I'm posting 3 chapters tonight, two are short. Thank you again everyone!

Chapter 7

Porthos spit mud from his mouth. It had splattered along the right side of his face when pushed forward by a horse and rider. He had stumbled to his knees, caught himself on the body of a Spaniard, and then rolled off. Porthos grabbed his weapon just in time as an enemy raised his blade for the killing blow. His strength defied nature as he blocked the strike, stepped forward, and grabbed the man by the collar of his doublet and flung him to the right. The man fell backward, landed with a humph and then struggled to stand as fighting men, screaming horses, and the dying circled him like dust in a whirlwind.

Porthos' thighs burned, his back ached, and his hands were blistered and bloodied. He had lost his gloves, his powder tin was missing, and his scabbard had fallen victim to a wayward blade. The cut above his right eye continued to bleed and blood mixed with rain as it fell down his face and carried with it remnants of mud.

Swords clashed, muskets fired, and canons roared. Horses, even the most heavily trained, fought their bits, snorted, and kicked as the fighting swirled around them. The mud grew deeper as the rain continued and blood slipped from the bodies of those who lay dying. Several men clawed their way backward. Wounded Spanish protected their heads as they fell, only to be trampled by iron-shod hooves. French Soldiers, young and old, continued to fight. This was their home, their lands, and their king.

Aramis shifted the barrel of the musket into its arched holder and fired once again. The soldier charging Marc fell backward from his horse and tumbled off his horse's rump. Marc stumbled backward, vomited, and then quickly rejoined the fight.

The line of musketeers, the finest marksmen of the king's military guard, stood in rows of fifty men. The first group readied their shots, fired, and then dropped to their knees to reload. The next group stood, readied their muskets, and fired. It was a smooth transition and the continuous musket fire made their lines nearly impenetrable. Aramis led their fight. He shifted his weapon, looked at his men as they continued, and reloaded his own. Porthos' foot soldiers fought like madmen, swinging their swords and bashing heads and chest with the butts of their muskets. Ten men on either side of the musketeer lines stood guard and fired at those who tried to weaken the defense.

Aramis wiped the rain from his eyes, blinked several times, and then readied his weapon. It would only be a matter of time before the powder was too wet to ignite, when the muskets would stop firing because of the rain, and then musketeers would need to join the foot soldiers in the center of the battle.

D'Artagnan shifted in his saddle. His horse reared, and he leaned forward, raised his hands and tightened his legs against the black's sides. Men shifted around them, bumped into them, and tried to avoid the animal's backside as he kicked and spun on his heels. Someone fell and then rolled away as the horse pinned his ears. The whites of his eyes glowed, and foam dripped from his mouth.

D'Artagnan raised his sword, sliced it through the air and struck the Spanish soldier who charged at him. The big black horse countered d'Artagnan's weight, and the Spaniard fell when the blade connected with his collarbone. He collapsed in a heap, his weapons fell and clattered to the ground. Calvary charged from the back, their swords raised, their horses' arched their necks and pinned their ears as they entered the field. D'Artagnan turned his horse, nudged him with his right heel, and the horse side-stepped against two soldiers fighting a single musketeer. The men were pushed out of the way and then suddenly scrambled to avoid iron-clad hooves. D'Artagnan shifted, watched Porthos point in the enemy's direction when he spotted General Sanchez atop his big bay. Two riders sat beside him, their flags blowing in the winds, and their cloaks waving at their sides.

Aramis took a deep breath and searched the field as he looked along the barrel of the musket. The cold metal shimmered as the rain struck its surface. The wood butt and grip felt familiar against his shoulder and hand. He knelt, stead his aim, and looked into the distance as General Sanchez watched the battle below. He sat astride his noble horse and looked like the statue of a warrior at the height of his service.

The distance was questionable. The weather a variable. But the opportunity was present.

Aramis slipped his finger against the cold steel of the trigger, felt it against the soft side of his pad, and he slowly breathed. He could hear, but wasn't distracted by the shots happening beside him, the clashing of swords in the distance, or the rain as it fell and splattered against his leather doublet. He closed his eyes, said a quick prayer, and opened his eyes and then squeezed the trigger.

General Sanchez jolted to the left, rocked back and forth, and then tumbled from the saddle. The men beside him quickly dismounted and rushed to his aid. The horses fled.

One man stood, waved his hands, and shouted.

Aramis lowered his musket, swallowed, and then turned and looked at d'Artagnan in the distance. D'Artagnan raised his right arm, shouted, and his horse reared again. More men stumbled and fell against the animal.

Aramis knew the general was dead. He grabbed his musket, felt its heft, and looked toward his men. The rain hindered their blackpowder, the paper wading, and their ability to shoot. A few stood, and looked at him knowing what was to come. Aramis clinched his jaw, tightened his fingers around the musket, and raised his left arm. "CHARGE!" He shouted and leapt over the down tree, and rushed into the battlefield.

His men followed with cries of determination.