Chapter Seven
The simple breakfast was not to the standard that he enjoyed in the garrison. One thing he never missed about his time in the Court was the food. Or lack of it. Once he had worked his way up to a position of power the food improved but there was always a feeling of guilt that others were still missing out. Porthos always appreciated his good luck. Many, many, more people in Paris were not in his position. He knew he had worked to attain his place in the Musketeers, but there was also an element of chances going his way that contributed to it.
Flea barely ate anything, picking at the warm bread and watching his every move. Porthos continued his pretence of wanting to return to his former life. But it was getting harder to maintain. His worry about Athos was only increasing, particularly now that he knew Aramis and d'Artagnan were being hunted. If they were caught it would be impossible for him to stop them from being hurt or killed. Asim was not a man with whom he could negotiate. And Flea was starting to show her true colours. She was starting to lower her veil.
One of the men that had accompanied Porthos on his return appeared in the doorway. Flea rose from the table and went to him. Porthos knew why. She did not want him to hear the conversation. Her apparent trust in him was already gone. The act was gone. Porthos was out of options. He needed to get away from Flea and Asim. His part in the rescue mission was over.
Flea was glancing at him as the man spoke to her. The dark-haired man nodded towards Porthos a couple of times. Flea said something that made the man smile. Flea, on the other hand, was not smiling. She turned to look at Porthos.
'Athos has escaped,' she said. 'Aramis was seen with him.'
Porthos pushed his chair back and stood up. The man with Flea took a step forward, his hand resting on the gun tucked into his belt. Flea gestured for him to remain where he was.
'In a moment, Paul,' she said. 'He needs to know why. I want him to know why.'
'Why what?' asked Porthos, his eyes darting back and forth between Flea and Paul.
Paul smirked and took a couple of steps back towards the door; he glanced out, nodding once. Porthos saw the shadows move and realised other men were waiting in the corridor.
'I want you to know that I was the one that ordered for Athos to be taken. I was the one that told Paul to whisper in Aramis' ear that it was all his fault. I wanted Aramis to know what it was to lose someone close to him. I wanted you to know what it was like to lose someone close to you. I wanted you both to suffer. Poor Athos was the unfortunate one that had to play the pawn. It could have been the young one. D'Artagnan. But it was Athos that was with Aramis when the time was right to strike. Asim has been following Aramis for a few weeks, waiting for the right moment, watching the four of you. Waiting for a day when Aramis was with either Athos or d'Artagnan and not you. You could not be there because I wanted you to feel guilty about it all. I wanted you to feel as much guilt as Aramis should.'
Porthos stared at Flea for a few seconds.
'Why though?'
'Because he murdered Charon.'
Porthos shook his head, 'you know that's not what happened. Charon was about to stab me in the back. He was about to murder me. Aramis acting on instinct.'
Flea did not respond. Porthos could no longer see the woman he had loved. He only saw a woman out for revenge. Revenge that had been bubbling under the surface for months. He knew he had been walking into a trap; he suspected that Flea was involved. But he had not expected her to be so changed. So twisted by Charon's death. He always thought she would move on from her lover's death. He never thought they were particularly close. Flea had always been opportunistic, a necessity in the Court. People had to adapt and recover quickly from the loss. It was the way of life in the Court.
But Flea had not moved on. And she had both him and Aramis firmly in her sights.
At a signal from her, the men in the corridor piled into the room. Porthos knew there was no other way out. The other doors were either blocked by furniture or barred and bolted shut. He had spent the time whilst he was eating assessing the room and potential escape routes. He was not expected to find the lack of escape routes to be a problem quite so soon.
The men, the same guards that escorted him the previous day, closed in on him. Porthos backed away. He wanted to stand his ground, but there were too many of them. His weapons were lying on a chair in Flea's bedroom. He cursed himself for playing his part too well. He wanted to show her that he trusted her by not being armed as he ate with her.
He punched out at the first man. The youth was taken by surprise, stumbling back a few steps, crashing into another couple of the men. The distraction did not prove enough to prevent the other men from grabbing him. Porthos struggled against them but to no avail. A rope was wrapped around his wrists and tied firmly. Strong hands held him still.
Flea watched, a cruel smile playing across her lips. Porthos saw satisfaction in her eyes.
'You said you'd let Athos go,' said Porthos.
'I said I would accept you back into my Court,' responded Flea.
'He's innocent in this.'
Flea tilted her head, 'are you saying that you and Aramis are not innocent?'
Porthos was momentarily lost for words. He wanted to say something that would dissuade his former lover from continuing with her misplaced need for revenge against Aramis. But there was nothing he could say. She was determined.
'I want you dead,' she said, her voice cold. 'And I want Aramis dead. If you do not accept that you are going to die I will make sure all three of you die horribly. In a manner befitting your crimes.'
'None of us did anything wrong,' said Porthos.
He knew there was no point arguing. Flea was so caught up in her war against him and Aramis that she could no longer see reason.
Asim appeared in the doorway. He looked at Porthos before nodding to the men restraining him. He smiled and chuckled.
'I see you grew bored with the facade,' he said, looking at Flea.
Flea scowled at him, 'have you caught Aramis yet?'
'My men are searching. It won't take long. Athos tried to escape on his own so the guards were teaching him a lesson when Aramis got to him. Athos was injured. They won't get far.'
Porthos' stomach churned at the news that Athos was injured. But they had not been caught. At least they had not been caught at that point. Porthos was sure they would be caught. He wondered where d'Artagnan was; Asim had not mentioned the other Musketeer. He wanted to allow a glimmer of hope that his friends might escape. But the chances were slim. The rescue mission was not going to plan. And Porthos knew there was very little left that he could do.
His thoughts became a little more self-interested as he saw Asim handing a rope to two of his men and indicating one of the hooks that would have suspended a chandelier when the ballroom was being used for its intended purpose. As the rope was expertly thrown over the hook, Porthos knew it was not a chandelier that was going to be suspended. He struggled against his captors for a few seconds drawing the attention of Asim. The leader of the army sauntered up to him. After glancing back at Flea, who was watching them through narrowed eyes, Asim turned to Porthos.
'I would stay and watch you struggle at the end of the rope, but I have other Musketeers to catch. I will ensure they enjoy an end similar to your own.'
Porthos could only watch as Asim walked away, nodding to Flea as he passed her.
Flea was showing no emotion other than anger. She was ready to watch him die. And she was ready to ensure that Aramis and Athos died as well. And there was nothing Porthos could do to stop it. He was helpless. The woman he had once loved had perhaps never reciprocated that love. Was she always only interested in her self-preservation? It was true that the lives they led did make them look after themselves before others. But she seemed genuine when they were together. Had it all been a lie?
The men holding him began to force him towards the noose that was formed at the end of the rope. A chair was placed under the noose. Porthos knew it would not be enough to break his neck. He was going to suffer an agonising death.
A shudder followed by a large explosion sent the room into disarray and chaos.
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Athos took a slow breath, if he concentrated on his breathing, his nausea did not become too bad. He knew Aramis was taking most of his weight. He had wilted a couple of times and been pulled up straight by his friend with quiet words of encouragement. The nausea and dizziness that he thought was fading had returned with vengeance. The timing was inopportune but not unexpected. The exertions of the previous few minutes had given him a surge of energy, but that was rapidly fading.
Aramis was steadfastly refusing to leave him behind and get help. Athos gave up asking him to. He could understand his friends' reasons. All of them had put themselves in grave danger to rescue him; if he was not rescued, they would have put themselves in danger for nothing. Athos was the prize. He disliked being so popular. Although, he did not seem to be wanted by the people of the Court any longer. But that would not stop Asim from using him to get at Aramis and Porthos if they were found.
They turned a corner towards the main road that would lead them away from the Court and to the safety of Treville and the other Musketeers. Aramis pulled him to a stop and sighed. Athos, who was watching his feet rather than looking up, glanced at Aramis. He was gesturing along the road in front of them. Athos saw the barricades across the street. Several of the main streets within the Court had been barricaded over time. The city within a city had strong defences, cobbled together from whatever the people could find. It was not the first road they had turned into that was blocked off.
'I'm sorry,' said Aramis. 'I'm completely lost now. I've been trying to follow the landmarks that Porthos told us about … but-'
'He lived here a long time ago, it has probably changed beyond even his recognition,' remarked Athos. 'We will just have to try the next road.'
They turned around, before they took two steps, the road was blocked in the other direction as well. Although, that barricade was not made of planks of wood and broken furniture. The new barricade they were facing was flesh and blood. Six angry-looking men filled the road. All were armed. Athos recognised Asim at the front of them; he was scowling.
'Flea wanted Porthos to watch you die, but it might be too late for that already. He's probably already dangling at the end of a rope.'
Asim smirked. He was holding a short club, similar to the one that Aramis had used to knock out Athos' guard. He swung the club so that it smacked into the palm of his left hand. He kept his eyes on them the entire time. Asim's eyes were cold and menacing.
Athos was aware of Aramis glancing around.
'There's a rickety chair there,' said Asim, nodding to the right of them. 'You could use it as a weapon, Aramis. Defend the both of you.'
Athos knew Aramis was not carrying much in the way of weaponry. It would look strange for a street dweller to be armed with more than a knife. And a knife or dagger was not going to do them much good against six well-armed men. Aramis took a few steps back and to the right, towards the old chair that was by the wall. Athos allowed Aramis to lean him against the wall. He knew he would not be able to help in the fight that was about to happen. He knew that Aramis did not stand a chance. But they were Musketeers. They did not die easily.
Aramis grabbed the chair and smashed it against the wall. It fell apart. He picked up two of the chair legs and moved forward to meet Asim and one of the other men.
The men could have attacked in unison, but Asim gestured for them to stay back. He allowed the man that walked up with him to fight with Aramis alone for a few seconds before realising that Aramis was not acting defensively. Aramis managed to get several hard hits in before another of the Court's soldiers was called forward to help. It pleased Athos that Asim had underestimated them. Even fighting alone, Aramis was a formidable foe. Even fighting without his guns or sword, Aramis was better than the Court's army.
It was not until three men were attacking Aramis that the Musketeer took his first strike. One of the men swung low and caught him on the thigh. Aramis could not stop a cry of pain as his leg buckled, sending him down to one knee. But that did not stop Aramis. Athos knew it would not, but it was slowing him down. Athos wanted to help, but his strength was rapidly fading.
Athos knew it would not be long before Aramis was overwhelmed. He wanted to help but knew he would be more of a hindrance and only distract his friend as he continued to make use of his improvised weapons against the thugs attacking them. Asim was standing back watching. He was shaking his head, perhaps annoyed that Aramis was able to put up such a good fight despite the odds against him.
Aramis pushed one of the men back, sending him careening into two others, buying him a moment to deal with one attacker on his own. As that man crashed to the ground, Asim nodded to the last couple of men to step into the affray. Athos knew the fight was over. Aramis would not stand a chance.
With no warning, the street became a riot of dust and debris as something nearby exploded. All manner of things were hurtling through the air, like cannonballs mid-battle. Athos was knocked flat by the explosion. He flung his arms over his head, curling his body to avoid the worst of the falling bricks and lumps of wood. He was hit a few times but somehow managed to avoid any of the larger pieces of masonry that fell from the sky.
His waning strength was forgotten replaced by another surge of energy. Pushing himself up to sit, coughing as he inadvertently inhaled some dust, he tried to orientate himself. He waved his hand in front of his face, wafting the dust away. The fighting men were all lying dotted about the road. All were covered in the results of the explosion. One man appeared to have been crushed by a partially fallen wall; another was bleeding from a deep wound to his side. Athos' gaze landed on Aramis, who was trying to sit up but struggling. Blood was pumping from a cut to Aramis' head, the accompanying bruise already showing starkly wherever the dust had not coated his face.
Athos knew the rescuee had to become the rescuer. Although Athos doubted he would get them very far once he used up the precious energy he had. Athos acted quickly. Staggering to his feet and reaching out to Aramis, he grabbed his hand and hauled him up. It was Aramis' turn to wilt and need support. Taking a second blow to the head in as many days was not going to help poor Aramis.
Athos did not know which of them was holding which up. Perhaps it was both of them. But either way, they had no choice but to stumble on and get as far away from the men that were trying to kill them as they could.
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