They made me do it.

The thug tightened the rope further than necessary. Athos knew there was no chance of him slipping his hands free or working the knot loose. His shoulders were already uncomfortable where the thug had pulled his arms back and wound the rope up his wrists. If he was left restrained for any length of time, he would begin to lose the feeling in his hands and arms. The leader of the thugs had already indicated they were in for a bit of a wait.

They had been taken by surprise. Despite being as vigilant as they could be, the forest was thick, with multiple hiding places for the group of thugs. The men had swarmed towards them. There had not been any pattern to the attack. Athos lost sight of his brothers as he was pulled from his horse and pushed to the ground. His weapons were roughly pulled off him, and his doublet was dragged down his arms effectively binding him until the more permanent and uncomfortable rope could be used.

The leader was a swarthy man in his forties with short brown hair, thinning on the top of his head. He wore simple dark clothes, much the same as the rest of the gang of men. They were dressed for concealment, not for show.

The gang consisted of many men Athos could not count how many, of a mixture of ages. Some looked to be seasoned veterans of battles or a harsh lifestyle. They were scarred or otherwise showing the consequences of their years. The younger men were a mixture of wide-eyed boys and sneering young men who looked as though they might like to take over as the leader of the gang.

But the leader did not seem bothered by any potential usurper. He was firm with his men, giving out orders that were followed without question.

Athos was pulled to his feet and forced to walk through the forest. He managed to catch glimpses of his brothers. D'Artagnan was glaring at the men around him, but Athos knew he was also searching for any weaknesses. Porthos was subtly pulling at his restraints, Athos wondered if his friend would have more luck with getting free than he had. Aramis was making comments to the man who was forcing him along, trying to glean any information that might prove useful. Athos was not surprised when the man took umbrage to the questions from the Musketeer and clouted him on the side of the head. The strike did not appear to have affected Aramis, who merely looked at the thug and shrugged.

'You're back early,' said an older man as they reached the edge of the forest.

A camp was set up under the last few trees providing both light and shelter. The older man looked at the four captives warily before turning his attention back to the leader.

'They were earlier than we expected,' said the leader.

The old man wandered back to the campfire he had been sitting at and poked at it for a few moments.

'Fabron,' said the man who was keeping a tight hold of Athos' arm. 'What do you want us to do with them?'

The leader turned to the man that had spoken and shook his head at the same time as he rolled his eyes, 'sit them over there and watch them, you imbecile.'

Athos could hear the man holding him mutter something under his breath before pushing him toward a space away from the fire. Fabron glared at the man, his eyes narrowed. Athos suspected Fabron did not like his men to talk back at him.

Each Musketeer was forced to the ground. Athos looked at each of his brothers waiting for them to make eye contact and indicate they were as well as could be expected. Aramis had a mark on his cheek where he had been hit by his guard and d'Artagnan's doublet was rucked up and scuffed where he probably fought back against the attackers. But other than the obvious discomfort of being restrained his brothers appeared to be well. None were compromised and would be able to fight back when they got themselves free.

Fabron spent a few minutes talking to the older man, who Athos guessed was his second-in-command. The two men looked at the captive Musketeers a few times before laughing. The other man slapped Fabron on the back and said something else. Fabron shook his head; the older man's expression changed to one of concern.

'Dissention in the ranks?' suggested Porthos.

Athos nodded, 'so it would seem. Our host appears a little annoyed with his second-in-command.'

'Or he's annoyed with something Fabron's said, but Fabron doesn't agree,' suggested d'Artagnan.

The older man shook his head and got closer to Fabron speaking urgently to him. Fabron leaned into him and responded in kind. Both men continued to keep their voices low enough that the Musketeers could not make out what was being said. After a few seconds, Fabron pushed the man back a step and beckoned to a couple of the younger men. He gave them an instruction. The two men looked confused; Fabron raised his hand to them. The shorter of the two men visibly flinched. Athos got the impression the man had been struck before by the leader and did not want to be on the receiving end again.

The two men walked off to carry out their task. They threw a couple of glances over their shoulders at Fabron, who was still animatedly talking with the older man.

Other gang members were taking an interest in the argument. But none were going near the pair. The younger men, who might have been contenders to the leadership were glancing at each other and smirking. Athos guessed it was not the first time Fabron had argued with his second-in-command. Perhaps Fabron's hold over the group was not as strong as Athos had first thought.

The two men that had been sent off on an errand returned. The stronger looking of the two was pushing a handcart. Athos could see about twenty pistols laying on the cart. Fabron walked towards the men and directed them to push the cart to an area a few yards from the captives.

Athos glanced at his brothers, who all shrugged or shook their heads. None of them could work out what was going on.

Fabron wandered towards them and looked at each of them in turn. Athos disliked the scrutiny. He glowered back at the leader of the men who had captured them, holding his gaze. The corners of Fabron's mouth moved in a sneering smile. He nodded once and turned away from the four of them.

He picked up one of the pistols and slowly loaded it. The older man walked up to Fabron.

'What kind of leader are you?' asked the man in a low voice. 'You're taking too big a risk. What does it show the men? Some of them are already talking about leaving or trying to kick you out.'

Fabron turned to the man, the loaded and primed pistol held loosely in his hand.

'Claude, I have known you for years. You have saved me on countless occasions. But you are wrong. I am right. I have time to kill. I will use it literally. We don't need all of them. Why shouldn't I have some fun? This will show those boys that think they can take my crown that I am made of harder stuff than they are.'

'You're an idiot,' said Claude with a shake of his head. 'I've watched you grow to be a leader; I've seen you win at everything you do… but lately you're pushing your luck. You're going to get-'

Claude did not get the chance to finish what he was saying. With one swift movement, Fabron raised the gun, aimed, and fired. Hitting the older man square in the face. The ball hit him in the left eye. Claude stared ahead through his one remaining eye. Although, he could not have been looking at anything. His death would have been quick. He sank to his knees before slumping fully to the ground.

'What am I going to get, Claude?' asked Fabron, who pushed the body over with the toe of his boot. 'Replaced, ousted, killed? No, my friend, that will only be happening to you today.'

The two men that had brought the cartload of weapons had taken several steps back. Fabron turned to them. The shorter one was pale; Athos wondered if he might pass out.

'Clear that away,' said Fabron, pointing at the body of Claude with the spent gun.

The two men hauled the body away, dragging it out of sight behind where the Musketeers were sitting.

Fabron walked up to the cart of guns and laid the spent pistol down before picking up another. He started the process of loading the weapon. Fabron was turned slightly away from Athos, who could not see his hands, but he knew what the man was doing. He had loaded pistols and muskets enough times to be able to read the movements from any angle. He laid the loaded pistol down and picked up another. He proceeded to load and prime the second weapon. Athos wondered if he might ready the entire collection of guns. But to what purpose.

He had said he had time to kill was he intending to kill more of his men. He had also said he did not need all of his captives, a chilling prospect, thought Athos.

Athos' attention was drawn to Aramis, who was sitting closest to the hand cart. He was watching Fabron intently, his brow furrowed. Athos saw Aramis move from side to side a little several times as though he was trying to catch even the smallest movement from their captor. A look of realisation crossed Aramis' face at the same moment that Fabron realised it was his turn to be scrutinised.

Fabron put down the gun in his hand and crossed to Aramis. The move was quick and decisive. Aramis' eyes went wide. He opened his mouth to say something but was not given the chance. Fabron kicked him in the head, causing him to tumble backwards, unable to support himself with his arms tied behind his back. But the single kick was not enough for Fabron; he followed up the attack with more kicks. Aramis could do nothing to defend himself. He could not cover his head; he could not turn away; he was helpless.

'Hey,' shouted Porthos as Fabron continued his attack, 'what's he done to deserve that?'

Fabron did not pause, did not look up, did not stop.

'Leave him alone,' demanded d'Artagnan, unable to hide the horror on his face.

Athos knew their words were falling on deaf ears. Claude had been correct; Fabron was not a leader. He was a man who was losing control. Whatever Aramis had done to make Fabron attack him was not worth the level of the assault that he was receiving. Even when it was obvious the Musketeer was unconscious, Fabron continued, leaning over to punch the unfortunate soldier a few times before he finally stopped and straightened up.

Aramis was left lying limply on his side. A deep graze on his forehead was bleeding sluggishly, while several cuts were leaving trickles of blood snaking their way across his face. Mottled marks were already forming on Aramis' skin. He was breathing shallowly, indicating injuries to his ribs or chest. His clothing was rucked up, his shirt torn, and his breeches scuffed. It was clear the unconscious Musketeer was in bad shape. And they could do nothing to help him at that moment.

'Why?' asked Athos, turning his attention to Fabron.

The leader of the gang was breathing hard; he was staring down at Aramis with a look of anger on his face.

'Because he had worked it out. I did not want any of you to work it out. Therefore, he had to be punished.'

'Worked what out?' asked d'Artagnan, who glanced up at Fabron for a few seconds before returning his gaze to his fallen comrade.

'Worked out the game. And I didn't want him to spoil it.'

All three conscious Musketeers turned their eyes towards Fabron who was still looking at Aramis. Athos wondered if he was watching Aramis to ensure he was unconscious and not about to tell them all what he had seen. After a few seconds, the leader turned to look at them.

'Did you need to be quite so brutal?' enquired Athos.

Fabron looked at Athos for a few seconds before turning back to the cart where the loaded guns lay. He selected a gun, weighing it in his hand for a few seconds. Athos could see the sneering smile again. He fleetingly glanced at Athos before stepping away from the cart. He stopped in front of Aramis. After a final look at Athos, this time with a raised eyebrow, he raised the gun, aiming at Aramis' head, and pulled the trigger.

Porthos and d'Artagnan yelled incomprehensibly at Fabron who simply waited for them to stop. Athos stared at Aramis. He stared at the spot that the wound from the gunshot should have been. But it was not there. He searched his brother's body for any additional injuries to the ones he already had and found none.

'The gun was not loaded,' said Athos calmly, looking up at Fabron, who broke into a wide grin.

'Correct.'

'Why'd you shoot him then?' demanded Porthos with incomprehension.

'To show why he had to be punished?'

Porthos looked back at Athos, his brow furrowed. Athos shook his head. He could not work out what Fabron's agenda was either.

Fabron sighed and rolled his eyes; he threw the spent gun back on the cart and turned to the three Musketeers.

'We have time to kill. The man that wants one of you will not be here for another couple of hours. And, as he only wanted one Musketeer as his prize, I have three I do not need. But to keep you all in check I will not simply kill three of you. l need you all alive so that you all behave.'

Athos looked at Porthos and d'Artagnan, who was looking back at him. Both Musketeers had the same expression of incredulity. Claude had been correct; the leader of the gang was insane. Perhaps years of leadership had finally worn the man down.

Fabron turned to the taller of the young men that had brought the weapons to the clearing. The man was standing a few yards away. He had blood splashes on his dirty shirt where he had moved Claude's body.

'Giles,' he said, 'untie that one.'

Fabron pointed at Athos, who was aware of Porthos and d'Artagnan straightening up and paying even more attention than they were before. If Athos was released, they had more of a chance of escape. Athos wondered what Fabron would want of him once he was untied.

Giles was a lanky blond-haired man in his early twenties. Athos did not imagine he was one of the men looking to usurp Fabron, which probably explained why the leader wanted him as his lackey.

Athos was pushed forward slightly as Giles began to work the knots loose. It took him a few attempts and several muttered curses to finally free Athos. As he had expected, pain radiated out from his arms where the blood was able to flow freely again. He eased his arms around and screwed his eyes shut as he was hauled to his feet. Giles kept one hand wrapped around his upper arm. Athos contemplated pulling away but knew the consequences for his brothers would not be favourable. He did not want to antagonise Fabron. He would wait patiently, biding his time, until he could make a considered move.

Fabron was back by the handcart. He was looking at the guns and arranging them in a line. Once he was satisfied with his work, he nodded to himself. He looked up and sneered again.

'Stand him there, against that tree.'

Giles propelled Athos forward and turned him to stand a foot in front of a large-trunked tree.

'Simon,' said Fabron, raising his voice slightly.

The younger man, who still looked as though he might faint, stepped closer. Athos had not noticed him loitering near a tangle of bramble bushes. Fabron thrust a pistol into the young man's hand.

'If he runs, shoot one of them in the head.'

Fabron vaguely gestured at Porthos and d'Artagnan. Athos could see his chance of aiding their escape begin to diminish.

Simon stood behind the restrained Musketeers; he was visibly shaking. Athos suspected the youth had never taken a life. He wondered if Simon had been forced into the gang. Perhaps he knew nothing else.

'Mix up the guns,' Fabron said with a nod toward Giles who looked confused but did as he was told.

Giles picked up two of the guns and swapped their positions. He picked up another and moved it to the opposite end of the line of guns. The young gang member continued with his task for a few seconds; Athos noted that the guns were replaced in the same neat line Fabron had left them.

'Giles, pick one of the guns at random,' said Fabron.

Giles did as he was told. The young man looked as confused as the Musketeers.

Fabron walked to stand opposite Athos with his back to another wide trunked tree. He looked at Athos for several seconds and took a couple of slow, deep breaths. Athos stared back at the man. In his peripheral vision, he could see d'Artagnan looking at Aramis carefully; whilst Porthos watched what was happening in the clearing.

'Giles, stand there, in the middle of us.'

Giles took a few paces forward and stopped at the spot the leader had indicated. Fabron stood straight and tall, head held high.

'Giles, I want you to fire the gun at me.'

Giles took a step back. Athos could not see the young man's face but could imaging the shocked expression.

'Your friend there,' said Fabron with a throwaway gesture towards Aramis, 'he had worked it out. He was watching me when I was loading the weapons. He spotted that I was not loading them properly… Only one of the pistols has a ball in it. Only one of them will prove deadly.'

Athos glanced towards Aramis. The keen-eyed marksman would have spotted the missing step as Fabron loaded the weapons. He had paid the price for that knowledge before he could share it.

'You want us to take turns to be shot at?' asked Athos, keeping any hint of emotion from his voice.

Fabron sneered and nodded.

'Shoot to kill, Giles,' said Fabron.

The young man was shaking slightly. Athos wondered if he would be able to shoot straight.

'And if you do not do my bidding, I will get rid of you in the same way that I got rid of Claude.'

Giles raised the pistol, aiming at Fabron's head. Fabron nodded. Giles pulled the trigger.

Fabron remained where he was. The gun had not been loaded.

'Your turn,' said Fabron with a nod towards Athos. 'Pick a gun or ask Giles to pick one at random. I can assure you he does not know which one is loaded; nobody does.'

Athos looked at the cart of guns. His mind raced as he tried to work through every scenario. He could not work out a way out of their current situation without going through with the mad man's plan.

'Pick. A. Gun.'

Athos made eye contact with Fabron. The man had an evil glint to his eye. The madness that was gripping him was all-consuming. Did he not care if he lived or died? Athos had been in some dark places within his mind over the years. He had tried to drown himself in wine or bury his spectors with more hours of work than was sensible. But he had never contemplated a game of chance with such high stakes as his life.

Fabron sighed. He shook his head and glared at Athos before walking towards the restrained Musketeers. Athos took a step forward but was reminded to stay in place by Simon, who aimed his pistol towards him.

D'Artagnan became Fabron's second victim. The Musketeer could do nothing to get out of the way of the swift kick to his right knee. He yelped in pain and fell to the side. Athos watched with concern as D'Artagnan struggled to get himself back into a sitting position, a pained grimace on his face. Porthos spoke to the injured man quietly for a few seconds, eventually getting a brief nod in reply. Athos took that to be a sign that d'Artagnan was as alright as could be expected.

'Pick a gun or I will do to him what I did to that one.'

Fabron pointed at d'Artagnan and Aramis in turn. Athos glanced at d'Artagnan apologetically before looking towards Giles.

'Pick any one,' he said.

Giles nodded. Athos could see the young man was still unsure about what he was being asked to do. The man looked a little green as he returned to his spot between Fabron and Athos.

'If you flinch out of the way I will have one of them shot in the shoulder,' said Fabron.

Athos did not look at the weapon-wielding man; he focused all his attention on Fabron. He was aware of Giles raising the weapon and taking aim. He was aware of the trigger being pulled.

He was aware that he was still alive.

Giles lowered the gun.

'My turn,' said Fabron.

The End.

Authors note: Whumpee: Aramis and d'Artagnan. Featuring: Athos and Porthos.

This will be concluded in the next chapter.