Aramis listened as his shackles fell to the floor and he followed Porthos to the gate.
"We may not have much time," Aramis said, and watched Porthos insert the key into the cell door lock.
Porthos groaned, tried again, and then kicked the wrought iron. "It's stickin'." He turned exhausted eyes toward Aramis and tried again.
Aramis grabbed Porthos' shoulder and said, "Listen."
Felix fumbled with the keys as he opened the main door to the cells. His heart raced and his hands shook. He was not meant for this. His skills were mathematics, cooking a few meals, and sometimes telling a story around a fire when everyone else was too drunk to know what he was talking about. Felix shook his head, used his weight, and opened the door. He paused a moment, collected his breath, and left the keys within the lock. He struggled with the weapons: two pistols, two swords, and two main gauches as he trotted awkwardly down the path. His short legs moved quickly, and he did his best to manage the weapons while he placed them on the floor next to the cell door. Sweat dripped into his eyes and damped his gray hair.
"Please, Monsieur," Felix motioned toward the key Porthos held, "allow me."
Porthos nodded, glanced toward Aramis, and handed Felix the key. It slipped into place, stuck for just a moment, and then released. The door squeaked as he opened it. Felix adjusted his position, leaned against the wrought iron, and watched them gather their weapons.
"I must admit," Felix said, "that my stature is not conducive for such activities." He took a deep breath, nodded toward them, and trotted back the way he had come. "You must hurry," he said over his shoulder, "they intend to hang Monsieur d'Artagnan, and Monsieur Athos is struggling."
"Your courage is beyond measure, my friend," Aramis said, and followed quickly behind.
Felix shook his head. "There is a thin line between courage and stupidity, Monsieur, and I'm yet to convince myself," he exhaled and motioned through the kitchen, down a narrow hall, and up the stairs, "that courage is the side I'm on."
"What's happenin' outside?" Porthos asked and clasped his hand around the pistol's grip. He took two steps at a time and watched Felix grasp the handrail as he rushed up the steps.
"Tomas has resorted to charging fees to fight the musketeer Athos — 25 livres for the privilege, and an additional 25 to kill him — your friend Athos is fighting a young Spaniard by the name of Julis Hendariz," Felix said, "a foolish young man with a propensity for vanity and dreams of sword fighting."
Aramis shook his head. "How many men are armed?"
Felix frowned and took a deep breath. "All of them."
"Can you fire a weapon?" Porthos asked. He looked at Felix, who cocked his head to the left.
"I'm more adept to reloading muskets — if the musket is within my arms reach." He huffed as he continued up the steps. "There are four muskets loaded and ready by the window."
Porthos chuckled and grabbed Felix's shoulder in a friendly grasp.
"Come," Felix said, and hurriedly walked down the hall. "I'm not a military strategist, you'll need to view the situation for yourselves."
Aramis slapped Porthos shoulder, and they followed.
Several guards tackled Athos and yanked him backward toward Tomas, who stood at the edge of the clearing, the smoking gun gripped tightly in his hand. Athos struggled and kicked within the confines of the restraining arms. His foot met someone's knee, another man's thigh, and finally he struck back with his head and collided with someone's nose. He felt his right arm pulled behind his back.
"D'Artagnan!" Athos shouted.
Someone grabbed Athos around his neck and shoved him to the ground onto his stomach. His arms were yanked behind his back and his hands wrenched upward between his shoulder blades. He looked toward the children and watched in horror as Tomas lifted his pistol. "No!" He grunted as the left side of his face was pressed to the ground, and someone's fingers spread like tentacles across his scalp. "They're children!" Athos inhaled dirt that billowed upward. "They're just children!" He coughed. "Stop him!"
The pistol fired.
The children screamed.
A boy crumbled to the ground.
Athos shifted and tried to push himself up, but he felt a knee pressed to the small of his back. His hands were wrenched higher between his shoulder blades.
Felix opened the door to the upstairs bedroom and hurried across the room to the window that overlooked the stables and the clearing below. Four loaded muskets rested against the wall. "Dear heavens," he said, as he looked out the window.
Aramis pushed Felix aside. "You said those were loaded?"
Before Felix could answer, Aramis grabbed a musket, inspected the trigger, lit the fuse, and shoved the end of his musket through the window. Glass shattered. He readied his shot. Aramis said a quick prayer as he watched d'Artagnan's frantic kicks as he hung from the rope. He clawed at his neck and searched frantically for solid ground. Aramis took aim, exhaled, inhaled deeply, held his breath, and then fired. "Porthos!"
Porthos turned and ran from the room.
Aramis handed Felix the musket and grabbed another while Felix reloaded.