D'Artagnan smeared blood across his right eyelid as the gash continued to bleed from above his left eyebrow. He pounded on the door, took a deep breath, and looked for something that he could pry the doors open with. He pulled the sling over his head, tossed it aside, and grabbed his pistol that had fallen from his grasp when the bullet penetrated the door and sent splinters of wood across his brow.
He took a deep breath, hit the door once more, and exited the front door.
Athos groaned in the back of his throat, coughed, and rolled to his left once Auch released his hair. Athos felt his belt removed, the blade was pulled from the scabbard, and the belt was tossed aside. Athos reached for his boot, watched Auch as he was preoccupied with the workmanship of the sword, and removed the dagger. Athos slowed his breathing, hitched his breath when bruised ribs protested, and waited.
Auch sighed, whipped the blade through the air and listened to the swish as though slicing a portion of it. Heavier than a rapier, and strong enough for the battlefield, the sword had been well crafted, well cared for, and deserved a fine end.
"Salvador was the best soldier I ever trained," he said, and listened to the harsh breathing of his prey. He looked down and cocked an eyebrow as Athos pressed his forehead to the floor, and exhaled, blew dust upward, and he shifted his feet. "How you beat him," Auch shook his head, "I'll never know." He reached for the collar of Athos' leather doublet.
Athos struck upward, stabbed the dagger deep into Auch's hip. He cried out, stumbled backward, and grabbed the handle. He looked up as Athos struggled to his feet.
"I wasn't expecting that," Auch said, winced, and yanked the dagger from his flesh. Blood spilled freely, soaked his trousers, and he placed the flat of his hand against the wound. He weighed the dagger in his other hand, and gripped the handle. "Your gauche is still embedded in Salvador… if I'm not mistaken?" He raised his eyebrows, and took a step forward with a severe limp.
"You arrived… here… unprepared," Athos wheezed between words, and took a step back, "too few men — practicing for battle… isn't the same… as experiencing it." He shuddered when Auch threw the dagger and hit the rider in the painting above the fireplace, the handle jiggled before coming to a stop.
Auch took another step, placed his hand on the settee, and pushed himself forward. He smiled when Athos backed toward the fireplace. Auch turned when he heard pounding at the glass. "Your friend is persistent."
"Dedicated…" Athos corrected.
D'Artagnan slipped the toe of his boot into a crevasse beneath the window, grabbed the frame with his thumb and fingers, and pushed himself upward enough to peer inside. He could barely make out Athos and Auch through the dirty glass, and he swung the butt of his weapon against the leaded window. Without the leverage needed, it withstood the impact, and he fell backward when he couldn't maintain his grip or his foothold. He growled, grabbed a fist-full of mud and threw it in anger, before he ran back toward the front of the home. He entered through the front door at a run, and grabbed the narrow table that rested along the foyer entry. He broke apart the top, pried the leg away, and then started to swing it as hard as he could against the wooden doors of the parlor. He ignored the pain of his shoulder, the weakness of his joint, or the shaking of his left hand, and tightened his grip on the carved wood.
When the hinges shifted, wood bowed, and slowly started to crack, d'Artagnan swung harder.