Special thank you to everyone still joining me on this journey. It's been a pleasure sharing this with you all!

Together we continue...

Within hours of the Musketeer's arrival at Verdun, the battles began. A raw, young, and easily excitable soldier from Captain Comtois' company had fired a warning shot and struck a Spanish soldier who was the son of the Spanish General Sanchez. It was at that point that the random shots from both sides turned serious.

The quiet solitude of the countryside would never be the same.

Athos ducked and covered his head with his arms as mud, manure, and chunks of ice harboring remnants of both showered upon him and his men. The cannons had been fired off for weeks. Small daily skirmishes had turned into an exhaustive battle that lasted weeks. The long hours of listening to the thundering booms, muskets firing throughout the nights, and random shouts from soldiers echoed as frequently as Athos' heartbeat. The battles had ebbed and flowed, no different from the water of the Seine. One day there was hardly a shot fired, and another the smoke was so thick that the Musketeers could not see their hands before their eyes.

The months of November and December had flown by. Ten companies of soldiers continued to hold the line, while the remainder of Raboin's men were ordered to move farther south in a combined effort with General Thorell and his military. While they could not call it a siege, it felt like such. Food was growing scarce, supplies were running short, and the men were growing weary as the days of uncertainty continued to grow longer. Raboin had relayed to his captains that food and supplies were on their way, but the promises were starting to feel empty.

Athos gripped the hilt of his sword, felt his heart race and his lungs burn as he continued to battle the men who dared encroach on French lands. Mud splattered his britches, doublet, and his boots. He could hear the echoes as the cannons continued to roar. Horses screamed, men shouted, and the musketeers fired their weapons. Smoke from the weapons was once again hanging heavy in the air, despite the rain that continued to fall. The winter months had brought with it weather that ranged from freezing nights to rainy days, and very little sun had made an appearance.

Another cannon roared, and the explosion sent several men and a supply wagon backward. Wood snapped and speared the ground, while the horses struggled to regain their feet as they battled the mud, their injuries, and their tangled harnesses. Men groaned, cried for their mothers, and several attempted to continue their fighting.

D'Artagnan ran across the field, stumbled several times as booted feet slipped into muddied holes, and he tripped over broken blades, muskets, and tree limbs. He fell forward into the massive trench. He pushed himself out of the mud, took a deep breath, and then pushed himself back and looked through the smoke and at the clouds that promised more rain. D'Artagnan coughed several times. The deep, wet cough that had plagued him for days. He finally spit and inhaled slowly through parted lips.

"Any sign of Aramis?" Porthos asked. A bandage was wrapped around his right forearm, and blood continued to dampen the fabric. His britches were torn on his right thigh, and mud was caked to the right side of his face and neck. He had lost weight, and while not thin, his jaw was more pronounced.

D'Artagnan shook his head. "I didn't see Athos either," he said and leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "I'm down ten men since all of this has started." He looked sideways at Porthos, who nodded.

"They're tryin' to squeeze us out," Porthos said. "I've been through this before." He shrugged and wiped his hand on his thigh. "I want to know 'ow they're gettin' their supplies… they 'ave never slowed down," he looked at d'Artagnan, "not once. For a military force to continue as they 'ave," he shook his head, "they 'ave to 'ave supplies comin' in from somewhere." He shifted, lay back onto the muddied bank, and panted.

They covered their heads once more when a cannon roared and more chunks of ice, splatters of mud, and debris fell around them.

"Athos said Raboin keeps promising new men, supplies, and horses," d'Artagnan shrugged and wiped mud from his sleeve, "I don't think Athos believes him."

"He shouldn't," Porthos said. "We would already 'ave them if they were comin'." He rubbed his forehead and then quickly turned and peered over the edge of the trench. "Shit!" He said, and ducked.

Athos stumbled forward and fell into the pit. He grunted, paused his movements, and remained where he lay. For a long moment, he just waited as the enemy fired another cannon. More mud, manure, and ice flew and landed in heaps around them. All three covered their heads and felt the small chunks hit their arms, backs, and sides.

"Are you alright, Captain —"

"Quit calling me captain, Porthos," Athos snapped and slowly pushed himself to his backside and rested his elbows on his knees. His sword lay by his side, covered in mud and in desperate need of a cleaning.

"You —"

Before Porthos could finish, Athos looked at him with a glare that threatened retribution. "I'm tired, I'm cold, and I'm sick to death of a battle that should have ended weeks ago." Athos slowly pushed himself to his feet and looked over the edge of the trench.

"In all the years I've known you," Porthos said with a shrug, "you've never been an overly patient man."

Athos raised an eyebrow, cocked his head, and looked at Porthos.

D'Artagnan chuckled and wiped his mouth.

Athos turned, grabbed his sword, and slipped it into his scabbard. "I'm going to find out about our options." He looked at both of them. "Hold the line. Find Aramis. And get back to your companies — your men need you."

"What about those cannons?" Porthos said. "We can't continue to fight them… it's suicide — They started with five, Athos..." He raised his hands in question. "They've got at least ten now, an' more are arrivin' by the day."

Athos nodded. "I know." He crawled out of the crater and jogged toward the back of the regimental line. He grabbed the reins of a loose horse, mounted, and then galloped toward the chateau. Athos pulled the horse to a stop and leaned forward as Comtois waved him down.

"We need to pull back," Comtois said. "My men can no longer hold — the Spanish are too well supplied for us to continue like we are. They've exchanged fighting men for cannons, and we cannot possibly fight against them."

"I'm going to speak with the general —"

Comtois shook his head. "You won't get anywhere — I just saw him return to the chateau after riding along the back of the regiments. He continues to say reinforcements are coming, but he nearly pushed Captain Pruette into a bookcase." He shrugged and rolled his eyes. "He's not stable, Athos." Comtois looked toward the battlefield.

Even as the evening arrived, Comtois could see the men struggling. The Spanish were too well armed, fortified, and unforgiving. "General Raboin just sat there," he pointed to the ridge to his right, "he and that lieutenant of his. Just watching," he looked at Athos, "as though it were a play and our men — my men, your men — aren't really dying."

Athos nodded, clinched his jaw, and tightened his grip on the borrowed horse's mane. "What about the other captains?" Mud slipped from his doublet and fell to the ground.

"Most of them agree with me, but they won't act against him — He has made it clear he's the king's cousin and any action against him is an action against the king."

Athos looked toward the ground and then wiped his brow. "Call to order a retreat with the others. I'm going to see Raboin — if we don't refortify our resources…" He shrugged.

Comtois nodded, gripped the reins of his horse and turned to mount. "More refugees are arriving… we can't feed our own men, much less more refugees… we need help, Athos."

Athos swallowed and said, "See to your men."

Comtois nodded and watched Athos ride at a gallop toward the chateau.