They all ducked down as the gunfire and cannon fire persisted. Clods of damp earth were thrown up at each impact point, showering them in dirt. Aramis could not remember what it felt like to be clean. They were all filthy, sleep deprived and hungry. Battles were tough.
But they were soldiers. Battles were what they trained for. At that precise moment, they were in fear for their lives. But afterwards, they would sit in taverns and talk of battles and skirmishes. They would embellish moments of heroism and omit the details of death. It was what they did.
As the four of them hauled themselves to their feet Aramis spotted a protective arm over d'Artagnan. Athos probably not realising he was doing it. D'Artagnan probably not noticing he was being shielded. In the heat of battle, the details were not important. Although Athos was not only protecting d'Artagnan because he was the youngest and this was his first battle. Athos was also protecting d'Artagnan because he was the one that carried the vital intelligence.
General du Froid had not allowed d'Artagnan the time to share the intelligence. He had hurried them from the room of the dying man, pushing them towards the battlefield and ordering them straight across. The information was time sensitive, and that time was running out.
The General was disliked by them all. He had already threatened Athos with the lash for answering him back. Du Froid, with his steely gaze and snarling temperament, was not afraid to remind them of his lofty position in the army. But they all knew he was no soldier. His promotions had come with payments to the men that made the decisions. The General abused his position and his men. And at that moment the four of them were the ones on the receiving end.
'Move!' shouted the objectionable man.
Aramis felt the General's hand on his back, propelling him forward. The pause to allow the dust to settle was short-lived. Du Froid wanted them moving forward, dodging the fighting, clambering over the dead, progressing towards the safety of their camp and the chance for d'Artagnan to verbally update the men coordinating the battle.
A volley of musket fire, yelling, and a scream of pain, sent them all to the muddy ground a second time.
'Get up. Keep going!'
'D'Artagnan?'
Porthos' voice cut through the general's words. His worry and fear drew Aramis' attention.
The young Musketeer, his pauldron barely cracked or scuffed, was lying on his side not moving. Porthos was shaking the prone man.
'Get him up.'
'He's injured,' said Athos with a glare at the General.
Aramis pushed forward, batting Porthos' hands out of the way. He hunched over the prone form of his friend. D'Artagnan had his eyes screwed shut and was taking gasping breaths.
'Slow your breathing, d'Artagnan,' said Aramis, injecting as much calm into his voice as the situation would allow.
He eased d'Artagnan's hand away from the wound to his thigh. A quick assessment told Aramis that d'Artagnan had every chance of surviving, provided the injury was dealt with quickly.
But they were in the middle of a battlefield with fighting and gunfire raging all around them.
A hand on his shoulder distracted him from his work, stopping him from reaching into his bag to grab a dressing. He was twisted slightly, forcing him to face Du Froid.
'Hurry up! We need to get him to the camp.'
Aramis knew the General did not care about d'Artagnan's welfare. He was only thinking about the intelligence. His next words confirmed Aramis' assessment.
'If he dies before that information is passed on, I'll have you shot. Get him up.'
The steely eyes bored into Aramis who knew the man was not exaggerating. He was aware of Porthos shifting slightly beside him, he could well imagine his friend snarling at the General.
'Then let him do his job,' said Athos, whose own tone was as dangerous as the General.
Aramis turned away from the General and Athos, leaving them to their staring match. D'Artagnan was still panting but had managed to open his eyes. Fearful, pain-filled eyes.
'I'm going to put a dressing on it,' said Aramis, talking directly to d'Artagnan again. 'The ball is still in there, it will need to be cut out, but I can't do it here. Not quickly enough. The surgeon, I know him, he's a good man, he'll sort you out.'
Aramis hoped d'Artagnan believed him. They all knew that medics often lied to men with no hope of recovery. D'Artagnan managed a nod.
'I … should tell you-'
'No. No one else needs to know the details. You alone will pass it on when we get to the camp. If we are captured, I do not want to have to kill more than one of you.'
The words from the General reminded Aramis how cold and heartless the man was. He would sooner see the information die with d'Artagnan than allow the injured man to share them and be given a better chance of survival.
Aramis worked quickly tying the dressing firmly. He noted the spots of blood seeping through as he finished his work. He would have to persuade Du Froid to let him change the dressing within minutes. His injured friend was losing blood. Perhaps too much blood. D'Artagnan might not make it back to the safety of the camp and its surgeon.
'You. Help him up. Carry him if you have to.'
Porthos and Athos moved to ease d'Artagnan to his feet.
Another volley of musket fire sent them all back to the ground.
It was Aramis' turn to cry out in pain.
To be continued…
Whumpee: D'Artagnan and Aramis. Featuring: Porthos and Athos.