Note: Thanks for the positive feedback for the first chapter. I'm glad that despite my own doubts, you are enjoying it so far. Also thanks to Jmp and Uia for your reviews, as I cannot respond to you personally. I'm not sure yet how frequent I'll be able to update, but here you go with Chapter 2. I hope you enjoy.
Chapter 2: Missing Musketeers
The feeling of unease didn't leave d'Artagnan. He would lie if he'd say he wasn't worried at all. He was. He had witnessed Aramis and Porthos missing morning muster two or three times, but most of the times, they appeared shortly after or Athos was there to explain the situation. Athos missed it one time, as he was too drunk to be on time. Tréville had him mucking the stables for two weeks. But all three of them missing had never happened in all the time d'Artagnan was a part of the regiment, and judging by Tréville's reaction, it had also never happened before.
He felt the presence of Constance next to him.
"So they are really missing?" she asked in a questioning tone, to cover the concern in her voice.
D'Artagnan grunted confirmative.
"Either they are drunk in an alley, or something happened. I'm about to find out."
He roughly put the leather bridle on his horse and groaned as he felt Constance tapping him on the shoulder.
"Constance, I really don't have the time for…"
"Shut up, you idiot. I think there is somebody looking for you."
D'Artagnan closed his mouth again and followed her gaze. A young woman in dark green dress stood near a cadet, her red hair wildly pinned up, loose curls falling on her shoulders.
She seemed to ask the cadet, Clément was his name, something.
Clément, currently busy cleaning the table, looked up, and pointed into d'Artagnan's direction shortly after.
D'Artagnan furrowed his brow and walked over to meet the woman, the horse walking to his right and Constance on his heels.
The woman came to a stop right in front of him and tilted her head in a greeting manner.
"Good Morning, Monsieur. I was told you are Monsieur d'Artagnan?"
D'Artagnan answered with a confused nod, and gestured her to carry on.
"My name is Inès, I am a friend of Porthos'."
D'Artagnan's head shot up, all of his attention on her.
"Porthos?"
She nodded shyly.
"He was supposed to meet me yesterday. He never came, so I figured I would ask one of his friends. Your name fell multiple times, as well as…"
"Aramis and Athos?"
She nodded.
"Do you know where he might be?"
D'Artagnan bit his lip nervously, unsure of what to say.
"Did you want to meet near Notre-Dame?" he asked carefully.
"Yes."
"Where exactly?" d'Artagnan asked, fighting hard to stay patient.
"When you enter l'île de la Cité over Pont Saint-Michel, turn right. There is a fountain. We used to meet there."
"Alright. Thank you, Madmoiselle…," he said, while putting a foot in the stirrup and lifting himself on the horse.
"Monsieur d'Artagnan, what does that mean?" the woman asked, confusion written all over her face. "Please, explain yourself."
But d'Artagnan had no time, and even though he could feel with the lady, he was forced into action.
"Constance…" he merely stated and communicated with her in a silent language. Constance nodded, took the woman by the hand and walked her over to the bench, while d'Artagnan dug his heels into the animal's flank.
He steered the animal out of the garrison's courtyard and took the fastest way to Notre-Dame. Going the way Porthos' probably took yesterday was his only trace and he was willing to give it a try. The crowds of civilians were making room for him, and d'Artagnan carefully and closely eyed the areas, hoping to find any kind of indication what happened to Porthos.
According to Inès, Porthos had never reached their meeting-location near Notre-Dame. D'Artagnan didn't know who Inès was, but he could take his guesses. Porthos wasn't the one for jilting someone. There must be a reason why he never made it to Notre-Dame, and d'Artagnan feared it might not be a pleasant one.
His horse grew a little agitated the further d'Artagnan pushed it through the streets of Paris, and the Gascon didn't need to wait too long to find out why. He was only halfway on his way to Notre-Dame when his eyes spotted something unusual.
A lot of people were hurrying above the street and back, clearing up a mess that had been left behind.
Next to an old church was a market, or what was left of it. Three of the market stands were destroyed, thrown over, and the contents were stamped into the ground or scattered all over the street.
D'Artagnan's gaze wandered over the scenery again, and with a heavy heart, he remembered Aramis was last seen going to church. It could be a coincidence, but d'Artagnan just hoped he was wrong with his assumptions.
"Hey, musketeer!" a raw voice called and he looked at a man, maybe Tréville's age, that walked up to him and took d'Artagnan's horse by the neck to stop it. "Why don't you take a minute and detect the damage done here?"
"Jacques, stop it. He is a musketeer!" a woman screeched and rushed forward, placing her hand on her husband's arm.
"Yes, and it is his job to protect the people in this city and fight their threats, at least that's what I've always thought of you," Jacques replied and kept the firm grip on the horse's bridle.
The woman looked scared, but she glanced at d'Artagnan with so much pleading and fear that the musketeer just raised a hand in a calming gesture.
"It's alright. Tell me, Monsieur, what happened here?"
Jacques nodded, determination written all over his face.
"Maybe you should come inside. My son can tell the whole story."
D'Artagnan hesitated for another second. He felt like he didn't have the time for any chitchat since every bone in his body screamed to search for his friends, but maybe this was a lead to one of them. D'Artagnan prayed that he was wrong.
He nodded and dismounted quickly.
"You can give me your horse, Monsieur!" Jacques' wife said and took the reins.
D'Artagnan glared at her gratefully and followed Jacques into the small house. It was as dark as it could possibly be inside, and d'Artagnan was left surprised by what he saw when Jacques led him to his son.
His son, maybe fourteen years old at most, was seated on a bed, a handmade bandage wrapped around his arm and head. A few shallow cuts were visible on the left side of his face.
His head shot up the second he noticed d'Artagnan, fully armed and in uniform, coming through the door.
"It's alright, Pierre," Jacques assured his son and laid a hand on Pierre's shoulder, "he is here to help, not to arrest you. Am I right?"
The man eyed d'Artagnan intensively and piercingly.
D'Artagnan frowned.
"No, boy. I am here to help. Pierre is your name, yes?"
The boy blinked as a response but still looked scared.
D'Artagnan got on his knees in front of the boy, his weapons rattling at the movement.
"I need you to tell me what happened here."
Pierre looked at his father for confirmation, and Jacques nodded and squeezed his son's shoulder reassuringly.
"There was this man. He wore a musketeer uniform. He left the church."
"When?" d'Artagnan interrupted.
"Yesterday. There weren't many people around. I was waiting for Maman to fetch me, so I guarded her market stand in the meantime. I noticed another man, wearing a hood and dark clothing, waiting behind a stone pillar with a knife in his hands I think."
D'Artagnan tried to ignore the shudder that ran over his back and concentrated on the story.
"Anyway, the hooded man tried to sneak up on the musketeer and grab him from behind, but the musketeer apparently heard that and turned around last second. There were other hooded men, coming from all directions. They have been hiding. The musketeer fought four of them at once, and during the fight, they destroyed the market. Those attackers were ruthless, Monsieur, and they pushed me out of the way into the splintered wood. The musketeer tried to rescue me, but he was outnumbered. The last thing I remember is that the musketeer was unconscious and the hooded men dragged him away."
D'Artagnan gritted his teeth.
"So, the musketeer was alive, last time you saw him?"
Pierre nodded.
"Yes. These men destroyed half of the market and fought the musketeer without any reason."
Jacques snorted.
"No offense, but I think every man who shows up wearing hoods and masks in the middle of the day, injuring innocent civilians, is not by his senses."
D'Artagnan nodded, slowly processing what he has just been told.
"How did the musketeer look like?" he asked the boy, needing confirmation before he did anything else.
"Why, are you missing some?" Jacques threw in and d'Artagnan just glared.
Pierre cleared his throat.
"A little shorter than you, I think, Monsieur." Pierre looked at him from head to toes. "Dark, shoulder long hair. And a beard, if I recall correctly."
Could be Athos or Aramis, d'Artagnan thought and sighed. However, the case that this was Athos was very unlikely.
"Anything else you noticed?"
"I think he had a brown uniform. When he left the church, he put on a weapon belt and wore a rifle or something hooked on a strap around his waist. I think not every musketeer does that, do they?"
No. But Aramis does.
"No, no they don't," d'Artagnan replied absent-mindedly. "Thank you. You helped me a lot."
Pierre gave him a shy smile.
D'Artagnan leaned forward and patted the boy on the knee.
"I wish you a quick and safe recovery, Pierre."
"What about the damage done? To my son and my wife's market?" Jacques interfered and raised a questioning eyebrow.
D'Artagnan's patience was at its limits. He stood up and didn't even try to hide his annoyed facial expression.
"I will inform my captain, and he will inform the King. Now, if you excuse me, Monsieur, I have some criminals to catch."
And he turned on the heel and made his way out of the house.
"Good luck!" he heard Pierre shouting after him.
D'Artagnan mounted his horse again and took a deep breath.
So, Aramis was ambushed and probably abducted after he left the church. Which meant, he didn't miss morning muster on purpose. If these criminals were in this part of the city, they probably also had Porthos.
Fear swept over him. They ambushed musketeers. Why Porthos, why Aramis? And probably Athos as well.
As d'Artagnan decided to visit the blacksmith Athos usually went to, he couldn't ignore the feeling of being watched, and for the first time in a long time, he was actually scared.
He arrived at his destination about fifteen minutes later, jumped off his horse and tied it to a wooden pillar that carried the roof of the location.
Nobody was at the forge, so d'Artagnan went and knocked on the door of the house that belonged to the smith. He received no answer.
Worry and discomfort took over all of his senses, and he wanted to take a closer look the place.
The forge's fire was ashen-cold, it was obviously not used for some time. The hammers laid on the anvil, unused, and on the wall next to it were a couple of weapons hanging from the hooks, ready to be sold.
Mostly, there were long rapiers and broad swords, but d'Artagnan also spotted a slim and defined dagger, safely secured in a scabbard. He closed his eyes. He would bet that this was the dagger Athos came to retrieve, since the blade totally fit his style.
D'Artagnan sighed and ran a hand over his face and clawed it into his hair.
What on earth happened to them? Aramis abducted, Athos never arrived at the blacksmith. Porthos…maybe someone near Notre-Dame has seen Porthos. It's not like he was easy to miss.
D'Artagnan made his decision and was determined to visit Notre-Dame first before he would return to Tréville to make his report. Maybe the captain had some better ideas.
The Gascon undid the knot of the reins and calmed the mare, which felt his jumpiness and unease of its rider and snuffled softly.
Without any prior indication or warning, the horse suddenly moved backwards and reared up.
"Whoa, easy girl…" d'Artagnan tried to soothe her and kept a firm grip on the reins.
He didn't see the man sneaking up to him and he didn't hear the drawing of a weapon. All he felt was a sudden pain exploding in his head and his descent towards the ground was immediate.
The horse wrest itself free and nickered loudly, before running down the road.
D'Artagnan's vision was blurry, but he could make out a voice, even though he couldn't identify the man in his eyesight it belonged to.
"I'm sorry…," he heard the voice whisper.
Another punch and everything went black.