Dark clouds continued to move across the early morning sky. Rolls of thunder could be heard in the distance, and on occasion, a strike of lighting fishtailed in bright disarray and warned of the pending storm. The threat had been with them all morning, looming on the outskirts of their vision as their travels continued. Chalons would be a welcomed sight after eleven days on the road. The trail, not widely used, had needed to be cleared of downed branches and trees, taking up much of their time and causing frustration for Athos, the musketeers, and members of the red guard.
They left the cover of trees and rode into the valley. The road, overrun with new spring growth of narrow stemmed pasture grasses now covered the previous year's trail. The carriage tipped and shifted as it slipped into entrenched troughs where the mud had dried. The earth moved around the shapes of wheels, providing escape for rainwater, and worsening the condition of the road. The bogs and marshes on either side of the route were full of water and mirrored the upcoming storm. Long grasses leaned and bent forward, touched the surface, and resembled a painter's brushstroke in the hand of a master.
A rabbit leapt across the road, and Porthos' mount shied and sidestepped, before he resumed his calm and easy pace. The wooded area ahead of them would prove just as tedious as the last of winter's wrath still needed to be cleared, and spring's damage would continue as trees burdened with snow had leaned with the weight, and the rains had softened the ground. Uprooted trees were just as common as those that had snapped.
Aramis pulled his mount to a stop and motioned for Porthos to do the same. The carriage driver, yanked back on the reins and the grays' planted their hind hooves at the harsh treatment. They tossed their heads and the jingle of their harnesses rang momentarily. Porthos stood in stirrups, and looked ahead as his mount grew nervous beneath him. He looked toward Aramis, adjusted his seat, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, and shook his head.
Athos galloped his mount past the carriage and pulled him to a stop. "What is it?" He looked toward the faint plume of smoke that billowed over the distant tree-line. He turned suddenly when he heard the carriage door open and Auch stepped from its confines. Athos pulled his weapon. but held it at the ready by his thigh. He urged his mount to sidestep as he pressed his heel to his horse's right side, leaned forward in in the saddle, and gently applied pressure to his mount's neck with the reins.
"D'Artagnan," Athos said, but kept his eyes on Auch, "ride ahead," he glanced toward him, "but do not engage."
D'Artagnan nodded, leaned forward, and kicked his mount into a gallop.
Auch wore breaches, a dark leather jerkin, and his weapons. "Why are we stopping?" he asked, and placed his hands on his hips. "Did you lose something?"
Athos watched the musketeers move into formation, their weapons readied, their horses chewed nervously at their bits. Within minutes the carriage and Auch's riders were surrounded, and the remaining members of the red guard took up position in the back.
The air suddenly stilled, and the sound of an explosion in the distance echoed. Aramis watched another plume of black smoke drift upward. He looked at Auch who clenched his jaw and yelled.
