Aramis listened to the heavy door close and then stretched and groaned when he failed to reach the leather bound bundle.
"Try with your foot," d'Artagnan said, and felt his anxiety increase as he watched Aramis touch the bundle enough to move it, but not enough to tap it closer and grab.
"I'll try," Porthos said. "I'm taller." He pulled tight on the chain and then jumped when he heard two pistol shots.
"No," d'Artagnan whispered and looked toward the window.
Aramis bowed his head and closed his eyes as he felt his heart clench.
"He's not dead." Porthos clenched his jaw. He pulled tight on the chain and then lay flat on his belly with his legs toward the cell door. "Aramis, tell me where to move my feet."
Aramis nodded, pushed himself to his knees, and said, "Move your foot to the right — my right, your left."
Porthos rolled his eyes and said, "Which is it?"
"Your left."
Porthos slowly shifted his foot. The bundle was so light he couldn't feel it and relied on Aramis to guide him.
"A bit more," Aramis said, and raised his hand, "stop… stop there."
Porthos kept his foot in position, tightened the muscles of his leg, and crept his foot forward.
"That's it," Aramis said and watched Porthos continue to crawl forward.
As soon as the bundle was within reach, Aramis grabbed it and untied the sting that bound the leather around the parchment and the item within the confines. Aramis smiled.
"What is it?" d'Artagnan asked.
A guard shoved Athos forward and he stumbled to the ground and landed on his hands and knees. He took a deep breath, raised one knee, and rested his forearm across his thigh. The morning sun warmed his skin, penetrated his doublet, and he looked up to see several of the same guards he had seen over the course of the days circled around the edges of a cleared plot of land. They stood at attention with their hands on the hilts of their swords. They were the order amongst the chaos. A hangman's noose hung from the thick, heavy branch of an oak tree to his right and to the left of the stables.
The horses watched from their stalls. The baron's servants stood huddled near each other. Their children removed from their grasps and separated. Piles of hay, manure, farm equipment and carts rested behind the guards who stood to watch, and guarded those who might be a threat.
An older man, with long curled salted brown hair, sat in a chair. He looked up, and with a trembling hand grasped the armrest. Omar was frail, weak, and lacked the strength to stand. He ran a hand over his face and looked toward Tomas, who pointed his pistol at his head.
Athos pushed himself to his feet and wiped his hands on his breeches. He startled and turned to his left when he heard two pistol shots fired. A man fell dead when he tried to approach the guards. His body pulled from the scene and left abandoned near the wheeled cart. Athos watched Tomas walk toward him, his long strides were determined and confident.
"Are the king's tax monies worth the lives of your friends?" Tomas said, and lifted his lips into a crooked smile.
"You'll kill us anyway," Athos said, "once you have what you want." He shook his head and frowned. "Why would we tell you anything?"
Tomas met his eyes. "The farm boy will talk —"
"D'Artagnan will disappoint you — just as Porthos and Aramis did."
Tomas chuckled, wiped his mouth with his fingers, and looked toward his men. "I fought alongside men like you — devoted to their king — their country… But they cried like babies when their bellies were torn open, their legs and arms suddenly gone because of the brutality of war —"
"Not war," Athos said. He looked hard at Tomas, searched his face for hints of character beyond the monster. "They cried for loss… family, friends, wives, children." He shook his head and looked toward Omar, who still sat shaken in his seat. "But to understand it, you have to know what it's like to lose it."
"I know what it's like to lose it… son," Tomas said, took a step forward and met his eyes. "I had a family…" He hardened the corners of his eyes and pursed his lips. "And their lives meant more to me than life itself — but they're dead," he stepped closer and hissed, "and you think that all of this," he waved his hand, "is to inconvenience you… and your friends? Or perhaps you think that my rage and my desire is to see those like you rot in your own filth." He squinted and the wrinkles around his eyes exaggerated. "Your high opinion of yourself is exhausting."
He turned and watched the children huddle together. "Everything I do is for money, Monsieur… it's the only thing that matters. And right now, you're worth 25 livres to fight fools who are willing to die for their pride.
"Your skill against the sons of nobles is perhaps one of the most lucrative business ventures I've had the brilliance to imagine." Tomas looked over the courtyard as two men rode up on their horses. "First blood is the gentleman's way…" He raised his eyebrows, "we're not gentlemen today… allow any one of them to kill you, and I will destroy your friends… and before you breathe your last… you'll watch." Tomas shoved Athos' sword toward his chest. "I've learned that few nobles have want for their second or third born sons," he paused and shook his head, "and all of them desire a name and a title — even if it means their deaths — pride, Athos, will bring men to their knees before any blade or pistol ever will."
"Does that include you?" Athos searched Tomas' brown eyes. He grasped the familiar handle of his sword and the worn leather that complimented the uniqueness of his palm.
Tomas watched the marquis dismount, hand his reins off to a guard, and stand aside while his son did the same. "Tristan La Cour, trained under one of the best swordsmen in all of Austria and has developed a reputation here in Nivernais. Seems his son had little talent for much else, but his father is determined he will make something of himself — even if it is just gaining a reputation." He pulled a leather purse from his pocket and felt the weight of the coin. "You'll fight until I say otherwise, which," he chuckled, "should be very lucrative — unless, of course, you lose."
Athos looked at Tomas' face and shook his head. "You're mad."
"Possibly," Tomas said, but shrugged. "If you fail in this," he nodded toward the children, "I'll kill them too."
Athos tightened his jaw, pursed his lips, and swallowed. "Why? Why threaten to harm children?" He stepped toward him, but stopped when he heard the click of a pistol being cocked behind him. "What do you gain by this? The life of a child in exchange for a few coins?"
"What do I gain?" Tomas asked. "I gain everything… freedom, power, privilege. I gain respect."
"Whose respect?" Athos asked.
"Everyone's!" Tomas said. He met Athos' eyes, furrowed his brow, pulled his lips into a frown, and shook his head. "You disgust me… you and everyone like you." He turned and walked toward the baron.
Athos looked at the baron, who rested his head in the cup of his left hand while he leaned to his left. It was madness all around: the guards who stood by and did nothing, blinded by a misguided sense of duty and their need for revenge; Tomas and Evan as they revelled in their plans and greed; the baron who sat confused and unable to bring order to the chaos; the children who saw but didn't understand the consequences of the actions around them; their parents who understood but could do nothing to stop it; and the aristocrats who found validation in their pride and arrogance.
The children clutched each other as tears streamed down their cheeks. Their cries for their parents would forever haunt Athos as they buried their faces to hide from the scene before them. The baron in a fit of despair, could not move and fight for what he knew to be right as friends betrayed him. Athos looked at the sword in his hand: the finely crafted weapon that had been by his side longer than the musketeers. It was a piece of his past he refused to surrender, and he wondered if the decisions he made had always been wrong. He looked up, met the eyes of a soldier who stood cold and unmoving, and then glanced toward the children.
Tristan La Cour stepped from the edge of the human made circle. He had tied his long blonde hair back with a string of leather. His voluminous blue blouse fluttered around his well-muscled arms and chest. His clean-shaven face emphasized his youthful age, and his bright blue eyes looked forward to the sparring. He was tall, slender, and carried himself with pride. Tristan looked toward Athos and ran his eyes over his clothes, wild hair, and his bloodied cuffs.
"I thought this was supposed to be a proper fight?" Tristan said. He turned toward Tomas and waved his hand toward Athos. "He's barely able to stand." He shrugged and raised his left hand in question. "25 livres to fight this? He looks like a drunkard who has taken up residence in a gutter!"
"Your judgement based on my appearance may get you killed, Monsieur." Athos slipped from his doublet and tossed it aside. It landed in the dirt with a plume. He flexed his raw wrist with a quick flick and sliced the air. He shifted the weight in his hand and felt the familiar weapon as an extension of his arm. Honor overrode his exhaustion, his body's need for nutrition, and his mind's need for escape. Tristan La Cour was young, healthy, fit, and ready to prove himself. Athos swallowed, cleared his throat, and dug deep for the strength he would need.
"25 livres to fight and 50 to kill a musketeer?" Tristan said with a smile. "My father has never invested so well." He stepped forward, raised his weapon, and held the starting position. "He told me… I could not refuse an opportunity to best one of the king's loyal servants — even if you were disgraced."
"Never disgraced," Athos said. "Derelict perhaps." He immediately slipped into position. "Am I the price of your entertainment?"
"My nobility provides me certain," Tristan shrugged, "privileges that others can't afford and without a proper competitor in Nivernais… one must adjust accordingly." He lunged forward and their blades clashed. "Your were a guard of the king's — you protected him? I hear they call him the celibate king for a reason."
Athos pivoted, arched backward as the blade swept over him. He lunged, tapped the young man on his thigh, and raised his eyebrows. "Where did you train?" He relaxed his stance.
Tristan swept his arm upward and danced back as Athos easily deflected the blow. He breathed heavily and said, "Austria — I was at the top of my class."
Athos raised an eyebrow in skepticism and resumed a starting position. He deflected another strike when Tristan lunged again, and Athos counter attacked with a solid right punch to Tristan's jaw.
Tristan fell to the ground. Surprised, he rubbed his jaw and stood. He slashed his sword through the air and aggressively attacked. His deflected blade swept wide, and again he fell to the ground with a shove to his shoulder.
"Your footwork is heavy, your stance is sloppy, and you lack focus," Athos said. "Again." He readied his position.
"I did not come here to be educated!" Tristan aggressively lunged forward.
Athos deflected the attacks with ease. "Then fight!" he said, met his eyes and counter attacked with long strides, quick wrists, and steady arms. He stopped and stepped back when his opponent tripped over his own feet and fell.
Tristan groaned and quickly climbed to his feet. He attacked again, this time he stepped to the left instead of the right hoping to unbalance his opponent, but found himself tapped on the butt with a blade. Tristan tried to ignore the chuckles from the ring, but he clenched his jaw and flared his nostrils. He glanced toward his father who stood with his arms over his chest, his face cast downward in disappointment.
Athos frowned, lowered his weapon to his side, and walked around Tristan, who stood and resumed his ready position. He shifted his feet, followed Athos' movements, and when he looked up toward the children, Tristan lunged.
Athos deflected the blow, struck Tristan's blade twice, and the clashes echoed. Tristan fell backward, dropped his sword, and landed on his backside.
"I yield!" Tristan watched Athos clip the abandoned sword with the toe of his boot, kick it upward, and catch it while keeping his eyes on Tristan.
Athos flung dirt from the blade with a quick flick of his wrist. He lowered a hand for Tristan to grasp and pulled him to his feet. Athos pushed Tristan's sword to his chest. "Your pride will get you killed," he said, and met Tristan's eyes.
Tristan nodded, flared his nostrils, and met Athos' eyes. "You could have killed me. Why didn't you?" He said.
Athos wiped sweat from his brow and said, "Because you're not their entertainment."
Tristan looked toward the circle of guards and then glanced toward Evan and Tomas. He looked at Athos again, nodded, bowed, and departed the area.
Tristan's father grabbed the back of Tristan's neck and shoved him toward the horses. He paused a moment, reached into his pocket and tossed Tomas a small bag of coins.
Tomas chuckled, tossed the bag into the air, and caught it. He turned and watched Athos wipe the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. "I can do this all day, musketeer… How about you?"