Note: Takes place at the same time as Chapter 6. War themes again.

Chapter 10: Dawn of Victory

Rank does not confer privilege or give power. It imposes responsibility. – Peter Drucker

Le bouclier rouillé, Paris, 1656

"What do you say? I've got money for one more bottle of wine, if you all want." Rissé threw his pocket filled with coins on the table.

Brujon declined with a waving of his hand. "Nah, thanks. Not for me. But buy one, and give it to Porthos later. I'm sure he'll see it as a nice welcoming present."

Rissé granted him a sceptical look, but he complied.

"He'll appreciate it. Last I heard, he was called back to the front a couple of months ago," Gaulier explained. "He for sure won't decline a good tasting wine."

"Still," Brujon grumbled. "Don't get me wrong, I'm just as excited as you are, but considering the Captain's behaviour lately, I fear this visit has a good reason."

"Or a bad one," Rissé threw in helpfully, his eyes burning holes in the ground. Brujon just shot him a sour look.

"Either way," Gaulier rescued both of them, "It's good to have them all back together then. After hearing all these stories, my respect for them just increased even more."

Brujon gave his best friend an acknowledging nod and raised his cup to his lips.

"What's Porthos doing at the front?" Verde, who was tiredly sitting on Gaulier's lap, asked. Brujon sighed, and Gaulier furrowed his brow.

"It's war, son, you know that."

Verde ignored his father, his green eyes rested on Brujon, a slightly frightened look on his face.

"But, with Porthos as a General, we can win, right?"

Brujon sighed again and ran a hand through his hair, before he leaned back in his chair.

"I don't know, kid. But I know that in the most brutal hours of the war, I thanked the Queen all over again."

Rissé stared at him in confusion. "What? The Queen?"

Brujon just rolled his eyes and grinned. "'Cause she gave us Porthos as a General. And she could not have made a better choice."

MMMM

At the northern front, October 1641

His back was aching, and the sweat was flowing freely over his forehead from the exhaustion. His beard had grown uncomfortably long, but over the past few weeks, he did not have the time to cut it. Now, it was itching all the time, but he had learnt to ignore it. They have been traveling for days now, and it had been seven hours since they had last taken a break.

Porthos sighed. They were on their way back from Rethel, where they had been sent to support the troops stationed there. The battle they had been expecting never happened, so after fifty days, Porthos had received order from Paris to return to their main camp again, a good distance into north-western direction.

They should arrive in less than three hours, that's why they did not stop now. Porthos had left a group of fifteen men in charge of their camp, and he could not wait to return to them, and make sure they were safe.

He gently grasped his horses' reins anew, and threw a quick look at Brujon, who was riding by his side, engaged in a very one-sided conversation with an officer called Lavrel. After the whole Gérard-incident, Porthos had been hesitant on taking Brujon back with him, but in the end, he did not have a say in it, and the young man had been eager to follow him into battle. He steered his gaze back towards his horses' neck and his eyes locked on his bracers. The thin metal plate looked brutalized, but that was his own doing.

It had become a daily ritual to him. Every morning, when the sun rose at the horizon, he would take his dagger and carve in a little cross into his armour. Not necessarily to count the days, his men were using calendars. They always knew the date. No, he used it to count the days since he had last seen Elodie and Marie-Cessette. And everytime he returned to Paris, he would buy new bracers. He did it to process his longing for his wife and daughter, and also to remind him to never stay away too long. Not that he could actually make that decision, but still.

Right now, there were twohundred-fourteen little signs carved in the thin metal. Way too many for Porthos' taste. He kept in touch with his wife through letters, but it wasn't the same as actually having them in his arms.

He wrote to his brothers too, but because of their mobility, he wasn't able to keep the letters after he had read them most of the times. The only one he always carried with him was the one from Athos he had received three years ago, where Athos told him about the birth of his son Raoul. Porthos felt like it wasn't right to throw this piece of memory away. He hadn't seen his friend in a long time, but for some reason, he always felt the presence of his brothers by his side.

"Sir?" That was the voice of Lieutenant Lavrel to his right. He was a man about Porthos' age, and with every breath he took, he reminded Porthos of Athos. The similarities were enormous. Except for maybe Lavrels daily need of conversation and he missed Athos' sense for focusing on the more important things at times.

Porthos turned his head and raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Hm?"

"Do you think the others are alright? We left them on their own for quite a long time."

Porthos shrugged, his heavy armour clattering with the movement. "They'll be fine. It seems calm here."

Brujon joined in the conversation as well. "A little too calm, don't you think?"

"I..." But Porthos did not get to finish his sentence. Whether it was an answer from above or just a call of destiny he did not know, but suddenly, they heard loud yelling, and the thundering of hooves over the hard forest floor.

Every man in his company drew his weapons in one movement and stopped the horses, and now over forty pistols were aimed at whatever was about to come around the corner. Within moments, they spotted a man, barefoot and with torn clothes running towards them. His eyes were wide open, but he kept running away from the three riders that followed him.

It took Porthos just a split second to assess the situation. The man was alone, and definitely vulnerable, while the three riders chasing him wore the unmistakable clothes of bandits. Porthos could see very clearly how their mouths opened in shock once they saw all the pistols, and they immediately pulled at the reins but in a full gallop, it was hard to bring the animals to stop.

He watched as one of them pointed his gun at the fleeing man, and that was the moment Porthos made his decision. A single flick of the wrist, and five pistol shots echoed through the forest. The riders fell off their animals and ended up in the dust.

The victim fell on his knees, breathing heavily. Porthos did not know how he had managed to outrun cavalry on foot, but here he was. And strangely, he did not seem to fear the huge crowd of soldiers that surrounded him now. He was reserved, and eyed all of them with scepticism, but he just seemed to be glad he was safe.

Porthos approached slowly and quickly checked the man for weapons or anything else that could be a threat. Not that he could actually have a chance against Porthos' company.

"Where 're ya from?" Porthos' voice was firm, his face determined. He needed to know whether this man was dangerous after all. He received no answer, the man just kept gasping for air, not paying much attention. Maybe he wasn't able to understand him.

"French?" Porthos asked bluntly. "Spanish? Swedish, Danish?"

"Eh...," the man finally whispered and his eyes searched Porthos' men for any indication of nationality. He froze when he saw the drapeau blanc one of the soldiers was carrying.

"You...French?" he asked, and Porthos could hear clearly that he did not speak French fluently. Porthos narrowed his eyes, every muscle in his body tense.

"Yes. My name is General du Vallon, commander in charge of the troops of his majesty, King Louis the Fourteenth, and her majesty the Queen Regent, Anne of Austria." Porthos had learnt this introduction over the past years, and he did not like it, but it was the formalities.

"A General, huh?" the man breathed and briefly closed his eyes. "Forgive me, I would take a bow, but I fear I broke a rib or two."

Porthos could not help but chuckle. A man with humor, it seemed. He stretched out a hand, and the man slowly took it, still very sceptical and held back.

"Kael," he finally said. "My name is Kael Venzen."

"So, Kael," Porthos started and pulled the man to his feet. "You have some explanations to do. You're not French, that's obvious."

Kael bit his lip in uncertainty, and nervously shifted from one foot to the other.

"Spit it out!" Lavrel called out. "If we'd wanted to kill you, we would've done so."

Porthos shot his Lieutenant a warning glare, but Kael did explain himself.

"Forgive me. Me and my friends, we are some of the survivors from Dorsten."

"Dorsten?" Lavrel repeated, curiosity evident in his voice. "The town near the Rhine?"

Kael nodded slowly.

"Last I heard, it was besieged by the Comte de Hatzfeldt," Porthos explained. His opponent nodded again.

"It was." His eyes were still glued to the multiple pistols still raised high, so Porthos commanded them to take the weapons down. This man was not dangerous. "They won, and they granted us free passage. For those who still lived."

"And then what are you doing so far south?" Brujon raised his voice.

"Fleeing, trying to find a place to build a new life," Kael shot back angrily. He had a high temper. "The armies ignored us, but then..." He swallowed hard. "We ran into these...bandits, deserters...I don't know what they are. They captured me and ten other people, women and men. They brought us to their shelter, where we saw that they had kept more prisoners as well. At least forty all together"

"You know what they were after?" Porthos asked.

Kael shrugged. "I...we were brought into a mine. They told us to work there, in exchange for our hard work, they would make sure we don't starve. Called us their...what's the term?" He made a short pause and drew in a deep breath. "You know their right."

"Like, their spoils of war?" Brujon threw in helpfully.

Kael scowled. "Yes, that's it. We just had to keep their camp intact, while they spent the whole day doing nothing." He grimaced as he had to stand on his sore and cut-open feet now. Porthos gestured their field medic, Fréric, over to have a look at it.

"And you managed to escape, right? And now you're looking for help, so your remaining group can be rescued. Tell me, if I am wrong." Porthos tried to sound as kind as possible, but he was sure that his impatience could be heard.

"I...To be honest, I was going to ask some mercenaries. I never expected to run into a French general and his regiment."

"How many bandits or whatever are in this camp?" Porthos interrogated.

"Sir!" Lavrel's eyes were wide open with disbelief. "The Spanish are our enemy. We have to attack them, not take care of someone else's business!" He nervously glanced at Kael. "This doesn't concern us."

Porthos mostly ignored him, but his lieutenant's words triggered an unknown panic. He swiftly turned around to face the man again. "You say they have about forty men, keeping their little shelter intact, right?"

Kael nodded, his eyes shining with something that looked like fear now. Porthos seemed to look rough and intimidating these days.

"Any chance some of them were soldiers?" He just had to know. The lack of military presence in this area was unusual. And the fifteen men he had left here all these weeks ago, they probably wouldn't stand a chance against all of those bandits.

Kael tilted his head, thinking. "Some of them wore something that looked like the remains of a uniform, yes. French they were. Two of them claimed to have served among the musketeers once."

The unsettling feeling returned to Porthos' guts, and he could hear the concerned murmuring in the ranks behind him. There had been two former musketeers among the men Porthos had left in charge of their camp, so this for sure was no coincidence. Bandits had taken control over the area in his absence, and they were using innocent and vulnerable people, as well as highly trained soldiers, to manifest their position.

Anger boiled in the General, and he exchanged a quick look with Brujon, before he raised his voice.

"Get off your horses, men, and get some rest. I'll inform you about our next steps within the next hour."

It took several seconds for his words to reach his men, but finally, they did as they were told, and gave Porthos some privacy together with Kael, Brujon and Lavrel.

"They have our men. We need to act. And we need to find a way to get all of their prisoners out unscathed."

"You're thinking of a diversion, again, right Porthos?" Brujon observed and the General confirmed with a nod, while he started to form a plan in his head.

"And with what the hell would you distract them? They're thieves, General. They don't care about anything." Lavrel was not getting the point.

"I used to be a thief too, Lavrel," Porthos retorted coldly. "And I tend to think that I care about a lot."

"This here is different," Brujon helpfully intervened and raised a placating hand. "They are captivating refugees. They're exploiting them. There is just no morality left."

"And they have our comrades!" Lavrel threw in again. "We cannot walk past this."

Porthos glared at him. "I'm not planning to, in case that was hard to understand."

Lavrel just shrugged defensively and sighed. "So, a diversion? And what do you think could serve as such?"

Porthos bit his lips. "It has to be tempting enough to lure them out of their hiding, so we can break their defence."

Brujon rubbed his tired eyes and leaned his back against a tree. "Can't we just...I don't know, attack them? That's also a way to break their defence."

Porthos chuckled weakly. "You sound like d'Artagnan." He snorted. "That's way too risky."

"Why?" Brujon insisted. "We are more experienced in combat than they are!"

Now it was Lavrel who just rolled his eyes and clasped his hands together. "Really? That's why they have fifteen of our men in their captivity now?"

Brujon froze and blinked slowly. "Good point."

"We need bait," Porthos said again, shifting from one foot to the other, a little nervous. "One they are going to take."

"I doubt we can draw them out of their cover with the sight of gold or any other riches," Lavrel mumbled. "I'm pretty sure they hoard enough in their cave."

"They don't want gold," Kael, who had stayed quiet until now, added. "They only want their little shelter to work fluently, with them not doing any of the work. They just want to be left alone."

Porthos grinned. "Peace during their crimes, that is what they want, yeah?"

Brujon had a frown on his face, and he slowly seemed to grasp what Porthos was up to.

The General continued grimly. "Well, it would be a shame if a French General would come and disturb their precious system."

A moment of silence. Kael just stared at them, Porthos wasn't sure whether he had understood what they had just talked about. Lavrel seemed to rewind the idea in his head, and he weighed his options. Brujon looked absolutely appalled.

"With all my respect, Porthos, but you can't be serious."

"Oh, I am," Porthos assured him and straightened up. "I will be the threat they need to eliminate."

"This is nuts!" Brujon lost all sense of politeness, and his honesty was something Porthos valued very highly.

"If this goes sideways, the Minister will have my head," Lavrel interjected in a weak attempt of protest.

"The minister," Porthos growled as he holstered his pistol, "will understand."

"Why do you insist on risking your life this way?" Brujon asked very loudly. Porthos whirled around, glaring at his fellow friend.

"They have fifteen of our men. They keep prisoners. I'll do whatever is necessary to get them back, as long as you are ready to do what I need you to do. You'll attack as soon as I distract them." Porthos made a short pause. "And afterwards, I would welcome a rescue, if you don't mind."

Brujon still wasn't convinced. "Why do you have to offer yourself? Why can't we be the bait to lure them out?"

Porthos had a sympathetic look on his face and relaxed a little bit. "You're no General, Brujon. A few French soldiers are not enough to be a threat to them." He did not mean to sound arrogant. But it was his rank that scared the bandits, not his strength or his name.

Brujon scowled. "We are capable warriors. They should fear us."

"I know that!" Porthos retorted angrily. "Enough. We have our plan, and I need to know everyone is in."

Lavrel nodded hesitantly, and Brujon just folded his arms in front of his chest, thinking.

"Don't let me make it an order, Brujon," Porthos begged with a firm voice. He hated to use his authority with his friends, but sometimes, they gave him no choice.

Brujon finally raised his hands in defeat.

"You are either very courageous, or completely insane, my friend. I mean, Sir." He grinned. "But I'll do whatever you want me to do. I trust you."

MMMM

Their plan was quite simple, but still very risky. All depended on whether the bandits would fall for the bait or not.

Kael, a courageous man, had offered to return to the camp. He had shown the location to a few, chosen soldiers. Kael would explain to the bandits exactly what happened. He would just tell the truth. That he had run from the three riders, and that they had been taken out by a French General and his whole regiment. Then he would continue and tell them about Porthos' current location. He had chosen an abandoned cabin located in the woods near their military camp.

So now he was waiting here, all of his men were in position near the bandit camp, so they could free the prisoners and later come to rescue Porthos.

Brujon's words still echoed in his head. His friend questioning why Porthos had to do this, and why he didn't just pass his uniform on to another soldier who would then risk his life.

When he had been appointed General, he had been honoured. But he had also taken over a leadership, and with the leadership came the responsibility. It was unknown terrain for him at first. He had been told by fellow soldiers that a General is a commander, one who makes the decisions for other people and tells them what to do.

Porthos, after having spent years in the musketeer regiment next to Aramis, d'Artagnan, Athos and Tréville, knew that he had to be a leader. Someone to guide his men, not to order them to do something that might result in certain death. That's why he decided to take on those unknown bandits himself. War demanded enough victims, enough sacrifices. But there would always be some individuals who would try to use the chaos to their advantage, casting all sense of morality aside.

He patiently leaned against the outer wall of the cabin, acting as if he was very interested in the bottle of wine he held in his hands, when he heard horses approaching. Like, a lot of them.

And then, within moments, they revealed themselves. About twenty riders poured onto the clearing, and Porthos tried to act all surprised and started to search for his pistol, but the leader of the group quickly levelled a gun on him.

"Don't try."

Porthos just stared unaffectedly. "You have any idea what you are doing here?" he asked coldly, and kept a firm grip on the bottle in his hands.

The man giggled, and it sounded ridiculously childish. "I take it that you are the mysterious General du Vallon, right?"

"And if I were?" He kept the conversation going, trying to buy as much time as he possibly could. The longer he kept talking, the higher the chances that his men were coming to rescue him. Because alone against twenty men, he stood no chance.

"You left some men in charge of a crappy camp, not far from here," the leader continued. "They send their regards."

Porthos acted all surprised. "How do you know that? Where are they?" Damn it, Lavrel, hurry.

"That's no longer of your concern," the man said. "You have the choice now, General. You can either come with us, denounce your rank and title, or you'll die here. It's up to you."

Porthos merely took a sip from the wine. "Both doesn't sound particularly appealing to me. I'm inclined to make you another offer." He straightened up, towering over the much smaller man. "You let my men go. And I might consider to grant you your life." He chose his words like Athos would do it. His friend always had quite an effect on strangers.

"Oh, our lives?" the man asked. "I don't wanna destroy your illusion, General," he said and Porthos could hear a lot of disgust in his voice. "But if I count correctly, you don't stand a chance."

"You seriously think I travel alone?" Porthos asked with a raised eyebrow.

The leader chuckled dryly. "Then tell me, General, where are your men? And why do they leave you out here, unprotected?"

"I can look out for myself, thanks for the concern," he replied sarcastically.

"Just shoot him, then we'll have one less problem," another one of the bandits yelled, but the leader seemed hesitant.

"I like you, General," he said and circled Porthos slowly, his sword raised high to keep the musketeer at distance.

"I'm flattered," Porthos countered dryly.

"What do you say? I give you the chance to fight me honourably, so you can die still obtaining some of that virtue."

"Your men are going to shoot me afterwards anyway," Porthos observed.

"Yeah, but here's the thing," the man said and came to a halt in front of Porthos. "You're not gonna win."

Porthos grinned darkly and he caught a brief movement behind the trees in the distance. "You see, I don't think I can win this fight alone," he informed his opponent. Then, in a sudden outburst of rage, he used the bottle of wine and smashed it over the leader's head. "Good thing I am not alone."

The leader stumbled backwards and started lashing out with his sword. Porthos backed away and stepped aside to avoid the next attack. He then landed a punch to the man's face, but he did not manage to get a hold of him. His opponent just whirled around and his blade caught Porthos in the abdomen, but his thick armour managed to prevent the blade from cutting in too deep.

Due to an instinct and with a lot of luck, he raised both arms and caught the sword with his demolished bracers, before he kicked out and forced the man to his knees. He, on the other hand, was a lot quicker than Porthos had anticipated. His fist collided hard with Porthos' face and he was forced backwards. When the man started charging towards him, he dodged just in time and tackled the attacker to the ground, before he rendered him unconscious with a single hit.

He did not have time to catch his breath. Another one of the bandits approached him and Porthos avoided getting beheaded with a sword just in time. He caught his new opponent's sword-arm and wrenched it so hard the man dropped the weapon with an agonized scream.

Then, Porthos surprisingly got head-butted and he staggered backwards again, where he was overwhelmed. He was pressed with his back against the cabin, and he felt two hands at his throat, fingers digging their nails into his flesh. He wasn't able to breathe, and his weak efforts to fight the man off were unsuccessful.

For a brief moment, he felt betrayed. He had expected his soldiers to have rescued him by now. He had bought them enough time. On the other hand, he did not know what they had encountered in the camp there.

All he could do was fight for his own survival. His men would come for him. They would. He trusted them with his life.

The edges of his vision were greying, but he continued to struggle, never ready to give in.

And then, the sound of a gunshot tore through his ears and suddenly, the claws around his neck were gone, and the body of the attacker slumped to the ground. Porthos fell on his knees, his hand at his throat, trying to inhale as much air as possible before he slowly lifted his gaze.

Behind the bandits, lowering a still smoking firearm, Porthos saw none other than Aramis himself. He had no idea what his brother was doing here, but judging from the clothing, it was a more or less official visit. But he did not care. Aramis, after all, had his back. His friend now made his way over to Porthos' side and offered him a hand.

"Your timing, as usual, is incomparable!" Porthos panted and with a grim look on his face, he kicked the body of his attacker.

Brujon appeared, on horseback, but jumped off the animal as soon as he had reached Porthos.

"You did not doubt we would come for you, did you?"

Porthos denied with a waving hand. "Nah. Never."

More and more soldiers of Porthos' regiment poured onto the clearing, and they picked up the fight with the bandits immediately.

Aramis threw him a rapier.

"Clearly, we were meant to do this together!" his friend muttered over the sudden noise and held one of the bandits by the armpits while Porthos punched him unconscious.

Porthos laughed. "Ah, Aramis. Such a romantic."

His friend's quick-witted response got lost in the riot. The bandits were truly overwhelmed by the sheer number of Porthos' men, and it did not take too long for them to determine a victory.

"Are you okay, mon ami?" Aramis asked him, a concerned frown on his face. Porthos just raised a hand.

"Fine."

The situation calmed itself very soon, and once Porthos was able to hear his own voice again, he immediately walked up to Brujon.

"Did it...did it work?" His throat was still sore.

Brujon did not react for a second, and Porthos feared the worst. But then, a smile spread over his soldier's lips. "We were greeted with forty bandits, but we were able to overrun them. We freed all thirty-eight prisoners." He held something back, and Porthos could guess what it was.

"Losses?"

Brujon bit his lip. "Lisart and Jean. Lavrel and Fréric are wounded."

Porthos closed his eyes and then, he cursed loudly, throwing his weapon on the ground.

"But all in all," Brujon assessed casually and holstered his pistol. "We won. Another victory for us. Your plan did work."

"A victory? We lost two men," Porthos whispered, his face not giving away anything. He then felt the firm pressure of Brujon's hand on his shoulder.

"And we saved fifteen."

"Does it make you feel any better?" Porthos asked a little too sharply. "I...I should've come up with a better plan, I should've..."

"A better plan?" Aramis interrupted sternly, his eyes wandering between Brujon and Porthos. "There is no better plan in times like these. If you would've waited any longer, who knows how many men were left to save."

"He's right, Sir." Lieutnant Lavrel appeared out of nowhere, his hand pressed on his bleeding arm, but he had a proud smile on his face. "We got our men back, and we freed the innocent other victims. We will never forget the names of the two men who courageously gave their lives for their safety."

"They were brave," Brujon added. "And they were proud to serve under a man like you." He gently elbowed Porthos. "Give us this one, small victory. Let the men celebrate it. Who knows what else this war has in store for us."

Porthos sighed, but nodded eventually. "It's been long."

"Well, let me tell you I come with good news," Aramis informed him, the corners of his mouth twitching as they hinted a smile. "You all will be able to come home soon for a while. New orders from Paris."

Porthos stared at his friend for a second, and then exchanged a delighted look with Brujon and Lavrel, who both took a deep, relieved breath.

"Oh, wait, I've got something for you," Aramis said to Porthos and walked up to his horse and started rummaging in the saddle-bags, until he pulled out a neatly folded letter. No seal, so it was personal.

"I had to swear on my honour to give you that," the Minister grumbled, but with a sly grin on his face. "And you know how much my honour means to me."

Porthos just snorted approvingly and grabbed the letter. As he opened it, he watched the night sky turn brighter, and the sun was beginning to rise. The dawn of yet another victory, even though slightly diminished due to the price his men had to pay. He used the faint light and started to read what his love had to say.

My dear Porthos,

I hope you are well, and I hope you don't worry about us too often. Marie and I spend a lot of time at the garrison recently, and it seems like our little one is quite attached to the Captain. No worries though, he won't be any competition. The little shop we set up is running well, and Constance is helping out whenever she has a minute to spare.

Aramis took Marie on a short tour through the palace, and she even met the Queen Regent. Marie was astonished by her majesty, and she did not quit talking about it for days.

I miss you. Marie misses you. She keeps asking me when you'll come back, and I try to explain it to her, but she is too young to understand. I keep telling her the stories of you and Athos, Aramis and d'Artagnan. At least those I know, but when we come together in the evening, and the Captain has a little too much wine, I keep learning more.

My thoughts and my heart are with you every day. I yearn the day we will see each other again.

Take care. We love you.

Porthos smiled and blinked to prevent the tears falling down his face. He ignored his longing for them, he ignored the pain it caused him. Because he would be with them soon.

And then, with a smile on his face, he patiently carved the twohundredandfifteenth cross in his armour.

MMMM

Le bouclier rouillé, Paris, 1656

"Wow," Gaulier breathed. "I mean, I was just a musketeer recruit in Paris at the time, but judging by this story, Porthos seems like the man you want to have next to you in battle."

Brujon nodded vigorously. "You know, other generals send the men to die for them. Porthos on the other side would've taken a bullet for every single one of us."

"Oh, he did take a bullet for you in '43, if I recall correctly," Rissé threw in and Brujon just raised his glass.

"He did not hesitate for a second."

The owner of the tavern passed their table, and by the look of his face, he had heard everything they had just said. He came to collect the empty glasses, but he just shook his head.

"Musketeers," he mumbled and snatched the empty mug out of Gaulier's hands. "Loyal until the end."

MMMM

The situation referred to here is the siege of Dorsten during the Thirty-Year-War, which took place from July to September 1641. The siege ended with a victory of the Holy Roman Empire of German nations. The city itself is said to be a ruin after the two-months siege. Of course, I don't know what really happened to the survivors afterwards.

This chapter just did not turn out the way I wanted it to. I find Porthos very hard to write. Still, I hope you liked it, I wanted to explore Porthos' loyalty a bit more in depth.

Last 'story-chapter' coming up next week, with all of our favourite musketeers involved. I tried to build something in for everyone for the last of those little tales, a little combination of everything I included the past ten chapters. Thank you for all your comments, and to Guest for your lovely review.

Thanks for reading.