HUGE thank you to Mountain Cat for taking time out of her day to beta this section on super-short notice. Time is something I treasure and I cannot thank her enough for this!

Again, thank you everyone for taking the time to read this. Appreciate all the feedback, the fixes, and everyone for letting me know what make's their eyes twitch!

I don't normally like to post warnings - but out of respect for those who abhor violence... battles ahead. This is my first battle with swords - writing at least - most of my stories are based during the Civil War/Wild West - gunfights are a little less "hands on". Hopefully, you'll enjoy this.

My apologies for not getting this posted sooner... Now, on with the show.


Pistols were fired, smoke wafted upward and around the barrels. Swords were drawn from scabbards, and the sounds of blades striking blades echoed. Horses reared, backed into men as they dismounted, yanked on their bits, and spooked as the chaos mounted. Birds flew from the marshes to escape the turmoil, the flaps of their wings resonated briefly before overshadowed by the grunts and shouts of determined men. A flash of lightening lit the sky and a roll of thunder followed.

The left gray carriage horse reared and bolted to its left. The three other horses moved to follow and the carriage overturned, scraped momentarily along the muddy and rocky road, as the horses tangled within the harness, reins, and tongue hitch. The animals stumbled and fell over one another, as the right two wheels spun.

"More are coming!" d'Artagnan yelled, as he pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted. He pulled his weapon, fired at one of the dragoners, and grabbed his sword from his belt.

"How many?" Athos shouted. He fired his pistol, and brought down an attacker. He ducked to his left as another charged toward him, swung the spent weapon, and struck his opponent on his jaw.

"Twenty at least!" d'Artagnan sword slashed through the air and struck his attacker's shoulder.

Porthos kicked a dragoner and shoved him back into the wetlands off the road. He hit the water with a splash and remained where he lay. Porthos adjusted his grip on his sword and reentered the fray.

"They're coming!" Aramis hastened, and pushed his challenger onto the underbelly of the carriage. He reloaded his weapon, hid beneath the driver's seat, and fired.

"Where's Auch?" Athos grunted and tumbled forward when someone fell onto his back.

Three bolts hit the carriage underbelly not far from Aramis' head and he dropped to the ground. "Find cover!" He yelled, rolled to his knees, and scampered behind the back of the carriage. He noticed members of the red guard fighting alongside the musketeers. He tightened his grip on his sword, and watched a bolt land in the shin of a man who cried out, but continued to fight. Aramis turned when he heard the thunderous roar of horses galloping toward them. His heart clenched, and he took a deep breath before he rejoined the fight.

Porthos yelled as he swung his sword and sliced the final leather breeching strap that kept the carriage horses hitched. The panicked animals pulled away galloped up the road. The leather reins slapped their rumps and flapped at their sides. The center pole bounced off the ground between them and the more they tried to free themselves the faster they galloped. The horses stretched their legs, shoulders extended, ears pinned, hind hooves found ground, and again the long stretch of their bodies fled toward safety. Despite the charge of the oncoming dragoners the horses maintained their stride and forced the oncoming riders to slow and sideline their charge until they had galloped by.

"Formation!" Athos ordered. He swung his sword, struck a dragoner's shoulder, and sent him to the ground with a gurgled gasp. "Fire when ready!" He looked toward his brothers and motioned for them to take cover. "D'Artagnan, get down!" Athos tightened his grip on his gauche and ran behind the carriage as the musketeers formed into groups of four. The first four fired their shots, then ducked, and immediately started to reload while the next group fired toward the oncoming riders, who were quick to dismount from their horses' and run into the marshes. Their horses galloped across the road, through the battle, and down toward the ravine where many other riderless horses had gathered.

The sounds of blade striking blade echoed, more flashes of lightening lit the darkening sky as darkened clouds rolled in. A few droplets of rain splattered d'Artagnan's shoulder and he peered around the seat of the carriage and fired a shot when he spotted someone look up from their position. When the rain started to pour from the sky, it washed blood from the faces of those who had died, and those who grasped at wounds.

Time grew distant, as soldiers hid behind the carriage, dead horses, and fallen comrades. Muskets and pistols were rendered useless as the heavy rains poured. Grass bent beneath the force of battle and weather. Horses that escaped the chaos stood in the distance with their rumps toward the wind, heads lowered, reins fallen to the ground and gathered by their ears.

Porthos sighed, wiped his eyes, and looked toward the marshes in hopes of spotting the enemy. "You alright?" He looked toward d'Artagnan who clutched at the cut on his forearm.

D'Artagnan nodded, sighed, and leaned back against the carriage. "How many are we facing?" he asked. Mud had splattered along the left side of his face, dark hair clung to his scalp, and rain dripped from the ends around his chin.

Porthos shook his head. "Unsure." He winced, took a deep breath, and sighed.

"Losses?"

Porthos shrugged, peered over his shoulder to the right of the carriage, and took a deep breath. "At least three musketeers dead — more wounded," he said, and calculated.

"Dragoners?" D'Artagnan asked, and looked again toward the marshes as the rain continued to pound the grass. He jumped to his right when Aramis snuck around the corner of the carriage, squatted, peered toward the right, and toward the musketeers who were down.

"Athos?" Porthos asked.

"Angry — and growing impatient," Aramis said, and leaned back, "no sign of Auch or his giant." He leaned back as another roll of thunder roared above them, lightening followed with a gust of heavy rain. "I hate this time of year!" He took a deep breath, pushed himself up into a crouch, and said, "There are at least 23 of the dragoners hidden in the marshes — we have twelve men still standing," he met each of their eyes, "be careful." He slapped d'Artagnan's shoulder and carefully worked his way toward the injured.

The onslaught of crossbow bolts caused them to duck for cover.

Porthos growled in frustration, clenched his jaw, and hit the undercarriage with his fist. "Stay down!" He yelled.

They held steady as the rain continued. Muddy waters collected in puddles that quickly overflowed into serpentined trenches that flooded toward the marshes. Weakened branches of trees surrendered and snapped beneath the brisk winds.

The reprieve was cut short as the rain let up and another round of bolts landed on the ground, into the carcasses of dead horses, and the carriage.

Athos leaned against the belly of the bay gelding he hid behind and looked at his useless pistol: not much more than a club with the heavy rains. He took a deep breath and looked toward the musketeers as they worked to take cover. The bolts continued to fly. The haunted pitch of metal pierced the air and landed with various painful echoes. Auch's company had proven themselves as worthy opponents.

Questions remained. Where were Auch and Salvador? How many bolts did the dragoners carry? How many men were hiding in the marshes? Were there more coming? Athos sighed, grabbed the hilt of his sword, and crouched low. He peered over the flank of the gelding as another roll of thunder boomed. He stumbled forward through the mud and toward the carriage. Porthos grabbed his shoulder and pulled him forward as another round of bolts pierced the air.

"Are you tryin' to en' up dead?" Porthos said, and pushed himself against the undercarriage.

"We need to force them out of the marsh," Athos said, and wiped the rain from his eyes. His hair clung to his scalp.

Porthos sighed and nodded. "Really?" he raised his eyebrows, "'nd how do we do that?"

"Auch likes to drink," Athos said, and ignored Porthos' shake of his head. "The gunpowder is wet, but if the alcohol is strong enough perhaps we can light it."

Porthos shook his head again. "It won't work," he sighed as he leaned back, and watched another bolt land in the wheel above his head. "The wine isn't strong enough."

"He wasn't drinking wine," Athos said. He looked up, slowly stood, and then fell to the ground when a bolt struck the carriage above his head, and Porthos again grabbed his shoulder and pulled him closer.

"You stand up again, they're liable to 'ave improved their accuracy."

Athos sighed. "We need to get inside the carriage."

"I'll do it," d'Artagnan said. "I'm younger and a bit more graceful." He raised his eyebrows when both Athos and Porthos looked at him with their eyebrows slightly pulled together, mouths twisted.

"Only one of those is true," Athos said. "But please," he extended his hand toward the top of the carriage, "youth before beauty."

Porthos chuckled and looked at d'Artagnan. "One of these days, boy… you 'ill learn." He crouched, folded his fingers together, and cupped his hands. "When I say jump, I'll lift, but you dive in through the window — forget about bein' graceful — just stay alive." He nodded, clenched his jaw, and paused.

D'Artagnan nodded, met his eyes, and waited for the next roll of thunder. He braced his hand against the undercarriage, stayed low, and took a deep breath.

"Ready," Porthos said.

D'Artagnan placed his left foot in Porthos' entwined fingers, leapt, and landed with a crash on the weakened door of the carriage. He hit his right thigh and arm, and fell inside. He landed with a groan and paused momentarily to collect himself. He winced, gasped, and slowly took a deep breath as he pushed himself into a seated position. Rainwater streamed in from the broken wood frame of the glassless window. He yanked the wooden shaft from its position, watched the stream shift direction, trail along the side, and travel down the backside of the carriage. He pulled aside the drapes that hung from above, lifted the cushions of the seats and then heard the impacts of more bolts against the carriage exterior. He instinctively crouched, and waited a moment before he caught sight of a hidden compartment beneath the seat. He opened the door and chuckled.

"D'Artagnan," Athos called, "did you find anything?"

"Yes — four bottles!"

"Toss them out!" Porthos said, and slapped the belly of the undercarriage.

"Gently!" Athos closed his eyes briefly and looked up.

Porthos grabbed the first bottle, and ducked as two bolts struck the axle. He handed it to Athos, and repeated the process two more times before another bolt sliced the flesh of forearm. He dropped to a crouch and sighed. "Don't toss the last one!" He slapped the undercarriage and grasped his arm to stem the flow.

Athos pulled a cork with his teeth, sniffed, and winced. The strong smelling whiskey hit his senses and caused his toes to curl. He paused a moment, took a pull, and smiled with a nod as he handed the bottle to Porthos. "To alleviate the pain."

Porthos sniffed, and frowned. "Smells like spoiled rye." He took a sip, and then another, and grimaced. He breathed out slowly. "Feels like my breath is on fire." He inhaled slowly and coughed. "Pitie moi," he said with a sigh. "Strong enough to straighten my chest hair."

Athos tore a piece of fabric from the sleeve of his shirt beneath his doublet and shoved it into the neck of the bottle. He repeated the process for the other bottles and lined them up against the undercarriage.

"Aramis!" Athos yelled, and ducked again as more bolts pierced the air.

"What am I supposed to do?" D'Artagnan yelled from within the carriage.

"Wait!" Athos said, and looked toward Aramis who peeked up over the rump of a downed horse. Athos waved him down. "Can you throw?" He looked at Porthos.

"You sure this is goin' to work?" Porthos asked. "It's a shame to waste it." He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

"If we survive this," Athos said, "I'll help you sneak into the king's wine cellar."

"We'd hang if caught."

Athos chuckled. "I'll add it to my list of indiscretions."

Porthos pulled his brows together. "Agreed," he nodded.

Athos inhaled slowly, tipped the jar, and then carefully lit the fabric with his flint and steel. He handed the bottle to Porthos who threw it into the marsh. Despite the rain, the flames ignited. Three men jumped from their hidden positions and ran from the cover of the tall grasses, their jerkins afire. Musketeers jumped to their feet, swords in hand, and charged as two more bottles were thrown into the field.

Mud swallowed booted feet, and splattered against leather and uniforms. D'Artagnan pulled himself from the confines of the carriage, jumped, and joined in the melee. Weapons were raised, men fell, struggled to their feet, and fought exhaustion as the battle wore on.

Athos turned and avoided the downfall of a blade. He caught sight of Auch at the edge of the fight, yelling orders to his men, and partially hidden within the shadows of trees. Athos grabbed his gauche and his long sword. He watched Auch turn, and disappear into the forest. Athos ran toward him. His booted feet sank into the mud, his thighs burned, and his lungs starved for oxygen pushed him to follow.