It's been a crazy last few days! Thank you everyone for your patience and continued reading...


Chapter 12

Athos twisted to his right as the musket ball entered high on his left side. It snapped a rib and exited near the downward curve of his ribcage and above the cut from Grimaud's blade. He fell against the wall and then landed in a heap on the floor. He struggled, tried to get his feet beneath him as his days, hours, and minutes of weariness and injuries collided. Athos pressed his hand to his side, felt the blood that seeped and stained his blouse, and then reached upward on the wall. He attempted to stand as he listened to the tamping of gunpowder, the wrapping of a musket ball, and the tamping that followed as the pistol was again readied.

Muscles contracted, shook, and grew weaker. Sweat collected and fell down his face, into his eyes, and down his neck. His lungs, starved for air, burned and his throat had gone tight as he wheezed. Athos again struggled against the wall and used it as leverage and frantically tried to stand. He wasn't ready to die. Not yet. He wanted to see the war end; he wanted to find peace, and he wanted to experience the love that Porthos and d'Artagnan had found. A renewed flame had been lit and as he struggled to regain his feet. His determination grew but his body failed to follow.

Athos gasped, gripped his side and listened to the shuffling of feet across the surface of the floor. "What about your family?" he asked as he struggled once more.

General Raboin paused for a moment. He looked around the room, the broken furniture, the blood that had pooled beneath Grimaud, and the books that lay open. He looked at the wine that continued to dry, and then at the fire that raged. "I love my family." He looked at the pistol and ran his hand along the barrel. "More than anything in the world…" He paused for a long moment as the room went still. He listened to Athos' as he struggled to stand, as his determination battled his broken body. It was admirable, stoic, and… it was frustrating. Raboin turned toward the door when he heard shouts, the frantic pounding of footsteps, and then pointed the pistol toward Athos. His hand shook and he watched Athos' hand slide down the wall: the fruitless effort of a dying man who needed to look his killer in the eyes.

Athos succumbed to his exhaustion and blood-loss. He slumped backward to the floor, felt blood continue to soak his blouse, and he felt his nerves surrender as muscles quit working. The room grew cloudy, the air heavy, and he listened to his own heart frantically pump blood through his veins.

Athos closed his eyes.

The doors to the library burst open. Aramis entered and rushed toward Athos. D'Artagnan and Porthos followed quickly behind. Porthos grabbed Raboin by the shoulders and shoved him against the fireplace. The pistol fell to the floor and skidded to a halt near a bookcase.

"Confine him," Porthos shouted and shoved Raboin backward toward two musketeers. He watched them grab Raboin by his arms.

Raboin cried out in pain as he was dragged from the room. "Unhand me you fools!" he shouted as his heels scraped the floor. "You have no right —"

D'Artagnan looked at the body of Grimaud, stepped past it, and then knelt beside Aramis.

"Athos?" Aramis said, slipped a hand beneath his head and patted his cheek. "Look at me, brother." He cupped his hand on Athos' jaw. "Athos, look at me."

Athos blinked slowly, grimaced, and then gasped when he tried to lift his head. The room spun. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds around him. He struggled to open them and blinked rapidly several times before he finally surrendered to his body's needs and wants. He closed his eyes and allowed his body to succumb to its torment.

"Hold on, brother," Aramis said, and then slipped his hand from beneath Athos' head and checked his pulse. Aramis pulled up the bloodied blouse, exposed the cut and the musket ball injuries, and then shouted, "I need bandages, hot water!" He applied pressure to the wounds. Blood had saturated the material, soaked the waistband of Athos' britches, and covered the leather weapons belt. Aramis looked at d'Artagnan. "I need my bag." He pressed his hand to the wounds on Athos' side. "We need to get him out of here. I need a room where I can work." He turned suddenly and shouted toward the door that was crowded with musketeers peering in. "Is there a physician here?" He quickly unbuckled the weapons belt, allowed the leather to fold back and fall to the floor.

"We could carry him to one of the rooms — one that is close to the kitchens," d'Artagnan said. He pressed his wrist against his nose and mouth, and then said, "He's lost a lot of blood, Aramis."

"Is he alive?" Porthos asked and looked over Aramis' shoulder. He felt his heart clench, his chest tighten as he looked at Athos and wondered if they would once again go through the grief of losing him.

"I need my supplies!" Aramis shouted with more urgency, and flashed his eyes from Porthos to the men at the door, and then applied more pressure to wounds.

"Germaine!" Porthos shouted and pointed toward the door. "Aramis needs his supplies and find a physician!"

Germain nodded once and fled from the room, followed quickly by Adam, who ran to find a physician.

"Hold on, brother," Aramis said. "We're not losing you again, Athos… not this time." He turned, looked at Porthos and noticed the bruising along his arm, his blistered hands, bloodied knuckles, and the limp he had tried to hide. "We need to carry him out of here."

"I'll do it," Walnut said as he entered the room. He pushed his way through the crowd of musketeers and looked at Aramis and d'Artagnan. Walnut looked over his shoulder when Isabeau, wide-eyed and pale, slipped past the men crowding the door.

"This way," Isabeau said and grabbed her skirts. "Please, gentlemen, make way." Her voice carried the authority of a mother, a wife, and a woman of culture as she waved her hands to force them back.

"Watch his side," Aramis said, and shifted backward on his knees.

Walnut, with broad shoulders and unmatched strength, slipped his hands and arms beneath Athos' shoulders, beneath his knees, and gently lifted him. Athos' head fell back, his left arm fell downward toward the floor, and blood dripped from his fingers. His right arm remained tucked near his chest.

Aramis caught his breath in his throat as he looked at the pool of blood where Athos had lain.

Isabeau tightened her grip on her skirts and marched forward. "This way," she said, and waved her hand toward the door. "Gentlemen, please," she clapped her hands to focus their attention, "make room."

Musketeers parted, stood silently, and watched their captain be carried broken and battered down the hallway. Aramis followed at a brisk pace, with d'Artagnan and Porthos behind him. Words were not spoken, just the hushed sounds of breathing, and muddied boots scraping along the floors as men stepped aside to let them pass.

"There's a room near the kitchens that will be comfortable for him," Isabeau said. "I'll have the cooks boil some water and we'll cut sheets into bandages. Your captain will be safe here." She opened a door and walked to the bed, where she pulled back the blankets and stood aside as Walnut carried Athos toward the bed and placed him upon it. She grabbed Aramis' arm and said. "Whatever you need — don't hesitate to ask." She nodded toward him, looked at d'Artagnan and Porthos, and then snapped her fingers. "Rose," she called and walked to the kitchen with orders. "We need hot water and sheets!"

Walnut stepped back and then looked at the blood that had smeared across his chest, his arms, and his hands. "He's bleeding from his back too," he said. He wiped his hands on his britches and watched Aramis pull back Athos' blouse to expose the musket wound, both the entrance and exit, and then the gash along his flank.

"Help me lift him — I want to check his back," Aramis said, and motioned to Porthos.

Porthos flexed his fingers and walked to the other side of the bed. As he looked at Athos, he couldn't remember seeing anyone or anything quite as frail. He knelt on the mattress, slipped his arm beneath Athos' shoulders and lifted him. He was a dead weight as Porthos pulled him toward his chest and felt the moisture of blood. Porthos shifted his hand to avoid the wound. "He's feverish."

Aramis hissed as he pulled up Athos' blouse, leaned forward, and examined the cuts. "I need those bandages and my kit — these will have to be stitched." He looked Porthos in the eyes with a hint of fear, trepidation, and anger. "Whoever did this… cut along his old scars."

Porthos flared his nostrils and instinctively held Athos tighter.

"Grimaud got a few good strikes against him — but this," Aramis said and lowered Athos' blouse, "isn't the work of an assassin." He motioned for Porthos to lower him back to the bed.

"Did they do it before or after they shackled 'im?" Porthos asked and motioned toward Athos' torn, bloodied, and bruised wrists.

Aramis looked at Porthos, but didn't say anything. He looked again at the musket wound, the entrance, the exit wounds, and then carefully felt around them. "At least one broken rib." He ripped off a portion of the sheet and applied pressure to the wounds on Athos' side and motioned for Porthos to keep them in place. "It's not a deadly wound," he said. "He's just lost too much blood."

"How much is too much?" d'Artagnan asked. He crossed his arms over his chest and shoved his hands beneath his armpits as he stood at the end of the bed. "He looks dead, Aramis."

"He's not… at least not yet," Aramis said, and wiped his nose and mouth with the back of his hand. "Where is Germaine?"

"I'll get him," d'Artagnan said and walked hastily from the room.

"Is he goin' to make it?" Porthos asked as Aramis slipped his hands over the makeshift bandage. Porthos stood back, looked at the blood on his hand, and then watched Aramis rip Athos' blouse at the sleeves and the front and then carefully pull it from beneath him.

"Help me strip him down."

"Before you do that," Isabeau said as she entered the room. She shut the door behind her with the heel of her foot and placed a stack of sheets and bandages on the credenza next to the bed. "How is he?"

Aramis swallowed. "I wish I knew."

Isabeau nodded, looked toward Athos, who remained still with his head turned slightly toward his left shoulder. "There is a line of men waiting for news — most need medical attention. Piers and I can see to some of them." She walked to the door, opened it, and then stepped aside as d'Artagnan entered with Aramis' bag. Rose followed with a pot of hot water, and Ruth soon after with a washbasin and cloths.

"The physicians are with the men — some are…" d'Artagnan couldn't finish as he handed Aramis the bag.

Aramis nodded in understanding and pulled back the flaps of his case. He removed a needle, thread, and then paused as he looked at Isabeau. "Do you have any strong drink?"

"Like wine?"

"Stronger."

Isabeau nodded, extended her arms toward the door and said, "Ladies." She watched them leave and then said, "I have some brandy. I'll fetch it for you."