Chapter 4: Captive

Earlier that day

The last thing Athos remembered was being thrown into a cart, his brain vaguely registering that there were other people around him as well. Even though he was at least half-awake, his mind was foggy, his limbs not cooperating at all, and soon, he drifted back into the darkness.

The next time he awoke, it was because of one or two water drops falling on his face. He scrunched his face and opened his eyes. It was dark, and he was pretty sure he was lying on his back on a very hard surface. Probably stone.

He slowly realized he was able to move, that he had regained control about his body. He brought his hands up to his eyes and rubbed them a few times, trying to clear his vision.

He heard low whispering somewhere to his right, and suddenly, a warm and soft hand was on his cheek, patting it lightly.

"Monsieur, are you back with us?"

Athos groaned and turned on his side.

The woman the hand belonged to shrank back abruptly, as if she was scared that he was going to hurt her. She had dirty, blonde hair, and wore nothing but a brown, worn out dress. Probably a farmer's girl. A dark, purple bruise was on her right cheek.

Athos ignored her for now and slowly propped up on his elbows. A loud rustling drew his attention as well as a heavy weight on his wrist.

His eyes wandered to his arms and he realized his right hand was in a handcuff, which was attached to the stone wall with a heavy, rusty chain.

He pulled at it, just to make sure that he was getting this right. He pulled again, more forcefully this time, but the chains were strong and unbreakable. Athos slipped on the dirty floor and landed on his back, the air pushed out of his chest in an instant.

He moaned and closed his eyes again, as if all of this was just a weird dream and he could snap out of it by just waking up, but it didn't happen. He rolled onto his side and took a few deep breaths, fully aware of a lot of eyes being locked on him, watching him and waiting for whatever he was going to do.

So he sat up and crawled backwards until his back leaned against the cold wall. He took notice of his situation for the first time now.

Even though it was dark, he could tell he was locked in a cell, the iron bars blocking his escape into freedom were numerous and thick, the leaky cellar leaving the bars slightly rusty.

He was locked in a cell together with the young woman, who was still crouched in the corner, her wrist also safely locked and the chain attached to the wall. Whoever their captor was, he really didn't want them to escape.

Two other people were in the cell to his right. An old man with a wild, untamed beard and a tattered grey shirt was standing at the iron bars that divided their cells, watching him carefully. The other person was a young boy, maybe fourteen years old, with short, dark hair and deep blue eyes Athos could make out even in the dark light he was given. Both of them were shackled as well.

"Monsieur…," the young woman in his cell started again, giving the conversation a second try, "are you well?"

Athos looked at her through hooded eyes, squinting his eyes in order to see her better in the dim light.

"Where am I?" he rasped, not bothering to answer her question.

"Prison, as you can see. The landlord brought you here yesterday evening," the old man in the other cell answered.

"What…?" Athos really had a hard time understanding this and connecting the information he was given. "No, no, Paris…", he stuttered. God, his mind was still foggy and his movements seemed so slow.

"They drugged you," the old man explained dryly.

"That explains a lot…," Athos mumbled and looked at the man, not satisfied with the little information he was told, "but again, who? Where am I?" His voice took on a more dangerous tone now.

"You are in the captivity of the Baron de Terré, Monsieur." The woman raised her voice again.

"De Terré? Never heard of this man. This must be a misunderstanding. I have duties to attend to, and I've got no time for any of this man's nonsense."

"I fear this is not a misunderstanding," his cell neighbor spoke.

"How do you know that?" Athos growled and glared at him.

"You are a musketeer, monsieur. Just what the baron is looking for. A capable warrior."

"Yes, and I serve the King, not some little nobleman."

"Are you deaf as well as stupid, young man?" the old man hissed and nervously scanned the door, "we are all prisoners here. Some of us are used as hostages, some of us will be forced to help the baron in his affairs on the battlefield. I think you don't have to guess what you will be needed for."

Athos didn't respond to that. He was taking in more of the cellar they were locked in. Two other cells were opposite of theirs, lying in absolute darkness, their content not visible for the musketeer's eyes, as they were still getting used to the lighting conditions in the basement.

"But you are a musketeer, right?" the woman approached him, taking his hand in hers and looking at him with begging eyes, "you are well trained. Maybe you know a way how to get out of here."

Athos shrugged.

"I am a musketeer, not a wizard", he snapped, his anger taking over as his slow mind was trying to think of a solution on how to get the hell out of here. And what was going on in the first place. The woman winced and crawled back into her corner of the cell. Athos felt sorry for being so rude, but right now, he needed to focus on the main cause here.

"Well, maybe your comrade is a little bit more helpful later," the old man exclaimed frustrated and punched against the iron bars.

Athos immediately sharpened his ears.

"My comrade?" he asked, a bizarre feeling of hope flushing through his chest as he was weirdly glad that he wasn't alone with these strangers here. On the other hand, his comrade, whoever it was, was stuck here as well.

The old man nodded and gestured over to the cell that was plunged in darkness.

"He was brought here about an hour later than you, yesterday," the woman explained shyly, "he was unconscious ever since. Hasn't spoken a word."

Athos' heart dropped.

He crawled as close to the cell as his chain allowed him to, so he could maybe make out anything that was in there. Once he got closer, he peered through the bars and narrowed his eyes.

Two figures were in the third cell. One was a giant of a man sitting silently in the corner, awake, but lost in thought. His long hair, wild bushy beard and broad shoulders gave him an intimidating appearance. The other figure was sprawled on the floor, lying on his stomach, and Athos could only see the back of his head. But he was able to recognize the uniform.

Musketeer, definitely.

He crawled a little closer and blinked multiple times, as if that would help him to light his vision. He recognized the pauldron, the fleur de lis, carved on the dark brown leather and with some filigree decorations.

"Aramis…," he breathed, torn between relief that he didn't need to figure out a solution on his own and the shock that his brother was as much of a prisoner as he was.

The figure didn't move.

"Aramis!" he called a little louder, hoping to reach his brother with his commanding voice.

No reaction.

"He's out cold," the until-now mute giant stated flatly.

"Yes, that much I figured," Athos responded sarcastically and leaned against the iron bars, still very tired and worn out, with a constant, dull headache. Maybe a side-effect of whatever they drugged him with.

"So, what do you suggest we do now?" Porthos asked, clearly not happy he had to stay at this mansion for now.

D'Artagnan shrugged.

"What do I know? All I know is that these people need our help."

Porthos snorted disapprovingly.

"Yeah, so do Athos and Aramis. You said they disappeared as well."

D'Artagnan nodded.

"How did they get you, by the way?"

"Come again?"

"Claude and his men. How did they get you to come with them?"

Porthos dropped on one of the noble, pretty chairs.

"It's not as if I had a choice, really," he replied grumpily and gave Claude a piercing look, "appeared out of nowhere behind my back, disarmed me and held me at gunpoint."

"So, basically non-violent?"

Porthos raised an eyebrow.

"If that's what you want to call it, yes. But by the look of your head, your abduction didn't go so easily."

D'Artagnan gazed at Claude, who watched the two of them at a safe distance.

"No, that's true. But I swear I remember someone apologizing before I was knocked out."

"Does that make you feel any better?" Porthos grunted.

D'Artagnan opened his mouth in an attempt to answer, but Porthos didn't let him.

"Listen, lad, as much as I respect your honorable intentions here, my brothers will always be my priority. And I don't trust these people. So you can go and be one more pawn in their game, but I am not going to participate. I'm going to go and search for Athos and Aramis before I might regret my idleness."

D'Artagnan took a step forward and smacked his friend's shoulder lightly.

"Listen to what I want to say, Porthos. I searched for Athos and Aramis before I was captured. Athos apparently never made it to the blacksmith. The place in front of the church Aramis went to was a battleground. From what I was told, he was ambushed and overwhelmed by a few hooded and masked men."

He suddenly felt the presence of Claude behind him.

"The mercenaries of Baron de Terré are always disguised. At least they were the last time we met on a battlefield."

D'Artagnan made a protruding gesture with his hand and eyed Porthos.

"See. The chance that they are captives of de Terré is rather high."

"So?" Porthos retorted indignantly, "then we visit this de Terré and free Athos and Aramis."

Claude's eyes widened and his mouth dropped as if Porthos had lost his mind.

"Good luck with that, pal. Nobody enters his estate unnoticed. His houses are heavily guarded. You won't even know where he keeps your friends."

Before Porthos could respond to that, the door flew open and an upset Gustav stormed in, bristling with anger. He didn't take notice of Porthos or d'Artagnan, he instantly came to a halt in front of Claude.

"What is it?" the young nobleman asked.

"My brother and my nephew. They never returned from Vézelay."

"de Terré?"

"From what we know, yes. My brother is one of the best fighters I know. They probably use Reive as leverage against him. We need to do something, now!"

Porthos walked over to them.

"This Baron has friends of yours too?" he asked and put a hand on Gustav's shoulder in a calming manner.

Gustav growled.

"Not friends. My family."

"So? Then we are two. You and I, we are going to get them back from this Baron de whatever. What do ya think?"

Gustav glared at him. He and Porthos were about the same height, so it really looked like a face-off of giants.

"I'm not dumb. His men are going to tear me into tiny pieces if I make one step on his territory."

"What would they want with musketeers anyway? They can't force them to fight for them. And the two of them for sure can't be bribed with gold," d'Artagnan posed his question and faced Claude.

"From what I heard, he is out of money to pay his brutes. Maybe he wants to use them as hostages and demand ransom for them."

D'Artagnan exhaled slowly.

Porthos let out a deep growl and ran a hand over his head.

"Can anyone here please come up with a somewhat good plan how to rescue his prisoners?" he exclaimed frustrated and his gaze wandered over the few assembled people, "because I am not going to strike roots here and wait until anything happens."

"I do have a suggestion," a voice echoed through the hall and d'Artagnan and Porthos looked up to see Dorian de la Serre, head of the family, hurrying down the stairs.

"Feel free to share, Monsieur," Porthos shot back, having no idea who this man was.

"I have information that de Terré is scouting the area, planning his next attack. Help us, Messieurs, and maybe show our people how to improve their fighting skills. If you are able to make prisoners during the battle, feel free to interrogate them all you want. Maybe they have more information about the whereabouts of your friends…," he gestured to Porthos, "or our people." His eyes locked on Gustav.

D'Artagnan needed a minute to process that suggestion, to weigh his options and their chances of success. Athos and Aramis both being in the hands of this Baron de Terré was the best trace they had. He couldn't go back to Paris and ask Tréville for reinforcements. If the King wasn't interested in these affairs, Tréville had to obey and not send any men out.

He understood Porthos' eager will to act, to keep looking for Athos and Aramis and investigate the circumstances of their disappearance. But a sickening feeling in his guts told d'Artagnan he already knew where those two were. And they had to focus on the best way to get all four of them out of it, unscathed.

Right now, Dorian de la Serre's twist with this Baron de Terré was their best shot.

D'Artagnan looked at Porthos, who was still gleaming with anger, but he took a deep breath and nodded hesitantly.

The Gascon looked up to the Baron.

"What do you want us to do?"

The man rode through the alleys of Paris, while the sun was going down. Her warm, orange light gave the narrow and dirty streets a far more welcoming picture than it was.

The man wore a red cape, the hood over his head. Once he spotted his contact, he slipped off the black stallion and easily landed on his two steady feet.

His sword tapped against his thigh with every step, reminding the man to be careful. Whatever he saw, he needed to be prepared for everything. His contact was a person wrapped in dark grey clothing, the arms folded and the head nervously tilting from one side to another, as if to make sure they weren't being watched. A big, wooden cross was hanging from a pendant around his neck, safely secured in the crinkles of the cloak.

"It's good to see you after all this time, boy," the man spoke with a tranquility that would send shivers down every grown man's back.

"Couldn't agree more. We need to make haste."

The man in grey shushed the younger one.

"Keep your patience, Raston. It's not like I am sharing these information on an everyday basis."

Raston stared at the ground, waiting for the old man to continue.

"How many men did you get?"

Raston's eyes wandered up and met the darkness that was the old man's face, covered by the enormous hood he wore. The young man's eyes glistered with a dangerous pride.

"A lot of red guards, in exchange for gold they will never receive. A blacksmith, and three mercenaries. Captured a warrior from the opponent as well as his son. Oh, and my men were able to capture two musketeers."

The old man's head jerked up in surprise.

"Musketeers? And what exactly do you want with them? They are not going to fight for your cause because you ask so nicely."

Raston lifted the corner of his mouth and formed a crooked smile.

"Of course not. I have my ways. All you need to do is keeping Rochefort off my back."

The man in grey nodded hesitantly.

"No worries. He is distracted with his position at the palace. He won't care about anything else right now."

He made a short pause, as if to think twice about what he was about to ask.

"You know the musketeer's names?"

Raston scowled.

"No. Why do you keep asking me about them?" His tone missed every kind of respect he might have shown earlier.

The grey man grabbed him by the collar with so much force nobody would expect from a man like this. He held his head close to Raston's, whispering in his ear.

The tone of wicked satisfaction was evident.

"Figure out their names. I may have something useful for you. Don't lose this fight, boy. In the name of our family."

He let go with a yank.

Raston took off his hat in a greeting manner and turned on the heel to return to his horse, and quickly mounted the frightened animal.

"Very well. Trust me. I'll see you soon, Uncle."

And he took off into the dark of the night, his horse and his figure becoming one with the silent enveloping of the night.