D'Artagnan sighed, turned toward the road in the distance, and could see the fog had lifted as the sun's early morning rays warmed the ground. Marc and the others turned over bodies, carried the wounded to the road, while others searched the field beyond the carriage. He could hear the sucking of mud as Aramis and Porthos walked at either side.

"Athos!" Porthos yelled again, paused, and listened. He shook his head and took a deep breath as his vision improved with the fading fog. "Athos!"

"Wait," d'Artagnan said, grabbed Porthos' arm, and tilted his head.

Aramis coughed to clear his throat, looked toward his left as the recognition of swords clashing in the distance reached his ears. He gripped the hilt of his sword before Porthos or d'Artagnan recognized the sound, and ran toward it. He pushed aside lower hanging branches of trees, jumped over downed limbs, and ignored the painful flex and use of overtaxed muscles. His lungs burned, and his heart raced. He stopped suddenly at the edge of the ravine ledge and looked toward the clearing below as Athos, exhausted, fought Salvador.

Gone was the elegance of Athos' movements with his long strides, refined movements of arm extensions, and quick foot action. Instead, he succumb to mud, exhaustion, and the overwhelming presence of Salvador's size and strength.

Porthos swore under his breath. "If your powder is dry, get ready to fire!" He jumped down onto a boulder, felt his knees buckle as tendons protested, but continued to make his way toward the clearing.

Aramis, removed his pistol from his belt and grabbed his black powder tin from the inside pocket of his jacket. "Please, please, please," he whispered, as d'Artagnan stumbled to a stop beside him. "Do you have your weapon?" Aramis glanced toward the clearing and then back toward his pistol as he knelt.

D'Artagnan pulled his weapon from his belt and with one arm, did his best to prepare for the shot.

Athos fell backward and rolled to the left when Salvador thrust his heavy blade toward him. The ground gave beneath Salvador's weight, and Athos pushed himself upright, and flung his sword into a defensive position to avoid the next blow. Sweat soaked hair clung to his scalp, the right side of his face was covered in blood, his lungs burned, and his heart raced. He grimaced when Salvador's sword stuck his, but he bowed and pushed his gauche toward his attacker's middle. Blood was drawn as Athos' blade sliced Salvador's waist below his heavy leather armor.

Salvador swung again, his movements had become more heavy laden, but his strength and size kept him moving. Athos twisted to his right, caught his opponent's blade at the guard, and pushed him back with blades crossed. Salvador took two steps backward, clenched his teeth, and pushed forward again with an angry yell.

Athos used both his blades to deflect the blow, but he stumbled back and landed on his right hip. He adjusted his gauche, twisted the handle so the flat of the blade rested along his left forearm as Salvador swung his heavy blade and struck. Athos gasped at the impact, but rolled back, pushed himself up, and again deflected another blow. He turned to his right and thrust the long blade of his sword toward Salvador's ribs. Again, blood was drawn. Athos grunted and fell forward onto his left hand, gasped for breath, and turned suddenly to protect himself. Before he could raise his hands, still gripped the handles of his weapons, Salvador yelled.

The battle cry echoed and reverberated off the surrounding rocks. He grabbed Athos by the front of his doublet and pulled him to his feet only to shove him onto the trunk of a tree. Athos grunted and fell to his side. He spit blood from his mouth, tightened his hand on the grip of his gauche, and struggled to take a deep breath. His movements were slow, uncoordinated, and awkward. He gasped for breath, felt his throat tighten, and his lungs burn. He struggled to push himself back onto his knees, both hands still grasped the handles of his weapons, despite the mud and sludge. He looked over his shoulder.

Salvador raised his heavy sword above his head, smiled, and watched Athos, unbalanced, swing his long sword upward. The blade sliced through the tender flesh of Salvador's belly, cut deeply into the leather armor of his chest, and then sliced the underside of his left bicep as ]sword continued upward. Salvador dropped his blade, stood stunned, watched momentarily as blood flooded and entrails peeked between the sliced flesh of his belly. He looked at Athos, fell to his knees, and pitched forward. Athos crawled out of the way, gasped for breath, and sighed with relief when he spotted Porthos making his way down the side of the cliff. Athos clumsily pushed himself up on shaking arms and leaned back on his haunches, hands pressed to his thighs. He struggled for breath as starved lungs were slow to relax. He looked down, and attempted to inhale the air needed to satisfy his body.

Athos never heard the horse behind him, the rider dismount, or the click of a crossbow being armed. He did look up in time to see Porthos' yell and wave his arm. Athos turned to his left, and felt the bolt penetrate his back and pierce through his right shoulder.

Porthos yelled, jumped off the last remaining boulder, and ran toward him.

Athos gasped, fell forward, and landed on his left elbow and forearm. He cried in agony when he was yanked backward and landed with a "humph." He dug booted heels into the mud as he was dragged. When the momentum stopped, he gasped for breath, and tried to curl to his left side, but yelped again when he felt another pull at his shoulder.

"Kill the horse," d'Artagnan yelled, and watched in horror as Auch tugged on the rope attached to the bolt. D'Artagnan unconsciously grasped his left arm and squeezed it tighter, shifted his feet, and felt his heart stop beating as the moments spanned time. "He's going to tie Athos to the horse, Aramis — shoot the horse!" He reached behind his head and grabbed a fistful of hair. His jaw tightened, nostrils flared, and tears flooded his eyes. "Run, Porthos," he said, the words passed his lips in hushed silence, "run."

Porthos ran. Exhausted, corded, thigh muscles burned, and cried for oxygen as he pushed them beyond collapse. He pumped his arms, felt tendons tighten with the extension of each stride. Breaths came in short bursts, lungs burned, his heart pounded, and his mind raced. He would not stop. He would not fall. He would not watch a brother be dragged to death.

Athos reached upward with his left hand, searched for the tension, and once his hand grasped the rope he struggled to loosen the strain. He looked upward, and watched Auch struggle to tie the rope to the stirrup.

Aramis said a quick prayer, closed his eyes, and focused on his target. He steadied himself, ignored d'Artagnan's pleas, and focused. Everything stopped: the movement of the trees, the sounds of Athos' painful cries, the slaps of mud as Porthos ran, the sound of his own heart pounding against his chest. Aramis exhaled and fired.

Auch fell back onto the horses' hindquarters, and then fell bonelessly to the ground. The gray gelding shied and jumped back a few feet.

Athos cried out again. He struggled to find the rope which had tightened, and dragged him further into the woods.

Porthos grabbed his knife from his belt, jumped over a log, watched the horse raise his head, and take several steps back, the tension of the stirrup pulled tight again. He grabbed the rope and pulled it to lessen the tension, and started to cut. "Athos," he said as he listened to the harsh breaths, and shortened gasps of his brother. Porthos fell backward when the rope snapped. He landed with a groan, but pushed himself to his knees, and crawled toward Athos who lay on his left side and scraped his right foot in the mud, damed the puddle of water, and clasped at his right shoulder with his left hand.

"Athos," Porthos said again. He slipped his left arm beneath Athos' neck and lifted him from the mud.

Athos groaned, clenched his eyes, and pursed his lips into a fine line. "Auch?" He gasped, through clenched teeth, and clutched at the collar of Porthos' doublet. Athos continued to dig trenches in the mud with the heels of his boots. He felt Porthos' thigh shift beneath his head and shoulder.

"Dead," Porthos said, as he watched Aramis jump from a boulder and run toward them. D'Artagnan was nowhere in sight. Auch lay on his back with a bullet to his chest.

"The men?" Bloody tinged spittle landed on his lips, mustache and goatee.

Porthos tightened his grasp on Athos' right arm to stabilize it. "Three dead — that we know of — others injured." He felt Athos' strength wane as and he stopped digging trenches with the heel of his boot, and rested with his right knee raised. Porthos looked at the bolt, the unfamiliar shape and the mechanism that had been released after it had pierced Athos's shoulder. Two prongs expanded, one pierced Athos' chest to the right of his sternum, and the other stopped by his pauldron, insuring the stability needed to drag him for miles if necessary. Porthos looked up with relief as Aramis slid to a stop, and dropped to his knees.

Aramis met Porthos' eyes, clenched his jaw, and examined the modified bolt. He shook his head and said, "I can't remove this here." He checked the front and back, and pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. "D'Artagnan went for the horses." He patted Athos' cheek, lifted his head, and met his eyes. "Brother, we need to get you on a horse."

Athos groaned, squeezed his eyes shut again, and winced when muscles protested to his movements. Porthos helped him sit. Athos leaned to his left against Porthos, fought his exhaustion, and mind-numbing pain in his shoulder.

Aramis removed the blue sash from his waist, adjusted Athos' right arm across his chest, and immobilized it with the sash. "The injury doesn't seem to be bleeding too badly," he said, "but we must keep your arm secured." He clenched his jaw, furrowed his brow, and looked toward Athos who nodded.

It took both Aramis and Porthos to get him to his feet, and Porthos slid Athos' left arm over his shoulder to steady him while Aramis caught the gray gelding. Athos hitched his breath in his throat and watched Aramis lead the gray toward them. The horse was lean, well muscled, and relaxed. Aramis held the reins, shifted the stirrup into position and watched Athos grab the pommel with his left hand. He groaned as the throbbing pain roared louder than the words of support from Porthos and Aramis as they assisted. Athos tightened his grip, slipped his left foot into the stirrup, and felt Porthos shove him upward and hold him steady.

Athos felt someone grab the back of his doublet. He leaned forward, twisted his fingers in the horse's mane, and rocked as the first few steps were taken. "Stop," Athos said, and straightened his left arm as he pushed himself upright. "We need evidence." He glanced toward Aramis. "Auch wore a ring," he winced, closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly. "Gold with an emerald — King Louis will recognize it." He relaxed his arm, leaned forward, and closed his eyes as the pain overrode his senses.

He never heard d'Artagnan arrive with their horses, saw Porthos remove the ring from Auch's finger, or heard Aramis instruct d'Artagnan on what to order the men to complete before their return to Paris.

The news of Auch's death would be shared with Treville with the ring. It would be up to Treville to report the information to the king, along with the losses and casualties of musketeers and members of the red guard.


More to come... and soon!