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Brother's Keeper
Chapter 10
The climb to consciousness was arduous but Aramis pressed determinedly at the darkness, intent on breaking the surface. He pushed against the waves of weakness that threatened to pull him down, an internal drive urging him onward, demanding he move beyond his best efforts.
Still his eyes remained stubbornly closed, his mind fluttering just beneath the surface, where exhaustion drove his body away from the fine edged pain that seemed to be growing with each breath. Seductive, alluring sleep. Blissful oblivion.
Aramis denied the pull and redoubled his efforts. Driven by his soldier's call to action, the need to survive, to continue, to fight, the very metal of it refined and honed in the forges of battle. Instinct shouted for him to obey, demanded compliance, refused to be ignored…
Strangely enough, instinct sounded a lot like Treville.
He moaned, the sound of it rough and sharp edged in his own ears. Like the struggle to wake, the effort to order his thoughts, to make sense of his predicament and the throbbing pain in his side dangled just out of reach.
Flashes of images nudged at his memory. A harrowing, ill-advised ride down an altogether too steep slope, praying against a single stumble that would surely maim if not kill. Through the myriad of images, only one remained constant.
One face. One name that echoed in his mind with resounding clarity…
"Porthos…?" he gasped and sat up. Regret followed instantly.
The pain was intense, immediate. It drove the air from his lungs. Pushed him back, physically, retreating from it until his back connected with something solid, until he could go no further. He hissed, one hand hovering over his side, the source of all agony but did not touch, some primal sense screaming at him that to do so would be far worse.
So he remained there, his mind struggling to make sense of this. Pinned against the wall, the promise of increased agony keeping him there.
Like any soldier, he was no stranger to the pain of gunshot, bite of sword, the impact of a blow upon flesh, the snap of bone. But this was different. It was like raw nerves, pulsing and exposed. Bared muscle where skin had peeled back. The center of it focused on his side, there the small pinpricks of agony seared against his flesh. Like little needles of fire—
"Fire…" his voice cracked as the memory flooded his senses. "Oh, Dios," he began a soft susurration of prayer as he lifted his hand to cover his eyes.
There in the darkness the heady rush of memory assaulted his mind and senses. The scent of burning flesh- his flesh- so vivid it sent tiny shivers down his spine. His stomach instantly reviled, threatening to erupt. Aramis brought his hand down to cover his mouth, for to give in to it would be to subject himself to far worse pain.
He managed to take slow breaths, shallow at first until he could deepen them without expansion of air pulling the charred flesh on his side too terribly. Careful determination and patience, drove back the queasiness and in a short time the pain, too, was relegated to a more tolerable level.
When it abated, he dropped his hand slowly, this time careful to restrict movement only to his head as his gaze found the source of that wretched memory. A barely burning fire, little more than a collection of low glowing embers, smoldered, surrounded by a ring of banked stones not far from his feet. In the dim light it emitted, a dagger, the tip blackened and charred, perched on a flat rock close by.
Aramis exhaled, his mouth dry, throat tender. The sound of his own earlier screams echoing in his ears, another memory he'd rather forget. Too warm, he pushed aside the covers where they had tangled in his legs, that small movement alone wreaking havoc on his inflamed side. When he was done, however, he reveled in the coolness of the cave lapping his heated flesh. The blankets, he noted looked suspiciously like a combination of both their capes.
His foggy gaze traveled the room and found confirmation; Porthos was indeed nowhere to be found, a fact that made less and less sense the more clarity returned. If not in the cave, just outside perhaps? But Aramis had not been quiet in his return to consciousness, and if Porthos had been anywhere close he'd have been at his side in an instant. Only death would have—
Aramis cursed vehemently. "Where are you Porthos…?"
The marksman glanced again at the embers and the small pile of wood next to it. There was enough to bank a small flame and that itself would be enough to steep more of his willow tea, drive away this fine edged pain. And water too would parch his aching throat, help him think.
Aramis placed a hand against the wall for support and dragged his left leg in and shifted his weight over to one knee. The pain was instant but he neither cared nor had time for his own frailty. Something was off and he needed to get moving. Needed to find out what it was.
One hand on the wall for support, the other pushing off the ground, he shoved up and onto his feet until he was more or less standing. Leaning mostly against the wall of the cave, fighting against the pain that sought to drive him down once more, he worked to control his breathing in hopes that would help some.
Aramis had just determined his next move when the sound of a horse shrieking in fear or surprise, splintered the quiet.
The marksman's head shot up. It had come from outside.
Driven by a nearly overwhelming sense of urgency he looked anxiously about the cave. "Weapons…where?"
It was dark, not pitch black. Between the deep shadows, crumpled blankets, and various things littered about, he could not discern one from another. "They have to be here somewhere," he murmured and dropped quickly to the ground. He began feeling along the various items strewn about. Porthos would not have left their weapons far.
He crawled, half mad with need to get out there, to investigate. To help in any way possible. Porthos should be here. Aramis should be out there. The alarms in his mind shouted at him to hurry. He patted at the ground near where his head had been—it met with something hard, cylindrical.
Aramis' hand moved side to side over the rounded barrel before gripping what he knew by feel to be one of their muskets. It would be loaded, the marksman assured himself. Porthos would have seen to that. Standing faster than he ought and without support, the dizziness and pain nearly drove him to the ground once more.
The floor tilted precariously and he used the momentum to move forward, the light from the entrance the sole focus of his determined, wooden steps.
At the entrance he grabbed the side of the cave and held, blinking against the bright light, the pain, and nearly overwhelming vertigo that swamped him. The sounds reached him quickly; heavy footfalls, the impact of fists, the exertion. The grunts of men. Fighting.
Aramis blinked the world steady and glanced around to the trail below. There was no one, but he could hear them around the bend.
"I'm coming… I'm coming," he whispered if only to convince himself to not fail his friend. That he would be there to back him up. All for one.
On legs that could barely support him, he stumbled along the path that lead to the cave and overlooked the trail below, every step a battle. He fought to keep the pain abated, his wits about him and his feet moving. A war worth waging for a brother.
The marksman came to where the trees thinned and the sounds increased, and stopped, blinking against his wavering vision. They were there, rolling along the ground, Porthos and his foe, arms outstretched, each of them fighting for control of a dagger at one end, hands locked around the hilt.
It was a fight for survival. A fight to the death.
Well, Aramis would not let him fight alone. It was the perfect distance. He'd made this shot many times, made it wounded more times than he'd care to remember. He could make this if it came to it, but only if he steadied himself. He could not risk his shot going wide due to his shaking hands, or his body giving in to sick induced vertigo.
No. He needed purchase. Something solid. The low rock to his left would suit and he dropped to one knee behind it, not taking his eyes off his friend, ready to intercede if necessary. He sighted down the barrel and watched. Waiting. Ready to answer if need be.
There he watched and waited, eyes locked on the battle below, heart beating frantically, sweat trickling down one side of his face. He felt every blow, every tumble, every pain that fell upon Porthos as if it were his own.
"Shit…" he swore as his vision suddenly started to waver. He blinked furiously to clear it, but to no avail. He swiped a hand across his eyes, determined to miss nothing. Determined to fight back against his body's weakness, to help Porthos in his fight.
But against all his determination, against all his best efforts to the contrary, his body warred back. Unmerciful dizziness sent the world swirling around him. Aramis cursed again and buried his face in his arms, desperate to drive back the weakness. The pain lancing his ribs…
He'd no idea how long it had been, or when the roaring in his ears had ceased, but when it abated, one thing was instantly noticeable.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
Aramis jerked his head up, anxiously taking in the scene before him. Porthos' back was to him and he was on his knees, straddling his attacker, hands on his thighs, shoulders rising and falling, indicative of labored pants. Beneath him, his foe lay sprawled on his back, unmoving, Porthos' dagger protruding from his chest.
Before he could breathe a sigh of relief, Aramis blinked in another image. It was hard to determine shape or clothing, not when trees and foliage wavered and moved like a candle flame, but there was no mistaking the glint of metal amidst the green and brown of the surrounding forest below…
A second attacker.
And Porthos' back was turned; he was completely oblivious to the man coming up behind him, pistol raised and ready to fire.
Aramis considered briefly calling out, but dismissed the idea. The startled attacker would surely discharge his weapon before Porthos ever had time to react.
The marksman knew what he had to do. He lowered his head to take aim and for the first time in his life, he hesitated. With the world before him constantly blurring and coalescing, images shimmering in the bright sun, it all culminated in teasing his mind, planting seeds of doubt. Between the weight of the shot and the life at stake, he found himself uncertain of his skill to shoot true.
At this angle, Porthos was in the same line of fire as the man sneaking up on him. If Aramis' shot was just a hair off...
But fevered dream or not, the man moving up behind Porthos had no such compunction.
Unhampered by doubt, he moved without sound, closer to better his chances, then came to a stop and took aim.
Aramis had no choice. Doubt whispered in his ear, the devil teasing that he could just as easily hit Porthos as he could the assailant. And it was all the marksman could do to push back against his taunting. There was no certainty that his shot would run true, but he had to try.
He muttered a brief prayer of intercession, lowered his head, sighted down the barrel as best he could, exhaled and pulled the trigger.
The last thing he heard was the shot as the rifle recoiled, propelling the stalk back against his shoulder and twisting his weakened body in a manner that his side wound did not appreciate, made quite clear by the stabbing pain that hit him.
Then he was falling. His world going black long before his head hit the ground, long before he could see who where his shot had landed.
~§~
With a destination in mind, Athos encouraged his mount to greater speed. Sébastien sat behind him on the saddle, his small hands clutching tightly to the Musketeer's sides as he leaned out in order to keep his eyes on the ground, searching for any sign they might need to alter course.
When Athos occasionally slowed, Sébastien scoured the way ahead and with little more than a quick tap on the Musketeer's arm, they'd be off once more, his eyes returned to the ground for more sign. Athos had to admit, if only to himself, the boy was the consummate tracker, diligent and skilled and he'd come to appreciate the lad.
The path angled down, the slope little more than a gradual decline and once more Athos' mind turned back to the more vertical path Aramis and Porthos had travailed. With no knowledge of the area and no time, he understood their haste but the thought of such a ride, even healthy…
"Hold!" the boy shouted suddenly.
Athos obeyed. He jerked back on the reins and the horse responded, digging his heels into the ground in a spray of dirt and leaves. To his surprise the boy did not dismount, only leaned out and shook his head. "What is it?" he called over his shoulder.
Sébastien was shaking his head, frowning. "Merde…" he whispered then pointed at a set of prints on the ground. "Those are fresh," he said decisively and looked at Athos. "And they are not your friends'."
Athos nodded, eyes scanning the area, their worst fears realized. "Someone thought to check the valley…" he stated, his stomach clenching at the thought that they'd arrived too late. Sébastien didn't answer but instead flashed the Musketeer a grim look. "Is the way ahead easily navigated?"
Sébastien inclined his head and looked around before nodding. "Just keep to this direction," he instructed, looking at Athos, "west I think. Not far ahead, the trail will curve to the left—"
Thunder cracked the silence, echoing off the rock walls of the valley. Athos' horse startled and danced anxiously beneath him. There were no clouds over head but the swordsman didn't need them. He knew that sound.
The sound of a weapon discharged.
"Hang on…" Athos dug his heels into the horse's sides, not waiting for compliance.
It wasn't necessary. Sébastien was upright before he finished, wrapping his arms around the Musketeer's middle in preparation as the horse shot forward and galloped eagerly down the path.
~§~
"How many have we lost so far?" The Marquis asked from atop his mount.
They'd stopped to give their hoses a breather, the nobleman never once dismounting, his noble footwear too damn good for the dirt beneath his feet. It was a short respite so the men stood near their mounts, stretching their legs, while Geroux moved about them, daring any to bolt or speak ill of their search before returning to the Marquis' side.
Geroux didn't have to meet his employer's gaze to know the man was upset with him. They'd started out with almost forty men when they had broken into two groups before leaving the village and they were down to just under thirty. The Marquis, too, had lost men but these men, their employment was Geroux's responsibility. The nobleman held him accountable for their unreliability.
Their reduced numbers had come to full light when they'd come together to resume the hunt, after the Marquis' tracker had found prints he had been sure belonged to the Musketeers. The tracker's further efforts, however, had not paid off as the trail disappeared into a stony path, clearly a direction taken by design. These men they hunted were nothing if not clever.
It added fuel to the belief amongst the men that Musketeers were not ordinary prey. And it was grating on Geroux's last nerve.
Though not nearly as much as the abandonment of so many of his men. Cowards, he thought bitterly. Well, he'd show them. He'd show all of them that these men they hunted were just that. Men. No better, no worse than anyone else, despite what the cowards had assumed.
And these Musketeers had better not prove formidable because while the Marquis held title, Geroux was under no illusion that if it got back to the King, and if he were summoned to explain himself, the nobleman wouldn't hesitate to sell him out to save his noble skin. And while Geroux had enough dirt to bury his Lordship, the King would never listen to a commoner as to just how the Marquis came by his title...
"Twelve," Geroux finally answered as he stepped into the saddle, eyes down as he adjusted his reins in his hands. "But we won't lose any more," he tossed a quick glare over one shoulder, aimed at a few he suspected as having thoughts to the contrary. "I guarantee it."
"Ah yes," the nobleman looked everywhere but at his second. "Your guarantees, I'm beginning to realize, do not merit much in the way of results."
Geroux felt his tenuous control on his temper slip. "My guarantees have furthered your ambition for power, filled your coffers and kept the King's tax collectors from your door, until now."
The nobleman whipped his head around pinned him with his dark gaze. "Yes, well, now is really all that matters, isn't it? Now is the only thing that keeps me out of the bastille and you from dancing at the end of a rope." The Marquis sat up, regaining his composure. "Or need I remind you that all of this was your idea."
It was both their ideas, but Geroux didn't dare offer such a rejoinder. Instead he looked away, realizing frustration had gotten the better of him. False Marquis or not, he was still of noble blood and one simply didn't do that with a nobleman. Besides, let the ass think he'd suffer for his mistakes, it gave Geroux some satisfaction because in his heart, he knew better. All the nobleman would have to do was whine and beg before Louis and Geroux would lose his head.
"You'll get your results," Geroux hissed low so as to not attract attention. The men need not see the collapse of faith the Marquis had in him.
"Really?" the Marquis arched one fine brow. "Down twelve men and your scouts. Or have you forgotten about them? They should have sent word by now, should they not?"
No. He'd not forgotten about them.
Since the groups had converged, they'd done little more than ride in large circles, with no clear direction to search and a cold trail. It was fraying on the nerves. Eager to get on with the fight but with no certainty as to where their prey had gone, Geroux had suggested sending out trackers.
Four, to be exact and thus far, they were overdue. But he'd been so sure of these men…
The Marquis leaned in to Geroux. "You realize, of course, you have as much or more to lose if these Musketeers make it back to Paris to report to the King…"
"They won't," Geroux growled. "I'll get them. I took down one that was sent out to find them, didn't I?" He had purposefully left out the fact that there'd been two and only one accounted for...
"One." The Marquis huffed and righted himself. "There are still two men out there who managed so far to slip through your hands like water." He pinned Geroux with a promise of reprisal and spoke louder. "I will not have my good name besmirched by common soldiers, be they the King's men or my own."
"They're far from common soldiers, my Lord."
The Marquis look sharply at the man who'd spoken up. Gaspard seemed unconcerned by the nobleman's narrowed gaze, and unintimidated by Geroux's. Instead he shrugged and looked from the Marquis to Geroux.
"Or so that's what those that left seem to think."
The Marquis pulled to a stop, the immediate effect bringing them all to halt. "And is that what you think?"
Gaspard grinned, the sight devoid of most his teeth. "I ain't paid to think, my Lord. I'm paid to fight."
The Marquis gave a satisfied nod and with it, the tension eased. The noblemen prodded his horse and together the men continued, their pace no more than a steady cantor they'd kept since sending out scouts.
Geroux was still inclined to believe his tactic would work. He'd sent them out in pairs, with instructions to weave out and back but to never stray far from one another so that, when they found sign, one could bring back word to the larger group and then they would take them on together. Unfortunately for Geroux, the plan had not yet yielded results and he knew the Marquis' patience was waning.
The unmistakable retort of weapon fire brought the group to a sudden stop. They looked from one to another, their faces a myriad of questions.
"That was a shot," Geroux informed. "I sent two men that way."
"What is over there…?" The Marquis queried.
"A rather steep valley." He gazed at the Marquis, a slow, ugly smile curling one side of his face as he sensed this was the break they needed. "But with a safe trail down if one knows where to look."
"I presume you know where this trail is?"
"Oh yeah," the red haired man's eyes glittered darkly. "I know."
"You may well have redeemed yourself, Geroux. But mark me," the Marquis said before turning to gaze down his nose at him. "Do not disappoint me again. My patience grows thin."
Geroux didn't give a toss about whether or not the Marquis was disappointed. Like the rest of his men, he wanted his money but along with it, he wanted revenge. These Musketeers had made a fool out of him for too long and they'd put him at odds with the best source of income and power he'd ever had in years. And he wasn't about to let that slip.
"Well boys!" Geroux shouted at the group, edging his horse out front and turning to face them. "What are we waiting for? Lets kill us some Musketeers!"
To a man, they shot off, Geroux out in front, the Marquis and the rest trailing just behind him. It was time to get this over with, once and for all.
~§~
Porthos froze in place waiting for the pain to hit him. But it never came.
Knowing how the surge of battle could mask such things, he patted down his torso, searching for a wound.
A groan issued from behind him. Porthos spun, his dagger extended and waving menacingly in a now slack grasp.
Another man, no doubt one of the Marquis', had gotten the drop on him. Arm outstretched, a pistol in his slack grasp.
Porthos stood slowly, watching the macabre scene as the man's body had yet registered its own death. He wavered in place, one eye open and staring ahead, and where the other should have been was a bloody hole. Blood trickled lazily down before dropping off his jaw and landing in the dirt with a dull thud. The man soon followed, landing face first. Dead.
Realization suddenly slammed home. Porthos knew of only one man capable of making such a shot. He glanced up sharply, eyes searching the place beyond the slope where the cave lay. Waited for movement. For a wave, a familiar cocky face smiling back at him…
There was no one.
He sprinted to the incline in three large strides and bounded up the slope, the need to get to his friend driving against the fatigue of battle present only moments before. At the rise he turned and ambled quickly up the path leading up to the cave, catching sight of Aramis, sprawled on the ground, musket on the ground near his side, his ghostly pale skin a sharp contrast to his dark hair.
"Aramis…" Porthos growled and reached his side, sliding in the dirt to land near his head. "Hey," he tapped his face lightly. "No sleeping now. We got to get out of here." He looked around them frantically.
The marksman's eyes opened to mere slits and he grinned up at his friend. "Not dreaming," he raised an unsteady hand and patted Porthos' arm. "You're okay… thank God… thank God."
Porthos shook his head in mild annoyance. "Yeah but you're not. What the hell were you thinking, huh? They'll have heard that shot."
"I missed. Shot too high. Missed…"
"What are you going on about, you idiot?" Porthos lay a hand on his friend's forehead and swore. Not as bad as before but he was still too hot. "You didn't miss. You shot him straight through the eye."
"Wa— was aiming for the… heart." With that he lost his tenuous grasp on consciousness and passed out.
Porthos lowered his head, clutching Aramis closer to him, trying to catch his breath and balance his thoughts. They'd have to leave now, not that he'd not anticipated it before, especially now that scouts had found their trail, but he'd hoped they'd be able to leave in a less frantic exodus.
That shot. The trackers. The latter guaranteed the Marquis was in the vicinity and the former most certainly sealed their fate. They had to have heard that shot but he couldn't fault Aramis for it, his heart had been in the right place and even without the shot, the disappearance of the Marquis' scouts would have signaled a problem. They need only to search the location of their lost scouts to come to the same conclusion. At most, Porthos could only hope the sound had echoed enough to make it less certain.
Porthos glanced down at his friend. In repose, Aramis' face was slack and his breathing a little more labored than he'd like. Clearly he'd undone all the good that rest had done him. Would he be able to withstand another long, hectic ride? The dark-skinned Musketeer doubted it.
No. There was no way Aramis would be able to sit a horse and the reality of it burning like acid in Porthos' gut brought him full circle. They could not leave. They—he would stay and fight. And if he could manage to rouse his friend, they'd fight together. Like soldiers. Make their last stand here, now. This looked as good a place as any to die and he would not go down easy. They'd make these men regret having toyed with Musketeers.
The cave. He needed to get Aramis back in the cave, ready their weapons, prepare to meet the Marquis and his men. His muscles protested when he rose and his legs were weak, still reeling from the fight and the constant struggle before that.
Porthos' legs wavered but he willed them to support him as reached down to gather Aramis and return him to shelter. But he could not even manage that, his arms seemingly in league with his legs, refusing to take on more than they already had.
Angry tears of frustration welled and blurred his vision. Porthos, the big and strong Musketeer couldn't seem to find the strength to carry a single man to safety. Wiping his treacherous emotions away, he stood and hooked his arms underneath Aramis' armpits and laced them over his chest, preparing to drag him back to the cave.
It was an undignified and torturous journey upon which Porthos more than once found himself landing on his ass in the dirt, an unconscious Aramis sprawled out on top of him, knowing that one of those times, he might lack the strength and courage to get back up and try again.
But they couldn't stay where they were. They were too exposed; they would not be able to defend themselves out in the open and Porthos was certain of one thing; if he couldn't manage to drag them both back toward the cave, they would both be dead by nightfall. So even with the whole of his strength depleted, every muscle, every part of his flesh screaming for rest, he ignored the call for respite and struggled to his feet once more.
~§~
Leagues outside of Paris and moving at a steady pace, Treville and a contingent of five Musketeers rode with a singular purpose; to find their brothers and return them home.
However, like the brothers who'd gone before them, they'd little to go on save for the route Aramis and Porthos had mapped prior to their leaving, the very same Athos and D'Artagnan had. At this point, he only hoped he'd find his men whole and hale, though he was beginning to doubt that would be the case. Not even the most optimistic of men could explain such a prolonged absence without involving some sort of disaster or dire event.
During their ride, the Musketeer Captain thought back to his brief meeting with the Queen. The King, however much it benefited Treville in his quest, was shuttered in his rooms refusing to see anyone for fear of contracting the malaise that many in Paris had been subjected, even the commander of his own guard. The Cardinal too had not presented a problem; the man had fled Paris for his country estate, claiming affairs of state, but Treville knew that for all he criticized Louis' childish attitudes, he too had retreated in fear of contracting whatever plagued the city and thought the safest place for him would be as far from it as possible.
The Queen had agreed to an audience with him easily, given her gratitude over the many times his men had saved her life, these men in particular. Of that much he'd been certain. And he'd even expected she'd allow his departure, despite their reduced ranks, but there'd been something else.
At the mention that two, and now four of his best men were unaccounted for, she'd listened keenly, her countenance clearly disturbed by the news. But if he were at all prone to fits of curiosity, he could have sworn she took particular interest at his indication that Aramis was one of the two Musketeers missing, something that the Captain chose to ignore for the sake of France and his thinning hair.
But his ruminations over the Queen's interests ground to a halt. Ahead, plumes of dirt spray from the ground at the approach of riders. Treville raised a hand, shouting for them to hold and the obeyed immediately, drawing weapons only as their Captain pulled his pistol.
Four men missing already and Treville had lost his patience for coincidences, especially on this road.
So they watched, even as the riders slowed, obviously aware of their presence when, before too long, one of them gave a shout and urged his horse to continue. The latter took a moment but was soon moving to catch up.
"Flanking positions...," Treville called evenly, studying the approaching riders. His men moved to station on either side of him, fanned out for better firing coverage.
Close enough to recognize now, Treville swore under his breath. "Holster weapons," he shouted as he heeled his mount to close the distance. They drew abreast, both d'Artagnan and the Captain stopping with only feet separating them.
D'Artagnan grinned. "I am—" he exhaled, obviously relieved but out of breath, "so glad to see you."
The Captain's gaze traveled his man with a measure of concern. "I take it you found trouble," he offered with a nod at the dried blood and dirt covering one side of his face.
"Actually," the young Musketeer looked at the stranger next to him, "it found us."
Treville scrutinized the other man with curiously. "And you are?"
"Antoine Pascal," the farmer offered. "The one responsible for scraping your young Musketeer here off the ground a ways back."
"You have my thanks," the Captain nodded graciously.
Antoine ignored the social pleasantries and looked at the men surrounding the Musketeer Captain. "You wouldn't happen to have a few dozen more men on their way, would you?"
"Why would I need more men?" Trevill asked but quickly turned toward the younger man. "What's happened? Where is Athos? Did you find Aramis and Porthos?"
"I know so little for certain but," d'Artagnan wiped at his brow, careful of the wound on his head. "Some nobleman in the area with a small army in his employ seems to bear some reason for seeing Aramis and Porthos dead."
"Dead!" Treville barked.
"Yes sir." d'Artagnan straightened in his saddle, eager to be underway. "Athos and I only found this out when we ran into a small contingent of the Marquis' men. They boasted of having wounded one and by his description…" he looked anxiously at Treville, "it was Aramis."
Not a man among the small group of Musketeers took the news lightly. They grumbled, gazing at one another eager to exact retribution on behalf of a brother, agitation and anger setting in.
Treville silenced them with a look before fixing his eyes on d'Artagnan once more. "And Athos?"
"Gone ahead to the small village where we believed Aramis and Porthos might have taken shelter. He was hoping to gather more information." D'Artagnan looked eagerly at his commander. "I was to return to the garrison to persuade you to return with men." He looked relieved at his fellow Musketeers. "Seems I needn't have bothered."
Treville's eyes grew steely. "How many men does this nobleman—a Marquis you say?" The younger man nodded. "How many does he have?"
"The group we encountered was around twenty-five or so." D'Artagnan gingerly fingered the dried blood on the side of his head. "The same group I ran into later…"
Antoine scoffed. "Oh he's got more'n that," he rocked back in his saddle, shaking his head, "I guarantee it. You run into a smaller group, likely one of two or three out searching for your friends, which is a good sign since searching likely means they've not found your men yet."
"And how long ago was your last encounter?" Treville glanced quickly at the Gascon, hope edging his tone.
"No idea," D'Artagnan shrugged. "I was a bit unconscious, I'm afraid."
"Understood," the Captain nodded but ground his teeth in frustration. "Still, that leaves us with no idea whether or not we should continue to the village where Athos may or may not be by now..."
"And risk wasting time Aramis and Porthos do not have," the Gascon shook his head.
"I may have a notion on that," Antoine interrupted, rubbing his chin thoughtfully then looked at d'Artagnan. "Only way I found you was when Geroux—" he looked quickly at Treville, "he leads the Marquis' men— and his group scuttled out of the trees and shot off. Remember?"
"Of course," D'Artagnan responded, seemingly onto what the farmer was intimating. "And they were heading east."
"Right," Antoine nodded. "The village is south, only…" he hesitated a bit, "judging by the way they were riding," he looked at Treville, "they had a bead on something. Maybe your men, maybe not but something."
The Captain's mouth drew into a grim line. "Can you follow their trail?"
"That many horses riding that fast, hell," Antoine grinned, "we could be hours behind and still see the dust they kicked up still hanging in the air. In fact," the farmer seemed to straighten, "if they headed south, I might have an idea where they are."
"Why didn't you tell me this when you found me?" D'Artagnan all but whined.
"You were headed to Paris for more men," he offered in his defense. "Now you have more men—well, some more." He looked again at the Musketeers around him. "On that note, you sure you don't got any more men you can scrounge up?"
"We will make due," the Captain responded, his eyes glinting with unmasked desire to find his men and exact retribution. Around him, the Musketeer contingent nodded in agreement, in fact, they looked murderous.
"Yup, thought as much," Antoine sat back on his horse and shook his head. "All Musketeers suffer from delusions of grandeur. Well," he made to turn his horse, "lets go. That trail isn't getting any warmer."
"Antoine," d'Artagnan shot a hound out and grabbed one of his horses' reins stopping him. "You've done more than enough. This is Musketeer business. You don't have to come."
"Like hell I don't," he sat up straight, affronted at the suggestion. "If there's even a chance that shit Geroux and his lot will get a comeuppance, I aim to be there and lend a hand. That is," he looked at Captain Treville. "Assuming you'll allow it."
"As you said," Treville responded, one side of his mouth twitching to hold back a grin. "We need more men. You're welcome to come and help, but if you should change your mind, just get us close and no hard feelings."
The farmer gave a satisfied nod. "I can shoot if you've extra powder and shot. Not much hand with a blade though, unless it's a plow…" he grinned.
Treville nodded to one of his men moved his horse alongside the farmer and began rummaging for extra supplies. The Captain then looked quickly at d'Artagnan. "You good to ride?"
The Gascon nodded, his eyes dark. "Try to stop me."
~§~
All pretense and caution thrown to the wind leagues back, Athos galloped down the path. Only the feel of Sébastien's fingers digging into his side, holding on for dear life, gave any indicator that the boy had managed to stay seated, because the Musketeer was of a singular purpose; find Aramis and Porthos. He'd given way to the care of all else but his friends and his driving need to reach them in time.
Lost in determination and the sound of his own horse's bounding pace, Athos didn't hear the fleeing horse until it was nearly too late.
The animal crashed around the bend in the trail, careening toward them, its bloodshot eyes wide and terrified. The surprise nearly unseated them both. Athos horse shrieked and sidestepped to keep from colliding with the roan as it ran anxiously toward them. In the contortion to move from the frightened animal's path, Athos heard the boy cry out just as he felt him lose his hold. He reached back blindly to grab hold of Sébastien and just managed to keep him aboard.
They remained on the shoulder of the trail as the other horse sprinted, Athos working to regain control of his mount all the while. Once by them, Athos stared at the animal as it disappeared in the distance, its reins and stirrups flapping unchecked in the tumult of its exodus.
"That's not a Musketeer horse…" Athos panted before returning his gaze to where the horse had come and their destination.
"The Marquis' then…" Sébastien said, his voice quiet. The boy sounded more than a little rattled at having nearly fallen beneath the hooves of the frantically exiting beast.
Athos did not answer. Instead he reached back and held out a hand and the boy took it without question. He'd dismounted this way so many times, the boy knew immediately what the Musketeer asked of him and let himself be lowered to the ground.
"I'm going to ride ahead and see what's happened. I want you to hide in that thick brush over there and stay put, wait for me to come for you. Can you do that for me?"
Sébastien looked speculatively to the place he indicated then back at Athos. For the first time since leaving the village the angry yet skilled tracker looked scared and very much his age. "Just… please be careful."
One side of Athos' face tilted in a grin. "I shall endeavor to do as you say," he acquiesced with a small bow of his head. "But only if you agree to stay hidden until I come back for you. Agreed?"
The boy swallowed but in the end gave a quick jerk of his head in assent. He then turned on one heel and moved to the hiding place in the thicket next to the trail. Once safely ensconced in the thick overgrowth, he knelt and watched. It was a good spot and if Athos hadn't known where to look, he'd never have seen the boy's worried, intense gaze.
Satisfied he'd gained the boy's compliance, Athos turned his horse, this time keeping the animal to a slow, more cautious pace until he was certain of what lay ahead. He didn't have to go far to get his answer. Two dead bodies littered the ground. Neither of them his friends, and for that, he breathed an internal sigh of relief.
Athos dismounted slowly, his eyes scanning his surroundings in case there were others in the area. He walked cautiously to the first dead body, knelt and rolled him over until he was face up, staring sightlessly at the sky through one eye. The other was gone, probably somewhere in the back of the man's skull, forced there by the lead ball of an extremely skilled marksman. The dead man's pistol was still holstered. Athos pulled it and sniffed the barrel. It had not been fired
Definitely a marksman. And Athos knew of only one in particular who possessed that kind of skill.
Athos rose. He had the distinct feeling that he was not alone, well, aside from the dead men… but if he were amongst friends, would they not make themselves known? Unless, for some reason, they were not able…
Once again his gaze tilted to the trees and rocks around him as he straightened and moved quietly over to the next body. More information was needed before he would move on.
This one was on his side facing away and Athos hooked the heel of his boot to roll him onto his back. The dead man was covered in blood from a hole in his chest. Kneeling, Athos pushed the material aside and knew immediately it had been made by a blade. His eyes scanned down the body and noted blood was smeared on the man's pant leg, where it appeared to have been wiped off of something, the blade most likely. Like the other, this one's pistol was cold and unused.
The ground around the man told him much. The grass lay pressed to the dirt for some distance where the way sloped downward, damaged, and the foliage to this point broken in the wake of their struggle. Sébastien was rubbing off on him, he thought dryly. Two men, one a great deal heavier by the impressions in the dirt, battled here, rolling along the ground, vying for dominance and life. Then ending here where this one died.
Intrigued, Athos moved further up the path. He was not alone. He could feel it. He drew his pistol… then the slightest of sounds caught his ear. Heavy breathing. Grunts of exertion. Whispers.
Canting his head in the way the sound seemed to drift from, he noticed the hill. The ground churned and upon closer inspection where the shade seemed thickest, pockmarked, deep wells where something was uprooted, torn from the ground.
The sound was louder here and Athos waited not a moment more, launching himself up the deeper incline. At the top, the words, the susurrations grew more distinct, more familiar with each step he took toward them. It was all he could to keep his feet from moving as quickly as his own racing heart.
Since he could not be certain his friends were alone, he reined in his desire for expediency and slowed his steps. Then, placing a hand over the hammer to muffle the sound, he drew it back.
The sight before him, however, brought both relief and alarm. Porthos, his face from this angle visible only in profile, looked worn and frayed. None too steady on his feet either as he dragged a very still Aramis toward the mouth of a cave.
Still, there was no one else about and Athos could not help the sense of gratitude he felt. "Thank god," he whispered, leaning back to cast a grateful glance upward. He un-cocked the pistol with less caution this time and stepped out into the small clearing.
"You know," Athos returned his pistol to his belt. "You two are most difficult to find when you want to be."
Porthos stumbled to a halt and turned, movement clumsy and awkward as he landed on his backside. His dark, murderous gaze never once left Athos, even as he gathered what the swordsman hoped was just an unconscious Aramis close to himself in one hand, and held what he presumed was a loaded pistol in the other.
Pointed directly at Athos.
Assuming someone had gotten around behind him, Athos twisted and aimed his own pistol. There was no one and he sighed in relief before concern quickly replaced it.
Keeping his hands in sight and his movement slow, Athos turned, his gaze taking in the scene before him. The dark skinned Musketeer's face, his eyes, they were wild and unfocused but within them a determination to protect. And then there was Aramis, laying there, all too still. His arrival alone should have brought him alert if he were able, at least somewhat.
"Porthos?" Athos placed a conciliatory hand out in front of him. He had to make him see reason. If he'd heard that shot, they may very well find themselves with more company than they were prepared for at the moment. "Porthos, it's me, Athos."
"S-stay back," the larger man threatened, his voice dark and promising. "I'll shoot."
Athos could see it now. An exhausted and fearful Porthos was one thing but an exhausted, fearful and protective Porthos was something else entirely. And dangerous. Especially when he's reached a point where he can no longer tell friend from foe.
"Yes, I believe you would," Athos continued, "but Aramis looks in bad shape. I prefer to help if you'll let me."
Porthos blinked in confusion. The pistol wavered a bit. "Athos?"
"Yes. And I would appreciate very much not being shot." Athos nodded toward Aramis' still form. "One of us is one too many for one day, don't you think?"
Porthos brow wrinkled in confusion and then he looked down at Aramis. He all but dropped the weapon and with both hands tugged his friend fully into his arms, hugging him close. "Help me, Athos. I need to get him into the cave, but I can't. So tired," he all but sobbed.
Athos swallowed and approached. "Then let me help, Porthos," he offered and moved carefully over to kneel next to Aramis. He placed a hand to Aramis' forehead and grimaced. "He's warm but he's not that bad off."
"His fever's back…" Porthos swallowed. "He shouldn't' have done it. Shouldn't' have saved me. Shouldn't have fired."
Athos' mind turned to the gruesome scene he'd come upon. Seeing Aramis' poor condition, the concept that he had been the one to fire that shot lost some ground in his mind. He should not, however, underestimate the marksman's stubbornness when it came to defending his brothers. "He shot that man in the head?"
Porthos nodded a small smile creasing his face. "He did, the idiot."
Athos' disbelief waned, replaced by relief as Aramis' eyes slowly opened.
"I know," Porthos patted the injured man gently on the cheek. "I know. You were aiming at his heart."
"I was," he contained, his voice having gained some strength. Aramis blinked slowly at Athos. "It is… good to see you, m'friend."
Athos nodded. "You as well, though I have seen you look better. Both of you," he added, glancing at Porthos.
"Don't know what you're talking about," Aramis slurred, patting the arm Porthos had slung across his chest. "We look abso-absolutely ravishing… don't we friend?"
Porthos gave a half-hearted huff. "Shuddup and rest, idiot."
One side of Athos' mouth quirked with a barely noticeable smile. "Rest indeed," he glanced at the dark cavern entrance, "but first I suggest we adjourn to the cave. I have a feeling others will have heard that shot and soon we shall have company."
Aramis struggled to sit up and with Athos help, managed enough to allow Porthos room to maneuver out from beneath him. The dark skinned Musketeer got to his feet next, the movement wobbly and lacking his usual strength and when he reached down to take one of Aramis' arms, determined to do this on his own despite his visible fatigue, Athos shot a hand out and grasped Porthos' shoulder until he stopped and met his gaze.
"We shall do it together." Athos gave him a pointed look. "All for one, remember?"
TBC...