I hope all of you are safe and well, especially those who have experienced the wrath of storms Dudley and Eunice in the past few days. Storm Franklin is currently making his presence felt where I live but nothing like on the scale of Eunice. Think you to all who found time to read the last chapter and to those who left comments.

So, will Athos' plan work?

CHAPTER 28

I

Athos had been in place for several minutes behind an outcrop of rock and was watching the three men immediately in front of him. They were lying on their bellies in long grass at the crest of a slope that fell away beneath them to the road below. Their vantage point was good so there was no chance of missing anyone who passed that way, especially as that stretch of the route was straight and they would be able to see Tanquerel approaching a long while before he became aware of their presence.

The Musketeer looked back at the uneven ground he had crossed, inching forward on his stomach once he had cleared the tree line of the small copse where he had tethered his mount. He had carefully tested the wind direction, wary of being upwind of the men's horses; he could not afford the animals picking up the scent of another and making a noise that might alert the attackers as to his nearness. He could see no sign of the other mounts, and he could only surmise that they had been left elsewhere, the men making their way into position on foot.

He glanced down at the front of his leather doublet and grimaced. The previous day's storm had ventured inland, and much rain had fallen so the grass through which he had crawled remained damp, the earth muddy in places. He sat back against the rock and wiped his gloves as best he could on his breeches; they had to be dry and mud free if he were to have a firm grip upon his weapons. He prepared his brace of pistols; he needed to make each of the two shots count before he resorted to drawing his sword because he anticipated having to stand to make good his own attack. The men were ideally situated to fire down upon travellers from their prone positions and he could not fire and hit men lying down from his place of concealment. He was also at a disadvantage in that he could not see the road or Tanquerel's approach.

There was intermittent birdsong, but he ignored it all until a different and particularly clear call sounded from the rise on the far side of the road.

Porthos.

Athos frowned as he counted the sounds Porthos was making. He was in position and could see five more attackers.

Almost immediately, an answering birdcall came from Athos' left. It was Aramis who had four men in his sights.

Licking his lips and ensuring that his mouth was moist, Athos made the same sound and let his brothers know of the men he was watching. Fleetingly, he tried to remember which bird Porthos had taught them to emulate but its name escaped him; it was immaterial anyway and he easily recreated the sound.

All that mattered now was that there were twelve of the enemy and only three of them; they were outnumbered four to one as he was still not sure what Tanquerel would do. If the emissary decided to side with de Ricart's men … Athos could not dwell on that prospect. They had faced worse odds before and had walked away, unscathed more often than not, and he hoped that they would be so fortunate this day. They certainly had the element of surprise in their favour.

The three men in front of him suddenly tensed; it could only mean that they could see Tanquerel. If they recognised him, they were probably wondering what had happened to his travelling companions. It might add doubt to his identity, causing them to hesitate and thereby granting the Musketeers a little extra time. Athos pushed himself with grace and ease to his feet and stood there, slowing his breathing as he checked the primed pistols one last time.

The man in the middle rose to his knees, perhaps to see better, but it was the last thing he did.

Athos fired as he strode forward, knowing that it would affect his accuracy but hoping that he would hit something. The shot from the pistol in his right hand caught the man in the back and he crumpled without a sound. Almost immediately, the Musketeer lieutenant squeezed the trigger of the pistol in his other hand, just as a cacophony of discharging weapons told him that his brothers had entered the fray. Surprised, the man to the left began to turn, the movement potentially saving his life as the lead ball struck him in the shoulder rather than near his heart. He howled and clutched at the wound as his own pistol fell from useless fingers.

Weapons spent, Athos dropped them on the ground behind him to retrieve later. He drew his sword and broke into a run but the man to the right had had time to register what was happening and raised his pistol and fired. The approaching soldier threw himself down so the shot harmlessly passed him by.

Without faltering, Athos rolled and regained his feet, a guttural roar breaking from him as he covered the ground towards his assailant.

Shock turned to terror as the man scrambled to his feet, backed up a few paces and turned to run down the slope, shrieking as he went as if all the demons in hell were after him rather than a grim-faced Musketeer.

He heard more shots that were succeeded by shouts and the clashing of swords. Without hesitating, Athos started down the steep slope in pursuit of the man. Loose stones and earth gave way beneath him, and he would have fallen had he not sat and slid the rest of the way.

Rapidly looking around him as he found his feet on the solid ground of the road, he saw his brothers with two opponents each but there was a moment of satisfaction when he noted that even Tanquerel had engaged with one of the attackers.

The man who had run from him had rethought his flight for now he yelled and launched himself at Athos, sword held high over his head. As he brought it down, Athos effortlessly sidestepped it. In so doing, he noticed the man he had wounded now slowly making his way down the slope, pistol wavering in a different hand. He was so clearly unsteady, made so by the descent and his wound, that it was hard to determine which of the Musketeers was his intended target, and his shot went wide of any mark. Athos had no time to respond to him though as the idiot with the sword was set to lunge again.

Driven to desperation, the Idiot expended unnecessary energy loudly cursing the Musketeer whom he faced and attacked again and again. Yes, he was dangerous, but he could only sustain the momentum for so long for his wild thrusts and arcing blade were reckless and Athos countered each blow with ease. As the man swung his sword wide and several inches away from the soldier's torso, he was off-balance and Athos struck, piercing his opponent through the chest.

The man had not hit the ground before instinct warned Athos of someone to his left. He moved quickly but it was not enough. The man he had injured had decided to use his pistol as a bludgeon and was determined to brain the Musketeer, but Athos' movement meant it missed his head, coming down instead upon his left shoulder. White hot pain exploded down his arm at the impact, and he dropped the main gauche as a numbness to his fingers rapidly followed. With a yell of combined rage and pain, the thrust of his rapier caught the other man in the leg, causing him to grab at the flowing blood. This was no time for finesse as Athos was intent on bringing the man down so a powerful blow to the side of the head followed, courtesy of the Musketeer's elbow. Then a swift kick delivered to the groin felled the man instantly. He lay on the ground writhing in agony, unsure as to which part of him hurt the most.

Athos took a deep breath and flexed the fingers of his left hand, before stooping to pick up his fallen weapon and swiftly assessing the scene. Tanquerel had killed his man and stood breathing heavily. Their eyes met briefly and Athos nodded his thanks before the pair moved forward to assist the other Musketeers.

The nearest, Porthos, was a force to be reckoned with; he had already put one man down and was clearly in control of things with his remaining foe, but Tanquerel still moved in his direction. Aramis, on the other hand, was still contending with two men and Athos, alarmed at the blood running unchecked down the side of his brother's face, broke into a run and attacked the nearest adversary from behind.

The fight was then quickly concluded. Aramis, one arm outstretched to Athos' shoulder to steady himself, gulped in lungsful of air and stood, head bowed as he looked at the two bodies sprawled at his feet.

"You are hurt," Athos said, a little unnecessarily but his concern apparent, even as he sheathed his sword and likewise securely tucked the main gauche into the back of his weapons belt.

Aramis wiped at the blood with a gloved hand. "It's not as bad as it looks."

He glanced to where Porthos was clapping the emissary on the back in gratitude for whatever part he had played. The road was littered with seven dead and injured men and Athos knew he had killed an eighth. That left another four unaccounted for and he was about to ask how Aramis had fared before the fight reached the road when Tanquerel suddenly yelled, "No!"

When Athos later gave thought to the next events, all he could remember was that they seemed to happen simultaneously.

Was Tanquerel's shout a warning or an order? Whichever it was, he threw himself at Porthos, shouldering the big Musketeer out of the way as a shot rang out from somewhere.

In a moment that seemed drawn out forever, the three soldiers and the emissary looked at each other and then, as if in slow motion, Tanquerel's knees gave way, and he sank wordlessly to the ground.

Galvanised into action, Athos' head whipped round to the place from which the shot originated, just in time to see a dark-clad figure disappear back from the top of the rise and he knew instinctively that it was Guiscard de Ricart.

Without hesitation, he ran at the slope, managing to get half-way up before he had to scrabble on all fours to reach the top.

"Porthos, go after him!" Aramis yelled, kneeling beside the prostrate Tanquerel. "I'll look after things here."

It did not take more than a cursory glance to know that this was one of those occasions when there was nothing he could do to help except try to make the stricken man's last minutes as comfortable as possible. His bag with his medical supplies was behind his saddle and the horse was some distance away, up the slope and back amongst trees, just as Athos had done with his own mount. By the time Aramis had got to the animal and returned with his supplies, it would be too late and the emissary would be dead. No man deserved to die alone.

He cursed his lack of foresight. What if this had been one of his brothers?

The cursing changed to remonstration with himself at the stupid thought; he could hardly enter a battle weighed down with a bag of bandages and ointments!

Tanquerel groaned and Aramis focused his attention on the dying man. Stripping off his coat, Aramis hastily folded it and gently raised the emissary's head so that he could slide the garment beneath him to cushion him from the hard ground. Then Aramis pulled out his handkerchief, shaking his head in wonder that it was still clean and applied pressure with it over the wound, but the fabric and his hands were soon red with spilled blood.

Tanquerel waved a weak hand vaguely in the direction of the Musketeer, his lips moving. Aramis grasped the flailing hand and held it tight to offer what comfort he could as he leaned close to listen to the dying man's last words.

II

"Athos, wait!" Porthos bellowed as he reached the top of the rise in time to see his brother running at speed across the open ground towards the tree line. Heavens, the slighter man could move when he wanted!

But it was not fast enough as de Ricart had the advantage of a head start and he had not had to negotiate the slope first.

Athos skidded to a halt as the man reappeared from the canopy of trees and pushed his horse into a hard gallop, effectively increasing the distance between them by the second.

The Musketeer roared his frustration as Porthos joined him, chest heaving for breath, and the pair stood, observing de Ricart disappearing into the distance.

"You think that's the last we'll see of him?" Porthos asked eventually, when he had breath enough.

Athos glared in the direction de Ricart had taken, suppressed anger rolling off him in waves even as the adrenalin from the fight began to wane.

"I hope not," he ground out and turned to go back to the road.

Porthos hesitated a little, his eyes narrowing in consternation as he watched his friend stride away, the set of the shoulders screaming of the fury and tension in his slender frame.

"This isn't goin' to end well for someone," Porthos muttered to no-one in particular as he sighed and set off after the lieutenant.