Porthos pulled his mount to a halt and whistled toward d'Artagnan who turned toward him and pulled on his reins. Both horses stalled and Porthos pointed between the sycamore trees and toward the Duke of Burie's encampment. Small tents and lean-tos were placed in circular formation around a larger tent. The horses were corralled by the river with two guards standing post. Clothing lines with linens hung between several tents, and the supply wagon was placed a short distance from the main camp. Smaller fires burned in the center, and a few men warmed their hands, backsides, and stood talking as they waited in line for the morning meal.
The Duke of Burie was nowhere to be seen, but a woman slipped from his tent, covered her shoulders with her cloak and quietly left the encampment through the trees and back to Paris.
Salvador, dressed in a light blue tunic, cinched around his waist, tan breeches, and black boots, sparred with several soldiers. His long strokes, elongated steps, and flexibility despite his size moved gracefully and efficiently across the rocky ground.
Porthos clenched his jaw, tilted his head, and frowned as he watched. Impressed with Salvador's skill, but also his endurance.
"I wouldn't expect him to be so graceful," d'Artagnan said, and shifted in his saddle. He adjusted the reins between his fingers, and rubbed the soft leather with his thumb.
Porthos winced as a solder fell and Salvador motioned for the kill strike, but held back. The soldier was grabbed by his collar and shoved back into the lineup, admonished, and then the session continued. Again, Salvador moved his blade, bowed and deflected his opponent's strike. He held off six men as they advanced.
Porthos frowned, watched, and sighed. While the moves were somewhat rehearsed, Salvador's skill was effective, precise, and aggressive. Porthos turned when he watched the duke exit his quarters, wrapped in a blue coke with a fur lined collar, he spoke briefly with one of his men and paused to watch Salvador continue his training.
The duke yelled something that neither Porthos or d'Artagnan could hear. They watched him hand off his cloak, grab a sword, and join in the practice session. Despite his age, he held his own against Salvador. Emilian's movements were not as refined, or graceful, but he was just as motivated and skilled with the weapon.
"What do you think they're planning?" d'Artagnan asked, and winced when a solder fell to the ground once struck by a heavy handed fist from Salvador.
"I don't know," Porthos said, and then sighed. "But whatever it is, we'd best be ready."