D'Artagnan covered his mouth as Porthos led his horse through the marshes. They had found two pistols, a gauche, as well as purse full of coin which brought a smile to his face. He walked toward the carriage, and yanked a bolt from the underside. He looked at it with distain, and tossed it into the reeds.
"That last bottle of whiskey?" Porthos turned and looked toward d'Artagnan.
"Still in the carriage."
Porthos smiled, rubbed his hands together, and then crawled to the top only to disappear within the confines. Porthos raised his hand, bottle in his grasp, and laughed. Getting into the carriage was easier than getting out. Mumbled curses were heard, a few thumps echoed, and finally, Porthos emerged.
"I don't know know we survived with so few losses," Porthos said. He adjusted his seat on the carriage, and looked at the carnage round him. He shook his head, rubbed his face, and popped the cork. He took a drink from the bottle. The alcohol burned and hit his stomach with an explosion. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and then jumped down. Muddied water speckled his legs and boots. He walked to the back of the carriage and kicked at the trunk that was secured to the head irons. When it didn't open, he kicked it again, and twice more, before the lid snapped and wood splintered. He sighed, pulled a heavy blanket, and two small canisters filled with black powder. He handed the supplies to d'Artagnan who quickly created a makeshift bag for their takings with one hand.
"I wan' to ride down to the ravine an' see if we c'n find Athos' weapons — maybe catch a rabbit or two." Porthos looked toward the clouds and sighed. He grabbed his reins, and mounted his horse. He took another drink, replaced the cork, and handed d'Artagnan the bottle of spirits. "Try it," he smiled, "it'll put hair on your chest." He urged his horse forward.
"I have hair on my chest?" d'Artagnon said. He parted his lips and furrowed his brow in question.
Porthos laughed.
D'Artagnan rolled his eyes, adjusted the blanket on his lap, held it in place between the pommel and his pelvis, and took a sip of the whiskey. He coughed, wiped his mouth, and replaced the cork. He inhaled deeply, and breathed slowly through pinched lips. He urged his horse forward, and followed Porthos.
The ravine was shadowed within the depths of old trees with branches that cascaded over the path and ballooned outward. Moss found sanctuary along the shadowed bark, along boulders, and roots that spread wide beneath the ground and had surfaced as the years progressed. Puddles of water surrounded by upturned mud remained dammed. Leaves, pine needles, and stems of grass lay fallen within the water's surface.
Porthos dismounted and looked for silver steel amongst the grasses, weeds, and creeping shrubs that would eventually overgrow, provide cover for animals, and die back when winter hit. He sighed when he spotted Salvador's body, face down in the mud, bent arms at his sides, his right leg bent and turned from his body. He remained untouched by scavengers.
"Stay here," Porthos said. He handed d'Artagnan his reins, and started to walk toward the area where Athos had fallen. Porthos looked down, walked toward a tree and exhaled. He spotted the silver blade, leather wrapped handle, and reinforced cross guard that bowed from the end of the guard to the tip of the handle. He picked it up, flung the mud from the blade with a simple flick of his wrist, and looked toward d'Artagnan who frowned and looked at the ground around him. "What is it?"
"Where's Auch?" d'Artagnan met Porthos' eyes.
Porthos looked to where he remembered seeing Auch fall. He rubbed and pinched his chin, tucked Athos' blade beneath his armpit, and pointed. He swore under his breath and jogged toward the spot.
"Perhaps he crawled away to die?" d'Artagnan nudged the sides of his horse and rode in a wider circle around the area. He pulled his and Porthos' horse to a stop.
Porthos rubbed his face, squatted when he found the indentations of horse hooves, and where Auch had landed. He didn't see crawl marks, downed grasses, broken twigs, or puddles where standing water would signify a departure on foot. Porthos flexed his muscles, flared his nostrils, and walked toward the edge of the tree line. He looked toward the marshes that met the road in the distance, cattails lined the narrow stream that flowed toward the river in the distance, and the forest that continued for leagues toward Chelons. Frustrated, he clenched his fist, looked again at the ground, and searched for prints that would indicate Auch's location.
Porthos grabbed the handle of Athos' sword, looked at the blade, then toward d'Artagnan who remained horseback, and looked toward the trees. "We should go back," Porthos said. He licked his bottom lip, and rubbed his brow.
"What about Auch?" d'Artagnan adjusted the blanket and handed Porthos the reins of his horse.
Porthos sighed, lowered his gaze to the ground, and shook his head. "I don't know."