Chapter Twenty Five - Restraints

Aramis

Aramis wondered if they would forgive him. He had rushed in, not thinking. And now he was about to pay for his lack of restraint.

The ugly man tightened the strap around Aramis' right wrist, all the time sneering at him. Aramis stared back as defiantly as he could. As the man moved behind him to tighten the other strap Aramis could not help looking at the lash the man held. It was dangling loosely in the man's hand, the tendrils trailing on the ground.

Aramis knew what was in store for him. The men who had overpowered him had made a simple proposition. He was to tell them what he knew or they would lash him. Aramis had told them, truthfully, that he had no information. The next thing he knew the men were roughly pulling his doublet and shirt off and pinning him to the cold, stone wall of the ruined church and had used belts to stop him from moving. The original fittings of the church providing useful hooks. The position he was in was uncomfortable, but Aramis knew that would pale into insignificance compared to what was to come.

There had been no further attempts by the men to extract information from him. Aramis suspected the men had intended to lash him if he had given them information or not. He also knew, once they had finished having their fun, they would kill him. He tried to pull at the straps holding him against the wall. The man had tightened them to the point that he was already starting to lose the feeling in his hands, his arms hurt, stretched out and slightly upwards. Aramis decided he was generally miserable. And it was about to get worse.

He could hear the ugly sneering man making a few practice swings with the lash. A couple of the other men chuckled. He heard a thud as a wine bottle was put back on the big table behind him. His weapons were on that table, thought Aramis, so tantalisingly close, but utterly useless.

The first time the lash hit him was a shock. He had expected a little preamble from the men, but they seemed keen to get on with their entertainment. Aramis gasped, pain radiated out from wherever the thin knotted leather straps had struck his back and side. Several more blows were struck across his back in quick succession.

He tried not to cry out, but he failed.

Struggling to remain standing and not simply slump Aramis was brought to his senses by a gunshot. A familiar voice yelled his name. Porthos. But more than just Porthos, his other brothers were there as well.

Aramis could not twist around to see what was happening behind him. Three more gunshots were fired before the unmistakable sound of swords being drawn and the clash of blade on blade rang out.

A fierce battle was being waged to his right, Athos, he guessed, perhaps fighting two men, his main gauche being used as much as his sword. Directly behind him, he heard a thud followed by a gurgled whimper. Porthos had probably not even got around to drawing his sword, he would be using the butt of his gun and his fists to start with, and whatever else came to hand. To his left, d'Artagnan was fighting someone who was good with a sword. But Aramis knew that d'Artagnan would be better, the young Musketeer, who was light on his feet and fought with a style reminiscent of Athos, but with his own adaptations would win out.

All Aramis had to do was wait. He listened. Aramis tried to remember how many men had attacked him. He tried to count them as they fell. He soon lost count. A few shouts from his brothers distracted him. The odd warning to one another, one cry of pain which worried him and then silence.

A silence that seemed to stretch forever.

Had something gone wrong?

Had his brothers lost?

Had there been too many men for them to take on?

Footsteps approached him. A hand touched his back.

Aramis did not know who was behind him.

The End.