Chapter Eight

A few minutes earlier…

D'Artagnan glanced over his shoulder for a few seconds, listening for the footfall of the men searching for him. He smiled to himself. The search must have drawn all the available members of the Court's army away from their posts. The army may have been an unofficial one made up of untrained men, but d'Artagnan knew from conversations with Porthos that the men were disciplined. They had duties to perform and rules to follow in the same way that the Musketeers did.

And d'Artagnan was sure there should have been a guard on the doorway where he was standing.

Guarding the armoury.

He stepped into the dim room. Sensibly there were no torches or fires near the room. But the light from outside lit up an array of weaponry. D'Artagnan spotted the livery of a few garrisons around Paris. There were even a few Musketeer weapons neatly arranged on a shelf.

But what interested him, in particular, was the small barrel of gunpowder. It was sitting on a shelf on its own. The barrel was still sealed. He wondered if it was left over from their last, ill-fated visit to the Court. He doubted they had found all the stolen gunpowder. Regardless of what the men of the Court of Miracles wanted to do with the powder, d'Artagnan had other plans for it.

After a final look over his shoulder, he reached out and lifted the barrel from the shelf. He tucked it under his arm and walked away. Now that he was weighed down by the powder he could not move as quickly. But he could hide and evade any of the army members that walked past. Several times he had to duck into doorways and stay out of sight until the men had walked past. Before, he wanted to be seen so that the men would follow him and not search for Aramis. Now, he needed to remain hidden, at least for a few minutes, until he could find the perfect spot to put the powder.

What he did not want to do was cause any further harm. Innocent people were living in the Court that had nothing to do with the vengeance that the army was dealing out. D'Artagnan knew that what he was about to do would cause destruction, but he could, at least, make sure no one was hurt. At least not many people. If some members of the army were hurt, he was not too bothered.

After a few minutes of evading searching guards and skirting around huddled street dwellers, he found what he was looking for. One of the many barricades that dotted the city within a city. He pulled out the stopper on the side of the barrel a few yards away from the barricade and began to lay a trail of powder. He pushed the barrel into the corner of the barricade and the nearest stone-built building. He searched the nearest two buildings for anyone and found them to be rat-infested and rotten. Even the street dwellers kept away from them. At the end of the street, a torch was burning in a rusty sconce, it was almost at the point of sputtering out. D'Artagnan carefully carried the precious flame towards his trail of gunpowder.

He sent up a silent prayer and dropped the torch. The effect was instant. He had no time to watch. He turned and ran.

He knew he had not run quick enough, as the explosion, which was bigger than he had expected, overtook him.

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Porthos shifted onto his side. He blinked a few times to clear the dust from his eyes. He squinted at the mess that had once been the ballroom. The large windows along one side of the room were all smashed, a gentle breeze was helping to keep the small dust particles from settling, sending them swirling around creating a fog-like hue.

He looked around, his watering eyes made it difficult to see clearly, but he could make out the bodies of the men that had been trying to hang him. They were spread about the room. Some looked dead; all were at least unconscious. He realised the blast had come from behind. The men had been grouped behind him, pushing him towards the makeshift gallows. They had borne the brunt of the blast. He wondered for a few seconds what had exploded but decided it did not matter. Not when it gave him a chance to escape.

With an effort, he twisted around onto his knees and staggered to his feet. With his arms still tied behind him, he found it difficult to balance for a few seconds and shuffled to the side.

A cough a few yards away drew his attention. He took a couple of steps forward and saw Flea.

Flea was lying half-hidden by the remains of the large table. Porthos realised the table probably sheltered her from the worst of the debris that had hurtled through the room. She was not, however, unharmed. Her dress was ripped, and bleeding cuts were visible through the tears.

Porthos hesitated for a moment. His former lover was not fully conscious. But she was coming around. He was sure she was not badly injured and would recover. Despite her wanting to see him dead, Porthos knew he would not have left her if she had been badly injured.

But he had to leave. He had to take the opportunity to escape.

Shouts from outside heralded the arrival of other inhabitants of the Court. Porthos knew from experience that the people of the Court would pull together in times of crisis. If they wanted to maintain the homes, they had to work together when disaster struck. They may have been individuals for the majority of the time, but when it was necessary, they came together as a community. And it was that mentality that Porthos was going to use to escape.

He moved to the edge of the damaged windows; the hole created was big enough for him to step over, even with his arms bound. He waited for the first few people to climb in before he swung his legs over and climbed out. No one paid him any attention. It was obvious he had been caught in the blast, but he was walking so not in need of immediate help.

He stumbled away, leaning against the wall of the building opposite for a few seconds to catch his breath. He took a moment to take stock. He knew he had been hit by some of the debris, his shoulder and back felt sore. More people were arriving. Porthos slipped away, keeping to the side of the road; he did not want to draw attention to himself. He still had his arms tied behind him, and people would want to know why.

The further from the blast he got, the fewer people he met that was going towards it. The poorer street dwellers were heading in the opposite direction. No doubt scared that further explosions could rock their world. He suspected the streets around the Court would be their shelter for the next couple of nights before they slunk back to their normal haunts. Porthos kept his head down and mingled with them. He did not see any of the army. They would have gone straight to Flea's palace. But if any had passed him and recognised him, they would have apprehended him.

Porthos wondered if the explosion had not been accidental. He nodded to himself. D'Artagnan. It had to be. He hoped the young Musketeer had not put himself in danger to set the explosion.

He stumbled on, the smoke and dust began to clear enough for him to see the invisible border to Paris. A few yards beyond, Porthos could make out the Captain standing with a group of Musketeers.

As he got closer, Treville walked forward, he said something, but Porthos did not hear over the general shouts and cries behind him of the Court's residents either fleeing or rushing to help.

'I said, are you alright?'

Porthos looked at the Captain for several seconds. Physically he knew he would recover but knowing how close he had come to dying would take a while to put behind him. Rather like the time he had been rescued from the official gallows by the very people who had been trying to kill him mere minutes before.

'I will be. Where are the others?'

His immediate concern could not be for himself. Athos, Aramis, and he suspected, d'Artagnan, were still in the Court. They were the men who were still in danger.

Treville shook his head, 'I don't know. The explosion?'

'Nothing to do with me,' replied Porthos. 'I know Aramis has got Athos out, but I don't know what state Athos was in. He'd been beaten apparently.'

Treville went back to watching the street, his eyes scrutinising each dust-covered man that emerged. The people leaving the Court all wore the same dazed expression. Porthos struggled to recognise any of them. Although he doubted many of them would know him after so many years.

Barbotin approached him. The field medic pulled out a dagger and gestured that he was going to cut the rope that was keeping his arms restrained. Porthos turned around and lifted his arms a little. He realised he was in pain. He knew he had been hit by debris but not to what extent. As the ropes fell away, he winced. Treville steadied him as Barbotin felt his shoulders and arms.

'You're covered in cuts and scrapes. Once it's all cleaned up, I'll have a proper look. We need to get you back to the garrison.'

Porthos shook his head, 'not until they're out,' he said stubbornly.

'Let us deal with it,' Treville said, although Porthos could tell he knew what his response would be.

He took a couple of steps along the road forcing the people rushing out to move past him.

'If you try to go back in there,' said Treville, 'I will let Clemont tie you up again.'

Porthos glanced at Barbotin, who shrugged, 'you know I like to follow orders,' said the medic.

Porthos knew what the Captain was saying made sense. He was in no state to return to his former home to search for his friends. He would not have a clue where to start.

'There,' said one of the other Musketeers, pointing along the road.

Porthos sighed with relief. Although, the relief was short-lived when he saw the state of Athos and Aramis as they stumbled towards them. It was difficult to tell which of them was holding which up. Athos looked generally dishevelled. He was wearing a doublet that was not his, there were bruises on his face, and he looked uncomfortable. Aramis was limping slightly and had what looked like a hastily applied bandage around his head, which was stained with blood.

Barbotin and Pierre stepped forward and grabbed the ailing men, pulling them clear of the dwindling groups of people leaving the Court. The pair were pushed to sit on a low wall. Aramis was staring off into the distance, unfocused. Athos looked up at Porthos.

'I will live,' he said. 'And you will not blame yourself. I have already said the same to Aramis, although, I doubt he is taking much in at the moment.'

Porthos shook his head; he crouched in front of his friend, 'I know it wasn't my fault. She's been planning this for weeks. She and Asim wanted revenge for what Aramis did to Charon. And she wanted revenge on me for not wanting to stay with her. Flea is not the woman I knew. If she ever was.'

Porthos sighed. He knew it would take him time to put his thoughts in order. A lot had happened over a short period. His view of his former home had changed.

'D'Artagnan?' asked Treville.

Athos shook his head, 'they split up,' he said with a nod to Aramis, who was still unfocused. 'D'Artagnan was supposed to be causing a distraction. I suspect that is his doing.'

They all looked back along the road. The dust settled. They could hear shouting and orders being given. The community was getting itself organised. Porthos hoped d'Artagnan managed to get out; the chances were the Court would lock itself down, fearing a larger-scale attack.

His attention was drawn back to Athos, who was wavering enough to need Pierre to hold his shoulder to steady him.

'Perhaps I am not as well as I thought,' muttered Athos.

For the Musketeer to admit his fallibility meant he was suffering. Porthos wondered what injuries lay hidden. Athos looked exhausted. Porthos reminded himself that none of the events was his fault.

When the Captain and Barbotin rushed forward, Porthos had to stop himself from following them. The pair grabbed d'Artagnan, who was groping forward blindly, with squinted eyes. Grazes covered his face, some close to his eyes. The confused Musketeer pulled away from the Captain and Barbotin, who held him firmly as they reassured him that he was safe. Porthos could hear the Captain confirming that they were all out and alive. D'Artagnan wilted a little when he knew they were all safe. He had probably been going through the same worries as the rest of them as he staggered out.

'Was that your doing?' asked Porthos, as d'Artagnan stopped in front of him.

D'Artagnan managed a nod and reached out to him. Porthos grabbed his friend and pulled him into an embrace.

'Don't worry us like that again,' he said.

D'Artagnan smiled.

'Let me see,' said Barbotin, as he pushed Porthos back a step and eased d'Artagnan to sit next to Athos on the low wall.

Treville slipped his hand around Porthos' arm and walked him a few yards away.

'Is this over?' he asked.

Porthos looked back towards his former home and shook his head.

'I don't know,' he said honestly. 'Flea survived; she's injured but will recover. It will take them a while to get back to what they had before. But they will. It's what they do.'

'You have their resilience,' said Treville. 'You are one of them. You may not live there anymore, but that fortitude will never leave you.'

'I think we'll always have to be careful,' Porthos concluded with a nod towards Aramis.

'I'll see to it that none of you patrols alone for a few weeks. But you are always vigilant anyway.'

'It didn't stop this from happening though, did it?' remarked Porthos. 'Athos and Aramis were taken regardless.'

'You are soldiers, and soldiers will always be targets,' concluded Treville.

Porthos agreed with the Captain. He did not like the fact that he and Aramis were going to remain potential targets for Asim and Flea. The situation was made worse now that Athos and d'Artagnan could also be in their sights.

He watched the last few people who were making their way out of the Court. A few were covered in dust and debris, but most were simple street dwellers. Innocent victims of the chaos that had been caused. Chaos started by the senior members of the Court and finished by the Musketeers.

'Now that you are all out, we need to get back,' said the Captain. 'It's over, Athos is fine. Or at least he will be. But you all need-'

The guttural, feral, yell took them all by surprise. Porthos and Treville turned in time to see one of the dust-covered men that had emerged from the court change direction. He charged toward the injured Musketeers, who were all too slow to react.

Asim, his face contorted with rage, was holding a dagger pulled back, ready to strike. His target was the slowest of the injured men to react. Aramis, his eyes focusing for the first time since he and Athos had stumbled from the Court looked up. He raised his hand to try to deflect the dagger but was too late. All he managed to do was stop Asim from stabbing him in the chest. The blade sliced across his forearm. Asim grabbed Aramis with his other hand and pulled back the knife, ready to strike a second time.

The strike did not land. At the same moment that Asim let his rage get the better of him Porthos reacted on instinct. He grabbed Treville's gun, wrenching it from the Captain's belt, knocking him off balance in the process. He raised the weapon and fired, hitting Asim in the head.

Asim's angry expression became vacant for a second before he slumped to the side, pulling Aramis off the low wall with him.

Porthos lowered the gun as Barbotin, and Pierre rushed forward to help Aramis and drag the body a few feet away.

Porthos stared at the body; the knife still clutched in Asim's hand. He was aware of Treville taking his gun back and nudging him.

'We need to leave,' said Treville. 'We need to leave before our presence causes any further problems.'

Porthos nodded. He looked across to Aramis, who was being helped up. Porthos knew they had both come close to being killed because of the instinctive move on Aramis' part months before. He hoped now that Asim was dead, they would not have any further problems. The threat and danger would always be there. But he saw no reason to go near his former home again. Flea had shown her true colours. He felt no bond with the place anymore. It would always be his former home; he would always remember his time there. But that chapter of his life was well and truly over.

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