved hand to catch the grip again and wipe the bloody blade in the grass.
"Remind me to be admiring later, if we're still alive."
They ran, silent as ghosts, the width of the building, skidding to a halt at the northeast corner. The fire's glow limned the hard right angle and Athos, one hand on the building, risked a glance around.
"What?" Grandier hissed, as Athos slumped back against the stone without a word.
The musketeer straightened, grip firming on his rapier. "He's got d'Artagnan. Stay here." Athos pulled his parrying dagger, took one deep breath, shrugged his shoulders to loosen the instant tightening seeing the trapped youth had caused, and stepped around the corner into the glaring light of the fire.
"Oh how nice, you've finally joined the party. I knew you'd get around here eventually; we've been waiting for you, de la Fère." d'Artagnan hung limp as a rag doll in the circle of Arceneau's arm, a grotesque parody of the toy. "You're wondering how I lured him out, yes? It was so very easy. I've always had a gift for mimicry."
Pitch and tone changed in the smooth voice, adding just a hint of roughness to the vocal chords and a touch of command. "d'Artagnan! Open the door!" The weasel smiled at his own brilliance. "We were just down the hall, you understand. It did not even require patience."
Aramis or Porthos would have opened the door to that voice. Athos said nothing, just waited at the ready.
Three more men were ranged, unmoving, behind the Comte de le Arceneau. All held pistols and swords at the ready. Athos wondered, briefly and without caring, if there were more.
"I thought about killing him right there in the doorway, but I so hate a mess before I've had my fun. And of course, I want him awake by the time I'm done with you! So I didn't hit him too hard." Arceneau tipped d'Artagnan's chin up and let it fall. "He is rather attractive. Perhaps if he hadn't been with you, we might have gone on to England and left you alone to imagine you had defeated us, but I can never resist a challenge."
He tossed the limp body to one of his lieutenant's who grabbed an arm, nearly yanking it from the socket as the man juggled gun, rapier, and six feet plus of unconscious youth. "I think I will just wound you so you can live to watch our fun and die knowing you will have to account for his mortal soul. Oh, by the way, should I perchance make a fatal mistake and die upon your sword, the boy dies in that instant too."
Athos buried his rage deep inside his glacial heart as he took another two steps forward. He was at a distinct disadvantage. He would have to mind his feet as well as his opponent's sword; even on grass one deliberate stomp and this deadly game would be over.
"Shall I tell you my plans for him while we dance, monsieur?" Arceneau lunged without the de rigour en garde.
Athos met the charge with a parry and pitched his voice above the insatiable roar of the fire. "Arceneau is MINE, Aramis!"
The man holding d'Artagnan fell backwards with a musket ball between the eyes. The second and third dropped like standing stones before they could lift a weapon.
Arceneau only laughed manically. "Well played, mon ami! But there are too many of us to count. You do not have enough lead for all of us."
Athos made no reply, only circled in place as Arceneau's rapier made questing little feints. He could feel Grandier's solidarity, though the man had obeyed his command, surprisingly. d'Artagnan was safe so long as Aramis and Porthos were on the roof and Grandier did not make himself known.
Athos shut his mind to all else, narrowing his focus to the extension of his arm and hand. Arceneau had invested in a decent teacher, but for all that his fencing had improved, he was still a dilettante with an attitude. Much like the youths' Athos had taught in his early days with the Musketeers - sure of himself and bold with it.
It was child's play to merely defend, and Athos, weary already, allowed Arceneau to tire himself out with his fussy footwork and fanciful flailing.
The musketeer let the dance go on for a long twenty minutes, meeting each attack with a minimalist response, before he struck the first time. Blood flew in a broad arc as a deep gash opened across the backs of the fingers that gripped Arceneau's parrying dagger. The man spun away, the knife flying wide to bury itself in the lush thickness of the grass.
And still Arceneau's words spilled into the blank space Athos had created for them. He did not hear their meaning, only the sound, as his mind cataloged the wet, sandpapery rasp of each gasping inhale and wheezing exhale.
His own twisted ankle gave only a twinge of warning before it folded beneath Athos. He fell forward, blade shrieking as it slid the length of Arceneau's, into a bind, and for a moment, Athos' entire weight hung from that bind.
He pushed off and the Comte de le Arceneau stumbled backwards clutching a gauntleted hand to his gut.
The mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, though perhaps there were words and Athos still could not hear them. Arceneau staggered, sagging slowly to his knees. "You son of a bitch, you've killed me." Blood frothed on lips still stretched in a travesty of a grin.
"Yes," Athos said pleasantly, "three and a half years too late. Give my regards to the devil and ask him to reserve a room for me. I will see you in hell." This, at least , was one death that would not hover on the edge of his conscience for the rest of his life.
"Do it right de la Fère, the coup de grâce!" This was delivered with a bubbling hiss.
Athos did not deign to answer. He had a few steps left in him; he used them to make it to d'Artagnan's side.
Grandier was there already and in the light of the fire, Athos saw the right side of the priest's face glistened with streaks of red. Unflappable was their guest, a man without an avocation but who had embraced his vocation with far more zeal than many Athos had met who'd taken religious vows.
The man cradled d'Artagnan's upper body in his arms, the boy's face pressed tenderly to his chest. "...oh Father, You give power to the faint and to them that have no might, You increase their strength. Renew this child's strength, O Lord, so that he may run and not be weary, walk and not faint. Do not call him yet into the everlasting life of your kingdom; he has a work here to do among his brothers. All praise and honor and glory to You who have spared our lives this night, we give thanks with grateful hearts. Amen."
"Thank you," Athos said simply, sinking to his knees as Porthos and Aramis rounded the corner at a run, both with pistols and swords still at the ready.
"Did we get 'em all, then?" Porthos asked, kneeling at d'Artagan's feet.
"Don't know." Athos slumped on the grass. "We should look for horses."
Grandier yielded his place to Aramis. "He is young, they are all hard headed. Your puppy will be fine."
Nonetheless, Aramis ran a hand through d'Artagnan's hair, breathing a sigh of relief when his fingers encountered no new swellings.
"You need to take better care of him," Grandier admonished, a gleam of mischief in his twinkling eyes.
"Suspect we got our job cut out for us. If he can't find trouble, he'll likely make it," Porthos grumbled.
"Hardly fair," Athos pointed out, "since most of the trouble he's encountered has been mine."
"Yeah well, guess we'll see." Porthos' rapier rasped back into its sheath. "I'll go look for horses."
"Not alone!" Athos roused himself enough to snap before falling back again. "Grandier, are you up to going with him?"
"Of course." Grandier rose swiftly, infusing his agreement with gratification for the trust the request implied.
"Do we have a count?"
"Seven on the roof. Four here," Aramis grunted.
"One dead, one alive but incapacitated down here," Grandier added.
"Thirteen. Christ," Athos sighed. "With apologies, Father."
"Absolved. It's been quite a night. They would have left the horses a good distance from the fire," the priest suggested tentatively.
"Excellent observation."
"Likely toward the front then." Porthos heaved himself to his feet. "Shouldn't take long to find 'em. You going in? They'll be chompin' at the bit inside, wantin' news."
"We'll wait here." Athos would make use of Grandier's charm when they were sure the mess was cleaned up. He'd send the man to deal with the parlor contingent. "I can go to our rooms if you need your bag, Aramis."
"These are loaded, don't go kickin' 'em around," Porthos said as he pulled half a dozen pistols from his belt and boots, stacking them crisscross at d'Artagnan's feet. "You," he pointed a finger at Athos, "stay here. Aramis said your boots are under the roof access panel; I'll get 'em, along with the bag." He turned to the priest, inspecting the bloody face. "You sure you're up to this?"
"It's just a nick on the ear." Grandier fingered the top of his right ear. "Oh dear, should have left it alone," he said, as warm blood began to trickle down the side of his face again. "At any rate, it's not a problem."
"All right, if you're up to it, we'll be back shortly."
Aramis settled himself and d'Artagnan more comfortably in the grass, though he kept a sharp eye peeled for any skulking shadows. Athos appeared to have fallen asleep.
"Barn roof's a total loss."
Appearances, as Aramis had learned long ago, could be deceiving. He turned his head. "Porthos said they got all the horses out. And it's contained."
"Nothing else to jump to, thank God. Is the puppy going to be alright?"
"What do you want to hear?" Aramis glanced at the prone figure, though Athos had an arm over his eyes. "One blow to the head can be fatal or permanently addle wits. He's been knocked around more than a few times over the last few days. He will recover - or he won't."
"Christ," Athos said again, softly.
The defeat in the often inflectionless voice made Aramis sit up a bit straighter, his protective instincts kicking in hard. For a moment, though, the often ruthlessly suppressed tender heart could not decide who needed his protection the most. "I thought you could care less what happened to him."
Athos, who had silence down to a science, did not reply immediately. When he did, it was quietly contemplative. "I did not want to."
"Kinda grows on you, doesn't he." It was not a question.
"Like an obnoxious clinging vine."
Aramis chuckled. "And yet, you told him we would accompany him back to Gascony."
"A moment of weakness." Athos sighed again.
"You are such a fraud!" Aramis laughed outright.
The sound must have pierced the veil, for d'Artagnan came to consciousness swinging. He clipped Aramis' chin with a surprisingly strong left before the musketeer could contain his hands.
Aramis tightened his hold and bent over the thrashing body, cuffing the slender wrists in one hand. "It's me, d'Artagnan, Aramis."
Athos rolled quickly to sit up, lending hands and voice to the grounding attempts. "Arceneau is dead, d'Artagnan. Listen to me, he's dead." He shuffled closer to frame the Gascon's face with his palms. "Shhhhhhhhhhh ... settle, he's dead," he repeated. "It's Aramis holding you. Arceneau is dead."
The fight drained out of the boy, though little earthquake convulsions continued to randomly quiver through the quiescent body. The lax hands fell loosely to his sides as Aramis released the clamped wrists.
"Shhhhhhhhhhh." Athos ran a thumb gently over the high cheekbone when the lips tried to form words. "It's over, just rest now."
"Sorry..." d'Artagnan's voice was little more than a thread of sound, raspy from smoke inhalation. The single word set off a coughing fit that had him curling over Aramis' supporting arm.
"There is no fault to you. Aramis or Porthos would have opened that door."
Aramis, soothing the corded muscles strained tight across the taut back and shoulders slumped over his arm, raised his eyebrows.
"He used to entertain at parties with his incredible mimicry; I'd forgotten that particular trait. He couldn't resist doing his impression for me; trust me, you would have opened the door."
"How -"
"He said they were in the hallway when I told the innkeep to keep d'Artagnan inside and only open the door for one of us," Athos preempted. "He would have waited just long enough for it to be perfectly reasonable that I had returned."
"I thought you said he was stupid."
"No, I said they might one brain between them. But even unreasoning animals are instinctively cunning."
"Dead?" d'Artagnan rasped, needing to hear the certainty again.
"Dead," Athos verified with complete veracity. His dagger had not pierced flesh accidentally. If hell hadn't already welcomed Arceneau, the devil and his minions were waiting impatiently by the gate.
"Horses?"
"Between you and Porthos, you got them all out."
"No-"
"Oh," Athos interrupted, adjusting his response. "Yes, Porthos and Grandier went to look for their horses. With Arceneau dead though, the fight will have gone out of them. He was always the chief instigator."
"Wha-"
"Enough." Aramis cut it off this time before another coughing fit consumed the puppy. "There's no need to torture your throat like this. We'll tell you what happened if you'll be quiet and listen."
d'Artagnan sucked in a deep breath and lifted a hand, smacking himself in the face with his unwieldy limb before clumsily dragging his pinched fingers across his lips.
Laughing again, Aramis gave the youth a brief sideways hug before easing him back down to lie in the grass.
"You are doughty of spirit." Athos allowed a tinge of admiration to leak through as he laced his fingers behind his head, adroitly adding, "Aramis is the better story teller."
Aramis clasped his hands around his knees, swiveling on his fundament so he could keep an eye on his patient. While his nerves still hummed in the aftermath of the initial aria, they were negotiating a stand down truce. The prickling sense of danger lurking around every corner was slowly mitigating, the bristling short hairs at the back of his neck furling down like porcupine quills.
"That depends on how you want to hear it. If you want facts only, Athos should tell it. Tréville will only take report from him, he says Porthos and I give way too many details."
"There's not that much to tell," Athos inserted quickly, before d'Artagnan was required to choose. "Aramis and Porthos took care of the roof contingent. Grandier and I dispatched two more prowling around in the dark and Aramis took out Arceneau's ground crew while we dueled to the death. His death obviously, since the fool couldn't fence his way out of a sack. Aramis and Porthos joined us down here and I sent Grandier and Porthos off to count their horses, just to make sure we got them all. I suspect we all acquired a few more bumps and scratches, but no one is more seriously injured than before. Perhaps if they'd spent more time drilling and less time in debauchery, the sheer number of them might have been imposing, but the way they ranged themselves made it much easier to hunt them. There are a dozen dead and one who will not walk for the rest of his life."
"Yeah, Athos can't walk either, though that will remedy itself. Fortunately this is a non-issue so long as we can hoist him on and off his horse," Aramis appended. "How does it happen one can't walk?"
"It was dark, I rolled under his swing and sliced what was in reach of my sword. It happened to be the backs of his heels. Grandier knocked him out before he could howl our whereabouts."
"Exciting."
"Not so much."
"Missed ... it all," d'Artagnan groaned.
"They're coming."
"I hear." Athos sat up.
Between the pair of musketeers, d'Artagnan shoved up as well. Aramis let him be.
Athos pushed up to his feet, quickly counting horses. "Fourteen. Damn, one still missing."
"Did you ... count ... the one behind the barn?"
"Behind the barn?" Athos and Aramis parroted in unison.
"Shot one ... behind the barn." d'Artagnan leaned his head to the side, tugging at the hem of his jacket to reveal the slice along his neck. "Match ... Aramis."
Without volition, Aramis' hand went to his own neck. "Doughty indeed." He shook his head. "If you still don't recognize exceptional musketeer material, I will have to name you deaf, dumb and blind, Athos. Get his other arm."
"Was that deaf, dumb and blind Athos? Or Athos, get his other arm?"
"Either works, take your pick."
Between them, they lifted d'Artagnan to his feet.
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