Author's Note: Thank you all so much for your support of this story, and especially for your kind reviews, favorites and follows; and thank you to my guests for your lovely, encouraging comments. Thank you also to Mountain Cat for catching my ridiculous mistakes!
This story took a wild, spooky turn, but it's circling back around to Paris and to where the evil DuBois had started. No one is safe in this wicked game. . . but the game is finally coming to an explosive end. Here's to promises fulfilled. . .


GAME OVER

Destruction from the explosion was immediate. Unforgiving flames gorged on the bounty set before them, destroying everything in their path. The consuming inferno suffocated the Musketeers, sucking the oxygen from their lungs.

The unbearable heat was terrifying and sinister. It was unspeakable brutality, as the blazing tongues licked the scorched bodies, torturing, and tormenting them to their last, dying breath. . .

"No!" Athos gasped, tossing his head from side to side, clutched in the throes of a horrifying nightmare. "No, they can't be gone! What has he done?"

"Athos, wake up!" Porthos called out, sitting up on his bed. He carefully swung his casted leg over the edge and stood, allowing his large frame to fall into the chair next to his brother's bed. "Athos, you're having a bad dream; it's not real!"

"I see the flames. . . he's laughing!"

"Athos, you're not in the tunnels," Porthos began, "we're at the garrison. . ."

"Damn!" Athos gasped. He struggled to sit up but strong hands held him down. "I must help. . . let me go!"

"I'm not lettin' you go until you settle down," Porthos growled, meeting his brother's steely glare. "Look around, brother, you're in the infirmary, not. . ."

"Yes, I know that!" Athos snapped harshly. He sighed, scrubbing a shaking hand down his face. "I saw an explosion and a large ball of flame, but it wasn't in the tunnels; it was someplace I didn't recognize."

"Athos, you had a bad dream, that's all," Porthos assured him, squeezing his brother's shoulder gently. "You're still havin' nightmares about the sewers?"

"No, this was different," the lieutenant whispered, "it wasn't a memory." He rubbed his temples in a circular motion, trying to soothe away a pounding headache. "I think our brothers are in trouble."

"Now, don't get yourself excited over a bad dream," Porthos interjected firmly. "I'm worried about them too, but the captain's with 'em, and six of our brothers."

"I've tried to recall when we may have encountered DuBois, perhaps on a mission, but I'm at a loss," Athos admitted softly. "I don't remember hearing of him until his execution day. In fact, the more I think of it, the more I believe his actions were calculated and well-organized."

"What are you gettin' at?"

"I think DuBois targeted the Musketeers with deliberate intent to do us harm," Athos explained thoughtfully. "Perhaps he is seeking revenge."

"Revenge for what?" Porthos asked, his voice exuding surprise. "None of us had ever heard of 'im before the tunnel collapse."

Athos closed his eyes, mulling over previous missions. "I can think of no reason why DuBois would specifically seek out the Musketeers," Athos replied after a lengthy silence. "It certainly begs the question, what if DuBois' escape was planned from the beginning? What if he lured us. . ."

"You think he lured us into the sewers for revenge?" Porthos interrupted, his brown eyes widening with realization.

"There is something about DuBois that just doesn't feel right," Athos admitted, clenching his fists. "Call it intuition, but I think the captain and our brothers are in real trouble."

"The cap'n has only been gone two days, Athos," Porthos pointed out, sitting back in his chair. "It could take several days longer, considerin' who they're chasin' after."

"Yes, I know, but what if something has already gone wrong?" Athos countered with chilling emphasis.

"Don't go jumpin' to conclusions," Porthos retorted, sitting forward in his chair again. "There's nine of them, and only one of DuBois—even he can't overcome those odds."

"I would feel more at ease if I knew where they were."

"Oi, just put aside that idea," Porthos warned him, realizing where Athos' unspoken thoughts were going. "You gave the cap'n your word. Besides, you're in no condition to go ridin' around on some hunch."

"May I remind you that you are in no condition to ride either," Athos huffed, knocking on Porthos' cast.

"Rubbish," Porthos quipped, amusement dancing in his brown eyes. "I've ridden with worse injuries."

"Really, Porthos," Athos drawled. "Not with a cast on your leg."

"It couldn't be that hard; the horse does all the walkin'," Porthos continued, trying not to grin.

"You might find mounting and dismounting more than a little difficult with that cast."

"Ah," Porthos sniggered, smacking his hand down on his knee. "I might surprise you."

"I am not that easily surprised," Athos replied, his lips curling upward in a faint smile. He huffed with amusement, leaning back to relax against the pillows. Soon, his eyelids drooped as his body wilted under the pull of sleep. Giving in, he slipped away into oblivion.

"Get some rest, mon cher," Porthos whispered. The large Musketeer remained beside the bed, ensuring his brother slept soundly without the intrusion of frightening nightmares.

"I'm sure they're fine," Porthos tried to convince himself, as he finally moved back to his own bed to rest. He couldn't sleep as grim images invaded his thoughts, the seeds of doubt already blooming in his mind.

What if Athos is right, and somethin' has happened to the cap'n and our brothers? We 'ave no bloody idea where they are! DuBois, if you've hurt my brothers, the devil himself couldn't keep me from killing you with my bare hands.


VILLE D'AVRAY, LATER:

"Monsieur!" A voice shouted, sounding muffled and strangely distant. "Monsieur, are you alright? Wake up!"

The captain's ears buzzed, muting the alarmed shouts. His mind was sluggish, unable to recall what happened with any sense of clarity.

A moan escaped Tréville's lips as pain coursed through his body, jolting him to consciousness. He slowly opened his eyes, seeing only hazy shadows, shrouded in smoke; he blinked to clear the blurriness, but let his eyes slide closed again, finding comfort in the darkness.

"Monsieur, wake up!" the voice called again with a gentle shake of the shoulder.

Tréville moaned, trying to swat away the stranger's hands but couldn't move his dominant arm. "Ssstop!"

"Monsieur, we got everyone out of the barn, but they are badly hurt," the voice said.

The men!

Memories flooded his mind like a crashing wave, depositing grim images of fire and billowing smoke. "My God, my men! Aramis!"

Captain Tréville was helped to an upright position, though he leaned to the side until the dizziness passed. He focused his blurry eyes, not recognizing the worried face in front of him. "Where are my men?"

"We have moved them all out here, next to you," the man said, pointing to the line of unconscious Musketeers.

"Oh no!" Tréville groaned as he caught sight of his bleeding and burned men lying beside him. "Get a doctor, dammit!" the captain ordered, crawling over to get a closer look.

Captain Tréville reached out and grasped the bloodied, unmoving hand of the first man in line. "Javon, can you hear me? Javon, answer me!"

The unruly Musketeer was unresponsive; after taking the brunt of the explosion, his body lay broken, bleeding and badly burned. The captain instantly felt deep remorse for having scolded the man so sharply the day before. "Oh God, what have I done?" he murmured to himself.

"Monsieur, our physician is on the way," the man began, "he just returned from Paris only this morning."

"Paris!" the captain exclaimed, suddenly remembering the fugitive's threat. "Athos and Porthos. . . I must get back to Paris immediately!"

"Monsieur, you are in no condition to ride anywhere, even the short distance to Paris," the man said, helping the determined captain to his feet. "Won't you allow Doctor Renauld to see to your wounds first?"

"No, I don't have time," Captain Tréville refused. "I must get back to the garrison," he said, turning back only when he heard the soft moans of Aramis as he stirred.

"You are not. . . leaving me. . . here!" Aramis croaked, rising to a slumped position. He clenched his teeth, fighting against the pain throbbing in his ribs and in his head. "If Athos and Porthos. . . are in trouble, I'm coming with you."

"Aramis, you are in no shape to ride," the captain admonished, noting the grimaces of pain.

"Sorry, Captain, but neither are you," Aramis retorted, pointing to the blood streaming down his leader's face. "If DuBois intends to. . . hurt my brothers. . . the forces of hell couldn't stop me from trying to help."

"Alright, let's go then," Tréville relented, knowing it was another battle he couldn't win. He helped the medic to his feet and waited as Aramis leaned forward, overcome with dizziness.

"Um, Captain, our horses are back at that cottage," Aramis reminded him. The medic braced himself with his hands against his knees, then grimaced and bit his lip as he straightened. "I'm sorry, it was my idea to leave the horses behind."

"Ah, dammit!" Tréville cursed, glaring at the medic.

"I didn't know this would happen."

"Of course, you didn't," Tréville replied, sighing with frustration. "It's going to be a long walk back to the cottage."

"You must be referring to Monsieur and Madame Hébert," the man interjected kindly. "Their cottage is just down the road; I can take you there in my wagon."

"Yes, thank you, Monsieur. . .?" the captain hesitated, his eyebrows raised in question.

"Pettigrew," the man replied, adding, "Pierre Pettigrew, at your service, Monsieur. . . ?"

"My name is Tréville, Captain of His Majesty's Musketeers, and these are my men," he said, motioning to the unconscious row of three, and the stubborn medic. "I would be in your debt if you tend to them."

"Think nothing of it," Doctor Renauld interrupted, upon arriving at the scene. "I would consider it an honor to be of service to my king and his Musketeers!"

"Thank you, gentlemen," Captain Tréville said, bowing his head gratefully. "I will see that you both are reimbursed, and that you are handsomely rewarded for tending to His Majesty's men."

"Thank you, Captain," the doctor inquired. "May I ask, what are their names?"

"This is Javon, Lémieux, and Fernier," Tréville answered, pointing to each man as he called their name. "Aramis will be returning to Paris with me," he said, motioning his head toward the medic.

"Captain, we could ask them to search for Colbert's body," Aramis quietly suggested.

"Oh yes, I have a man who was killed over by those large rocks in the forest," he said, his voice filled with regret. "I have been unable to retrieve his body—his name is Colbert."

"Of course, we will look for him after we have tended to your men," the doctor replied. "I will make certain that Colbert is treated with honor," he paused, "until you return to claim his body and take him home for a proper burial."

"Thank you," the captain said, nodding gratefully. "I will return as soon as I am able, but now we must make haste and take our leave."

"Captain, what about d'Artagnan, Verday and Peseux?" Aramis asked, remembering the men waiting at the château.

"Damn," Captain Tréville groaned, suddenly wilting under the burden of command. "It's hard to think straight," he whispered to himself.

"Captain, are you alright?" Aramis asked, bracing a supportive arm around the older man's waist.

"Yes, I'm fine," the captain replied. After a brief moment, he stood upright, squaring his shoulders. "They will have to stay behind."

"Captain!"

"We will see to your other men as well," Monsieur Pettigrew quickly interjected before leaving to retrieve the wagon.

"Captain, if we leave d'Artagnan behind," Aramis continued cautiously, "he's going to be furious—to put it mildly."

"I cannot worry about that right now, Aramis," Tréville argued. "We don't have time to go back to the château, and he certainly is in no condition to ride."

"That is true, but you know that d'Artagnan would ride through hell itself if he knew Athos and Porthos were in danger."

"Again, we do not have time to return to the château."

"Here we are, gentlemen," Pettigrew said, pulling up in the wagon. "Do not worry, Captain, we will tend to all of your men until you return. Shall we go?"

Captain Tréville and Aramis slowly climbed aboard the wagon, hissing in pain as their sore bodies protested the action. They sat in their seats, panting as drops of sweat left streaks and tracks through the soot on their stained faces.

"Take good care of my men, Doctor." Tréville glanced over his shoulder at the three wounded Musketeers, his heart filling with sorrow at having to leave them behind.

"Do not worry, Captain," Doctor Renauld said, "they will receive the best care possible, I assure you."

"Thank you." Captain Tréville turned to the driver, nodding. "Let us go, quickly!"

The wagon hadn't traveled very far when the men heard desperate shouts coming from the banks of the pond. Looking over their shoulders, the Musketeers gasped at the sight of the two men, supporting a third between them.

"Captain, it's d'Artagnan, Verday and Peseux!" Aramis exclaimed.

"Stop!" the captain shouted, turning to watch the men coming their way. "What in the name of Heaven are you three doing out here?" he scolded. "I thought I told you to stay in that room and get some rest!"

"Yes, Sir. . . you did say that," d'Artagnan acknowledged, trying to catch his breath. "But. . . that was before we heard what sounded like an explosion. Captain, with everything that has happened," he paused, "we had to make sure you were alright."

"Captain, where are you going?" Peseux asked, pointing to the wagon.

"We must get back to Paris," the captain replied cryptically.

"DuBois is headed to the garrison!" D'Artagnan gasped, having read the grim, hardened look on his captain's face. "I'm going with you!"

"D'Artagnan, we are retrieving the horses and riding back to Paris," the captain said, shaking his head. "You will not be able to keep up."

"Captain, if my brothers are in danger, there is no way in hell I am staying behind!" d'Artagnan insisted. "I'll ride double with someone, if necessary, but I'm going with you."

"Told you so," the medic whispered under his breath.

"What was that, Aramis?" the captain snapped.

"Nothing, Captain," Aramis quickly replied, watching as the men carefully helped the Gascon aboard before climbing in themselves.

Once all the Musketeers were aboard the wagon, they hurried through the village as a young boy rode up beside the wagon, shouting. "Father, I'll ride ahead to have them saddle the horses, ready for when you arrive!" The boy sped off, leaving the wagon far behind.

"So, what brings the Musketeers out this way?" Pettigrew asked after a long silence.

Captain Tréville explained their hunt for the fugitive, leading them to the château before falling quiet.

"Ah, the Château de Montois," Pettigrew huffed, giving a whistle of surprise. "Perhaps if you knew the history of that place, you might not have followed your man in there. That house—and this forest—is cursed!"

"What do you mean, cursed?" Aramis asked, sitting forward to listen.

"The Marquis de Montois was murdered around 1610 by his bastard son. The son wanted to be legitimized and share in the family fortune. The marquis refused, and the son killed him," Pettigrew explained. "With no one to stop him, the son took over affairs at the château and Ville d'Avray as Marquis de Montois."

"Wait a minute," Tréville interjected, "what about his wife, the marquise?"

"Marquise Marie de Montois died in childbirth, as did their newborn son, in 1609," Pettigrew said. "They are buried together on the grounds of the château. It is said that the marquis never recovered; he mourned his wife and son the remainder of his days with deep, heart-wrenching sorrow."

"What a tragic story," d'Artagnan murmured softly.

"Ah, but there's more," Pettigrew said, turning the wagon on the road east. "Indeed, the marquis grieved deeply and visited their grave every day. After his daily visits, it's rumored Marquis de Montois would stand at the pond's edge contemplating suicide. After the murder, the bastard son ruled over the village with ruthless vigor; he was unforgiving, harsh and cruel. If a tenant didn't pay his due taxes, his punishment was severe and brutal."

"What happened to the son?"

"A little over a year after the murder, the son went for a swim in the pond one day," Pettigrew began, "and was pulled under by an unseen force. He was found tangled among the reeds; they buried him somewhere on the grounds in an unmarked grave. Now you may understand why we believe this forest is cursed."

"But what about the château?" d'Artagnan asked, intrigued. "Is it true that the spirit of the marquis still walks the halls?"

"Oh yes, we believe Marquis de Montois protects his home, and battles still with his bastard son," Pettigrew shuddered. "I do not believe the marquis will ever find peace until that damned château is torn down, and the land restored to nature. The people of the village want to do this for the marquis, who was a fair and honest lord, but we lack the resources."

"Perhaps, I can bring the subject up with His Majesty and see if this situation can be remedied," Captain Tréville offered. "After all, the people of your village have been most hospitable to his Musketeers."

"That would be a godsend," Pettigrew replied. "At last, our village might find peace as well. Ah, here we are at the Hébert cottage."

The wounded men were helped down from the wagon and led to the saddled horses without conversation, each one lost in his private thoughts.

"D'Artagnan, you will ride with Peseux," Tréville ordered. He watched as the injured Gascon was helped into the saddle, gritting his teeth against the pain it caused him.

"Captain, I think you should ride with Verday, considering that sling on your arm," Aramis suggested. "I think it would be unwise to ride alone in your condition."

"Aramis, I am perfectly capable of riding. . ."

"Captain, please, indulge me just this once," Aramis pleaded, not wishing to argue.

"Fine, enough time has been wasted already," Tréville said, mounting the horse with difficulty. "Let us ride hard," he said, wrapping his good arm around Verday's waist.

Aramis mounted his horse, quietly wincing as pain shot through his sore ribcage. The medic kicked his horse into a gallop, running to catch up to the others.

"Captain, we may already be too late," Aramis shouted to the captain. "DuBois left here several hours ago!"

"Yes, but time will work to our advantage, in this case."

"How do you mean?"

"I know DuBois' method of operating; he lurks in the shadows, attacking with stealth and disappearing without a trace," the captain stated. "The garrison will be bustling with activity today; the men are training in hand-to-hand and sparring. No doubt, he will wait until mealtime when he can sneak in unnoticed. Despite his head-start, he will have no choice but to wait, giving us the advantage."

"DuBois has had the advantage throughout this entire game of cat-and-mouse!" d'Artagnan exclaimed with disgust. "When that bastard has a will, he finds a way."

"Not if I can help it!" Captain Tréville growled, prompting Peseux to ride faster.


MUSKETEER GARRISON, LATER:

"Surely, the men should be heading in for dinner soon," DuBois grumbled to himself. He fidgeted on his perch across from the garrison gates where he had been watching the activity in the courtyard; he glanced up at the sky and noted the westerly position of the sun. "Soon, it will be time to make my move, and the captain and his men will be unable to stop me!"

The fugitive continued to wait a while longer; finally, he straightened at the sound of a bell, calling the men to dinner. DuBois got up from his seat to stand at the arched entrance, watching as the courtyard slowly emptied of men.

DuBois lingered by the gates, waiting until all the men were inside before making his move. He sneaked into the empty courtyard, making his way across the dusty ground like a cat stalking his prey. He stopped short at the doors of the infirmary, hearing the physician talking to his patients.

"I'm going to get you some soup and bread for dinner," the doctor announced. "I'll be right back."

DuBois hid in the shadows, slinking into the corner to avoid being seen by the departing physician, only coming out when the coast was clear.

"That was fast, Doctor," Athos said, without looking up. "Did you forget some. . ." he stopped short, his jaw dropping open. Instantly, his blood turned to ice.

"Bloody hell!" Porthos shouted, tossing his book aside. "What are you doin' here?"

"I'm here to collect on an old debt," DuBois sneered. "You Musketeers owe me; I'm here to make sure you pay!"

"The hell we will!" Porthos said, jumping up from his bed as DuBois started toward Athos. "Stop, damn you!"

DuBois swung around, catching Porthos as he pounced. The large Musketeer wrapped his arms around the fugitive's neck to put him in a choke hold, but the man proved to be a strong opponent and wiggled loose.

Athos grabbed hold of the fugitive's waist, pulling him off his brother, but DuBois jerked his elbow back with lightning speed, hitting the lieutenant in the ribs with a sickening crunch.

The swift attack left the Musketeers stunned with surprise, just long enough for the madman to make his move. DuBois snatched the hidden pistol from his belt and whipped it across Porthos' head, knocking the large man to the ground in an unconscious heap.

"Now, you are mine!" DuBois snarled.

Athos lay slumped across the bed, cradling his ribs and barely clinging to consciousness. DuBois grabbed the lieutenant by his shirt collar and dragged him to his feet. "I'm going to make you suffer!"

"DuBois, ssstop!" Athos rasped, unable to fight back.

Meanwhile, Captain Tréville and his men finally arrived at the garrison, riding through the arched gate into the courtyard, and stopping near the infirmary. The group of Musketeers jumped down from their horses, alarmed at hearing the shouts from inside the sickroom.

"My God!" Tréville ran into the infirmary, stopping short at the grisly scene. He glanced down at Porthos, lying motionless and bleeding from a wound to his head. His breath hitched at seeing his lieutenant clutched by a fistful of hair and manhandled by DuBois, without the strength to fight back.

DuBois whirled around to face the approaching men, keeping Athos in front of him as a shield. At seeing his captain, the lieutenant suddenly swung his good arm up, landing his elbow on the fugitive's chin, snapping the head back with a crunch of teeth.

DuBois instantly retaliated by yanking Athos' broken arm behind his back, rendering him immobile; he then pushed Athos forward with incredible strength, slamming his body into the wooden frame of a bed.

"No!" D'Artagnan screamed as he watched Athos collide with the bed, and then bonelessly collapse to the floor, unmoving.

DuBois laughed at seeing the shock and anger on the Musketeers' faces, leaving himself uncharacteristically unguarded.

Captain Tréville sprang from behind, rocking DuBois forward and causing him to stumble. The man quickly recovered, and with equal measure of fury and skill, he lunged at the captain, grabbing him with an arm and locking it around his throat.

Panting from exertion, DuBois held his pistol to Tréville's head as he moved backward, away from the men. "Make one move, and I will blow his brains all over this room!"

"Put the gun down, you bastard!" Aramis shouted, aiming his pistol at the fugitive. "Put it down!"

"You are in no position to tell me what to do," DuBois laughed. "Take a look around, I managed to incapacitate your friends yet again. I'm just getting started!"

"DuBois, let them go!" Captain Tréville snarled. "I am the captain; your grievance is with me, not my men!"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you," DuBois scoffed. "No, that would be too easy. As the captain of the Musketeers, I want you to feel the loss of those dearest to you; I want you to feel the same pain that I've felt."

"DuBois, we have heard enough of your worthless threats," Aramis spat through clenched teeth. "We've grown weary of your childish games, and we refuse to be the subject of your twisted, deranged pursuit of vengeance. You have toyed with us for the last time. I intend to take you down and bring you to your knees!"

"That's funny, coming from you. . ." DuBois began, but was cut short as a sharp elbow jabbed him in his ribs, stunning him enough to release his hold on the captain.

Captain Tréville dropped to his knees, followed by a sudden shot blasting at the fugitive. Aramis held the smoking pistol in his hand, his face a mixture of rage and relief.

DuBois froze, shocked at the burst of pain exploding in his body; his jaw dropped open with surprise as he saw the blood spurting from his chest. His fingers clawed at the hole, unable to stop the blood from running over his hand.

"That was for my brothers," Aramis growled, tossing his weapon aside. "Your reign of terror is over, DuBois. I said that I would kill you, and I always keep my promises!"

DuBois grunted and fell to his knees; his body went limp as he sagged forward, dead before he hit the floor.

Aramis stepped forward, kicking the fugitive over to make sure the man was dead. He knelt down beside the unmoving man to check the pulse, but felt no movement under his fingers. Nodding, he stared into the unseeing eyes, "Game over."

"Ar'mis. . . help. . . don't feel. . . so. . ." D'Artagnan put his hand to his side, then gasped as he pulled his fingers away, stained red with blood. His face paled, and he fell to the floor in an unconscious heap.