Disclaimer: I don't own anything belonging to either Alexandre Dumas or his descendents.


Chapter 2: Confrontation on the North Road

Porthos was tired. Damn tired to be specific. The mysterious rider must have had an urge to leave the country, for they'd left the borders of France nearly a week ago; at least, Porthos was rather certain they had. He could tell you the location of his ship in the middle of an ocean on a stormy night, but on land, he'd be lucky to point you north. The man was a demon, he'd give him that. They'd been traveling for nearly three weeks and he'd yet to stop for more than a time sufficient enough for his horse to sleep, and never in town. Porthos' own horse was becoming rather irate with him, he was pretty sure the animal did not appreciate the pace they were keeping.

It took nearly four days for Porthos to reluctantly admit that he was really the only person with enough skills to follow the rider. His life before becoming a Musketeer had taught him skills in sneaking that his two friends noticeably lacked. Had either of them followed, they would have been found out the first day. As it was, the way they traveled, mainly on small winding trails in the backwaters of the forest, did not lend itself to easy stalking. As it was, Porthos hadn't had an opportunity to sneak close enough to get a good look at the rider who kept his hood up for the entirety of the three weeks.

Porthos was so lost in thought it took him a moment to realize that if he rode any farther, he'd pass the rider. He reined his horse in quickly and backed off the road into the brush. The rider had stopped, his hood around his face, nothing different about that, and seemed to be waiting on something. It didn't take a genius to figure out what he was waiting on when another man with light blonde hair rode forward to meet him. They seemed to be having an argument of some sort, but Porthos couldn't make out the words. The blonde man seemed very upset with the rider and little wonder. Porthos wasn't terribly fond of the man himself. It was purely and arbitrary decision on his part of course, he didn't even know him, but Porthos was grumpy and hadn't had a good night's rest in nearly a month, he certainly wasn't feeling magnanimous.

He watched the blonde man ride away and waited for the rider to move on. So it came as a complete shock when the man turned and spoke in loud voice, "You might as well come out, I know you're there."

Porthos nearly fell off his horse.

"Monsieur, you've been following me for nearly the breadth of my journey, and I do not appreciate being spied upon. Show yourself."

Porthos didn't move.

"Fine." The rider reached over his shoulder to a quiver of arrows that had lain concealed under his cloak and drew a bow from his saddle bags. The bow was folded in half and Porthos watched in fascination as the man unfolded it and pinned the pieces in place. He was pretty sure a bow like that was illegal, he'd have to check. He wasn't very worried about the archer. If the man really knew Porthos was there, he'd have called out to him long ago, wouldn't he?

Porthos watched in horror as the man drew fletching to his cheek and released, landing an arrow not six inches from Porthos' face.

"Next time will not be a warning monsieur."

Porthos eased his mount out into the open sunshine.

"Now, let's start simple, your name monsieur." He backed his question up with the threat of another arrow, already drawn and waiting.

"Athos." He was rather proud he managed that without a stutter.

"Well, Athos, why have you been following me?" The voice sounded unnaturally gruff to him but he ignored it.

"What makes you think I've been following you?"

The rider snorted a breath of laughter. "You're not serious? You've been on my tail since Chapelle Mansounx. You're not a very good tracker, did you know that?"

Porthos was slightly offended by the man's abrupt dismissal of his talents but kept it to himself, "Why were you so interested in those bodies?"

The man lowered his bow and looked at him thoughtfully. "I would think that would be obvious to man of your talents."

Porthos wasn't sure whether the man was making fun of him or not, so he assumed he was, it was a flaw he had. Always assume the worst. "I have yet to hear your name neighbor," he reminded him.

"Louis."

"Louis?" He must have sounded incredulous because the man raised his bow again.

"Do you wish to comment on my choice of name?"

"No, no," Porthos held up his hands, "wouldn't dream of commenting. You have a very persuasive friend there." He motioned at the bow. The man laughed softly. "I am positively certain it's not your real name though, so don't be offended if I don't call you by it."

"How did you know that?"

"I didn't, but I do now." He looked around for a moment, "Were you going anywhere in particular, or was this your final destination?"

The man cocked his head a bit and looked at him. At least he thought he did, the rider still had his damn hood up, putting his face in shadow. Then he held up his hands in apparent surrender, made ludicrous by the bow he was still holding. "I had planned on a journey to Paris now, do you intend to follow me there?"

Porthos couldn't help but smile. The whole situation was a bit improbable. Well, since the man was asking, "Of course, but how quickly are we talking here? I was supposed to report on you quite a while back, but you haven't really given me a chance."

"Where is your message going?"

"Um, Paris actually." He paused a moment, then grinned rather sheepishly, "We'll get there before the message at the rate you travel won't we?" At the rider's nod he sighed. "Oh, well, in that case... You know, we shouldn't be this friendly."

"Oh, I'm sorry." The man pulled fletching to cheek, "Where would you like me to injure you?"

"How about I fetch your other arrow and we'll come up with some suitable story for this when we reach civilization?"

The man lowered his bow and unpinned it, stowing it in his saddle in one swift motion, "Sounds good to me."

When Porthos returned, the man took the arrow from him and Porthos got his first good look at the rider. The cloak was a dark green and he wore brown pants. His shirt might once have been white, but the color was closer to cream now. Riding gloves in a green similar to the cloak and bordered in silver covered and protected his hands. His face was still in shadow, but Porthos thought he could see a fringe of blonde hair. An overcoat of undyed wool in a craggy shade of grey protected him from the elements. As if he needed protection with that damnable cloak. His horse was a grey gelding who kept trying to take a bite out of Porthos' thigh. Porthos didn't know much about horses, but the man's animal looked like a prime piece of horseflesh.

"I thank you sir, for the return of my arrow."

Porthos bowed in his saddle, "My pleasure." He looked back down the road, "Um, not to sound disparaging as to your skills, but which way is Paris?"

The rider smiled and gestured to the left, "About four leagues that way."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It only took me so long to get here because I had to go nearly a two weeks out of my way just to see whether you were really following me. You could have saved us both a lot of time if you'd simply announced your presence from the beginning."

"Ethics, my good man, ethics; never reveal yourself if you're spying."

"Good motto."

"I like to think so."

"And from whom did you learn these skill my new friend?"

"The Aztec king Montezuma taught me as a twentieth birthday present."

"Is that so?"

"On pain of death my friend, I swear it to be true."

The man bowed his head in agreement.

Porthos look in the direction the rider had pointed, "Four leagues? That's less than a day's ride."

"Unnerving isn't it?"

Porthos nodded, "To say the least."

The rider looked around for a moment as if expecting the blonde man to ride up at any moment, "Well Athos, shall we be off?"

It took Porthos a long second to figure out who he was talking to. "Yes, shall we?" Porthos silently kicked himself for his lapse. Then cursed out loud himself for giving out Athos' name instead of something more generic. Athos' would never let him live it down. He didn't notice the rider's appreciative nod at his colorful use of the French language, amongst others. When Porthos swore, no boundaries of country or culture could stop him.

It would take the better part of the day to reach Paris at the rate they went, mainly because the man insisted on walking beside his horse, and after hearing Porthos was still on the steed he had started with, insisted he do the same. It gave Porthos a chance to learn more about the mysterious man. Grudgingly, Porthos was forced to admit he rather admired him. He obviously cared for his horse, and seemed extremely nonchalant about traveling with a complete stranger. And had been doing so for weeks. Porthos was a little less thrilled about that. He didn't particularly like be lead along. He was sheep that's what he was, a damn sheep.

Porthos' mood had become progressively darker and his mood change was not lost on his companion. He began to edge away on the road and glanced at him frequently from under his hood.

"Don't you dare blame me."

Porthos' head whipped up, "Excuse me?"

"I can see what's going through your head, it's written across your face plain as day. You're wanting to blame me for leading you weeks out of your way when you didn't have to."

"Well didn't you?"

"Despite our recent fraternity, you were still following me, and I have yet to receive a valid reason for it."

"My reasons are none of your business."

The rider stopped, "Then find your own way to Paris."

Porthos stopped as well. "It's not this direction?"

The rider cocked his head to the side, "Do you want to risk it?"

Porthos sighed, but realized the man did have a valid point in wanting his reasons. "We were investigating the murder of those men in Chapelle Mansounx. You came along the road and watched them swing without batting so much as an eyelash, it seemed a bit suspicious so I was sent to follow you."

"So a rider comes across a slew of bodies on the road and stops to pay his respects then rides away, and this warrants investigation?"

"Well when you look at it that way..."

"And these friends of yours, you've known them long?"

"Nearly my entire adult life- What are you getting at?"

"Nothing. It just seems that following me seems a pretty flimsy reason to get rid of you. I'm not a threat, nor did I pose one then."

Porthos contemplated that in silence for a moment, then his head whipped up. "You're absolutely right. God, I'm and idiot! Those bastards wanted to be rid of me, they're plotting behind my back!"

The rider held up his hands, "It was simply a thought. Has it occurred to you that their ends might not be nefarious in nature? Perhaps they were planning a surprise for you and did not wish to risk your knowledge? Or they believed you needed a rest and did not realize following me would be so trying?"

Porthos thought about this for a moment, "Maybe."

The rider heaved a sigh, disaster avoided, at least for the moment.

"So," Porthos interrupted the rider's thoughts cheerfully, "which way to Paris?"

The rider pointed straight down the road they were on.

"You're kidding?"

The rider shook his head.

"You were bluffing?"

The rider nodded.

Porthos couldn't make himself be angry, especially since he could see his companion's shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

"Bastard."

The rider nodded.