Even with the cannons still firing, the order to move was given. Porthos looked at his band of three other men, nodded to them, and in a single motion, ran for the Spanish line. Three bands entered on the northern side, and three from the southern side. While they rushed for the cannons, the defensive line of fighting men ran alongside them. They were the ones who would see the combat first, those who would stop the Spanish from protecting their artillery.
Despite the late hour, the lack of light from the moon and stars, the men used the light of the fires and the torches they lit and positioned around the battle-lines.
Porthos ran toward the cannon with three others behind him. He swung his beetle, struck the hip of the Spaniard on guard, protected it and then immediately jumped on the back of the cannon and stepped on the heavy wooden frame that held it. He motioned for Labeau to hold the iron rod and he swung his beetle. Porthos tuned out the shouts of his fellow soldiers as they protected those destroying the cannons. The sounds of heavy beetles resounded as they slammed against the heavy iron rods and forced them into the vents of the massive weapons.
Blades collided, pistols were fired, and the sounds of muskets echoed in unison as a line of red fire exploded from the muzzles.
Aramis stood with his men, many from his own company, and only the finest from the others. The men stood in several box formations as the first line dropped to their knees and reloaded while the second line fired. Despite not having worked together, Raboin's military men stood strong, listened to orders, and held the line in collaboration with the Musketeers.
Porthos had estimated the destruction of the cannons would take eight minutes. Twenty-two cannons were destroyed in less than six. While it had taken four swings for Porthos to beetle a rod into place, Walnut had done it in two. The big man had pushed Spanish soldiers aside, picked one up and tossed him like a sack of grain over the side of the stone barricade, grabbed his beetle, and swung. Musketeer William ran beside him and held the rods. After one strike, he released it, only to run to the next cannon and repeat the process. Walnut's strength and speed defied nature.
The echoes of warnings from Spanish soldiers were shouted throughout the camp, tent flaps were tossed open and men hopped outside, pulling on their boots and grabbing at their weapons. The unexpected attack had left most of them unprepared as the French moved to destroy what they had built.
Despite being outnumbered, the French soldiers fought. The defensive line held their position until the cannons were destroyed and then slowly fell back on Athos' orders. The men jumped and rushed behind the stone walls while Spanish soldiers chased after them. Angered shouts came from those who had been firing the cannons. The deadly weapons were now worthless and would take weeks to repair — if the repairs could be made.
Once the men retreated, the marksmen paused in their firing and waited for Aramis' signal to resume. The torches flickered as the gusts of wind and groups of fighting men moved across the grounds. Men groaned, grunted, and vomited as they struggled to regain their feet in the mud and cold weather.
The darkened sky flashed, and a lightning strike fishtailed across the sky. Soon after, a roll of thunder resounded and then the rains began.
The Spanish, angered by the surprise attack, and destruction of the artillery, rushed the field. While Athos had been sure the Spanish army was fewer in number than what they had expected, they still outnumbered the French.
Porthos shoved a man backward, watched him fall into a trench and then quickly ducked when a blade was swung in his direction. He raised his leather protected arm and grasped the assailant's hand and wrenched the blade from his broken fingers. The man screamed, fell to his knees, holding his arm, and watched Porthos snap the blade of his knee.
"Go home!" Porthos shouted and then grabbed the muzzle of his spent pistol and swung it at the Spaniard's head.
Porthos suddenly grunted when he was hit in the back by a rushing force and fell forward onto his hands and knees. Mud seeped through his gloved fingers, splashed against his thighs and chest. He turned suddenly and then rolled to his right as his assailant threw a pike. It landed just inches from his right shoulder. The man who threw it, grunted and grabbed the handle, but this time shoved it in Porthos' direction.
The flash of lightning brightened the sky and Porthos shifted to his left, felt the dagger pierce the flesh of his side through his leather armor. He grabbed the wooden pole the pike was attached to and flung it backward, sending his attacker into the midst of the fighting. He was quickly knocked to the ground and trampled. The Spaniard struggled to his knees. but was pushed forward again. Someone fell across him and landed with a "humph" on the ground beside him, but quickly regained his feet.
Porthos flung the long spiked spear and watched it land in the thigh of a soldier attacking Levi. The man screamed, grabbed his thigh above the wound, and fell to his right. Levi fell forward, gasped for breath and wiped the mud from his beard. He looked at Porthos, nodded once, and then pushed himself from the mud to rejoin the fight.
Aramis hated using his musket for such actions, but he grabbed the weapon and swung it toward his attacker. The man grunted and blood and teeth spewed from his mouth. The suctioning of mud prevented graceful movements, but Aramis grabbed another soldier by the buckles at his back and shoved him to the ground as someone else slammed into Aramis and sent him falling into a trench. He gasped for breath, felt his fingers dig into the mud, and then he slowly pushed himself upward. He struggled for a long moment, catching his breath, and wheezed as the chill of the night and the rain persisted. Aramis grunted when a soldier fell backward atop him. Both men lay in the mud, but only one struggled beneath the weight of the body. Slowly, Aramis pushed him off and then scrambled out of the trench. Mud clung to the right side of his face, along the collar of his blouse and beneath the leather armor that protected his chest and stomach. The leather skirts of his doublet hung below the hem of the chest plate. Mud dripped from the hem, from his weapons belt, and from the buckets of his boots.
Aramis crawled from the confines of the trench, grabbed a spent musket, and swung it at his oncoming attacker. Men fell, a few stayed down, others were slow to rise. With the flash of the lightening he searched for his friends, but failed to find them. With a deep breath, Aramis continued his battle.
D'Artagnan shifted to the left, swung his sword, and caught his attacker's left arm. Blood poured from the injury, soaked the fabric of the Spaniard's blouse, and caused him to take several steps back while he clutched at his arm. The fires continued to burn. The heat was hot enough to evaporate the moisture of rain. Sweat fell down the sides of d'Artagnan's face and landed on the high leather collar of his armor. The heavy leather was worn, sliced in sections, and covered in mud. The leaves of dried weeds were caught beneath the folds and buckles along the sides and front.
D'Artagnan coughed, stumbled backward, and then raised his sword in defense when his attacker moved forward with a long lunge. Mud hindered their movements and d'Artagnan stepped to his right while his attacker stepped left. Using both hands, he swung his weapon and sliced upward, striking the man's chest, shoulder, and then his neck. While the blade did not pierce his armor, it cut into the tender flesh above his collar. He fell forward, hands clasped around his neck.
"Mis hijos," the soldier said and then repeated it as he looked at d'Artagnan with a faraway look in his eyes." "Mis hijos."
D'Artagnan shrugged, struggled to his feet, and lowered his sword. "I don't speak Spanish," he said.
"Mis hijos," the man said again. He paused, looked at the ground, and rocked forward. Slowly, he succumbed to the blood loss.
The fire reflected off the blood that seeped between the Spaniard's fingers. He looked up, stared at the dark night sky, and died. D'Artagnan stumbled backward, caught his foot on a broken branch and fell onto his backside. He struggled in the mud, rolled onto his knees and then slowly pushed himself to his feet. He coughed again, felt the moisture in his lungs, and spat. As the night fires continued to burn, he could see the actions of the men fighting on the battlefield. While the sounds of shouting, grunting, and the clash of weapons echoed, he could hardly hear them over the rushing of blood through his ears. He looked at his hands, the blurred fire, and he squinted against it.
Suddenly, he fell to his knees, rested on his haunches, and surrendered to his exhaustion.
Athos had fought in battles before. This was no different. He raised his sword, deflected a blow, and quickly shifted to avoid the onslaught of two men rushing toward him. He took a deep breath, gripped the hilt of his weapon, and braced himself against the impact. Athos stumbled backward, only to find that he had fallen over the body of Spaniard, who lay face down in the mud. Rain continued to pelt the man's leather armor, soak the sleeves of his blouse, and the side of his exposed face. He was young, with dark black hair and a clean shaven-face.
Athos pushed himself up, swung his blade again, and felt it strike the first assailant's chest. The man grunted, fell backward, and then turned as he was shoved from the side and knocked to the ground. The man who ran beside him continued without him and charged at Athos, who held his sword and his main gauche in preparation.
Chaos surrounded them. Athos kept his attention focused on his attacker, who lunged at him, while also watching those around him to keep from tripping over the fallen, and those rushing toward him or being pushed against him.
He had hoped the Spanish were low on manpower, but while the numbers were not as high as he had anticipated, they were not as low as he had hoped. At first, Athos thought they had awoken a sleeping giant when the first strikes of the beetles hit the iron rods. The Spanish had exited their tents to find the guards of their cannons disabled, deceased, or struggling within the captivity of the French who had crossed enemy lines at night. Now that the cannons were useless, they had nothing left to fight with other than their swords, their fists, and a few muskets.
Athos ducked as his assailant charged forward. The man hit Athos' side, but found himself flung upward when he stood, and then impaled by a French sword. Athos grasped his weapon and pulled back, releasing it from the grip of bone, organs, and tissue. His victim struggled to breathe, only to choke on his own blood as it seeped slowly between his lips.
Athos turned, his hair flung outward and slapped the cheeks of his face and neck, and watched several horses snort and trot through the chaos. Their reins dragged on the ground, and the stirrups swung at their sides. Someone shoved him forward, and he fell, only to struggle within the muddy encasement and return to his feet to face another enemy.
The battle continued.
Night wore on.
And the sun was slow to rise.