A/N: Thank you beeblegirl, pallysAramisRios, and jamepa for reviewing! Not without incident indeed. XD And no, Rochefort doesn't really deserve sympathy...
Chapter 2
Ayelet was dreaming of whacking gophers that kept popping their heads up out of their holes when d'Artagnan's voice pierced the illusion and made it wobble.
"Ayelet, wake up."
She cracked her eyes open and turned her head to blink at him. It was early; the sun had yet to fully rise and the sky was only tinged with a light pale blue and peach.
"We have an urgent mission," her rider told her.
Ayelet perked up at that. She liked going on missions. She shuffled out of her den to find he had a small portion of breakfast waiting for her. She chuffed at him in question as she leaned down to gobble it up.
"We're going to the Jura," d'Artagnan explained. "It'll take us several hours to get there."
She looked up, chewing on her current mouthful, and cocked her head to one side curiously.
D'Artagnan's jaw visibly tightened. "Rochefort's been wounded by a magical blade and there's a flower that grows in the Jura that could cure him."
Ayelet nearly choked as she swallowed abruptly. Falkor's rider had been hurt? Had he been told?
"Finish up," d'Artagnan directed. "We leave soon." He then turned and strode back into the house.
Ayelet scarfed down the rest of her breakfast and then went to find Falkor. He rarely slept in the den he'd been given, and she found him out back behind one of the outbuildings, curled in a forlorn ball. Worried he was upset about his rider, Ayelet bounded in and asked how he was doing.
He startled at her raucous arrival and snarled slightly, then chastised her for waking him so early.
She was alarmed to discover he had not been told about Rochefort, so she proceeded to relay what d'Artagnan had said and assured Falkor that the Musketeers would bring back this cure for his human.
Falkor, however, appeared unbothered by the news. He merely stayed where he was lying on the ground and huffed. Rochefort deserved what he got, he said. Because he used magic to hunt down the witch, and no humans should ever use magic under any circumstances.
Ayelet was completely bewildered by his attitude. Did he truly care so little for his rider? Yes, Rochefort was a rough sort of human and certainly didn't display any such open care for Falkor, but…they were a pair. And this witch was a serious threat to everyone; why would using magic to fight back be wrong?
Ayelet tentatively asked him if he knew of this flower cure they were going to retrieve, wondering if he disapproved of it as well.
He shrugged that he didn't know of it. He then warned her to tread carefully and not let the humans lead her astray. If this flower required magic to make this cure, she shouldn't allow them to get their hands on it.
Ayelet could only stare at him, unsure how to respond to that.
"Ayelet!" d'Artagnan's voice sounded over the compound with a ring of impatience.
She turned and hurried back to him where she found him waiting with her saddle in hand. She flashed him an apologetic look and stood at attention while he fitted it on her. Then they walked over to the garrison together where Vrita, Rhaego, and even Savron were standing at the ready. It'd been a while since Savron and his rider had joined them on a mission and Ayelet was excited for it.
The four musketeers mounted up and then they took to the skies, heading northeast toward the Jura.
.o.0.o.
Rochefort shuddered as he lay in bed, every muscle in his abdomen writhing under the conflicting bursts of fiery agony and glacial spasming. He could feel the taint of black magic poison in the wound, knew it meant his inevitable death. The burnt flesh from the cauterization had done nothing to alleviate it and only added to his torment. It reminded him of his time in the Spanish prison, awakening demons he'd tried so hard to walk away from. They licked at his mind now like tongues of hellfire, trying to draw him back into those dark memories.
The door creaked open though he didn't turn his head toward it. He'd sent the doctor away after his failed treatment, cursing the physician's ineptitude but also his own foolishness when dealing with the witch. He'd underestimated her.
"Rochefort?" a soft voice queried and he immediately snapped his gaze to his left in surprise.
"Your Majesty," he breathed laboriously.
There was a chair beside the bed and Anne took a seat in it, worried eyes roving over him. "How are you feeling?" she asked.
He grimaced. "Your countenance is a balm more effective than any medicine," he said hoarsely.
She blushed and tried to smile, though it seemed pained. "The Musketeers have gone to get a cure. They will return and all will be well," she promised.
Rochefort couldn't help but scoff at that. He didn't trust the Musketeers with his well-being. No doubt they'd just as well prefer to see him laid low like this.
"Be careful not to misplace your trust," he said bitterly, pain making his tongue loose.
Anne straightened. "They have never let me down in the past," she declared staunchly, and he regretted the statement. He did not want to risk pushing her away.
"I should let you rest," she said and made a move to stand.
"Please," he blurted, voice breaking slightly as torturous whispers rallied in response to her leaving. He swallowed hard and worked to get his tone steady. "Stay," he asked.
Anne hesitated, but then settled back in the chair and reached out to take his hand.
Rochefort closed his eyes and basked at the touch of her delicate hand and soft skin.
He knew she returned his love.
.o.0.o.
Even by dragon flight, over three hundred miles was a long journey and the musketeers had to pace themselves with breaks every couple of hours or so. At least, that was what they chose to do. Aramis suspected that when it had been his life on the line, his brothers and their dragons had pushed themselves to the limit of their endurance to reach the Jura as quickly as possible.
They were making good time, though. Five hours down, two to go.
"Uh, what is that?" d'Artagnan called over the wind, pointing just east of their position.
Aramis squinted at four black blobs in the sky gradually growing larger—and heading straight for them.
The dragons shrieked and began to break formation as the strange creatures came upon them with frightening speed and an equally frightening countenance. Aramis ducked forward over Rhaego's neck as his dragon banked sharply to avoid a slash of razor sharp talons. He'd never seen anything like these things before.
They were half the size of the dragons, which gave them an advantage in speed and agility as the four beasts split to take one dragon each. Massive wings were made of black feathers but their torsos had scales. Bulbous heads with beady eyes sat atop elongated necks, and their curved beaks looked as sharp as their claws. High-pitched screeches raked across Aramis's ears like brittle glass, making him wince and cling tighter to his saddle.
It was a dog fight in the sky with each dragon under assault by one of the vicious beasts. Aramis felt the tip of a talon catch on his altitude cloak and rip an entire seam out. Rhaego twisted and turned in the air, snapping his jaws at his attacker while it tried to latch onto him from any direction possible. Through the dizzying spiral, Aramis saw the others in the same position.
Gripping the saddle horn with one white-knuckled hand, he grabbed one of his pistols and struggled to brace it against his arm in order to get as steady a shot as possible. Fortunately, with the monster trying to get so close to Rhaego, Aramis was able to line up the barrel right with its face and pull the trigger. The musket ball ripped clean through its skull, dropping it from the sky in a lifeless heap.
Rhaego corkscrewed away and around to come to the aid of the others. Vrita was soaring upside down and grappling with a beast, trying desperately to keep its beak and talons from shredding open her belly. Porthos was barely holding on in the saddle, his legs clamped tightly to her flanks. Rhaego surged forward and snatched the smaller creature away in his talons, then finished it off with a jaw crunching bite to its neck.
Vrita swiftly righted herself, flying straight in order to steady Porthos on her back.
Savron managed to fling his attacker away enough to spew a geyser of fire and roast it. It fell in a flaming ball toward the earth.
That left d'Artagnan and Ayelet fighting off the last one. Ayelet's agility more matched the smaller creature's, but she was still hard-pressed to keep it at bay, and Aramis saw flecks of blood streaked across her pristine white scales.
Savron let out a raging roar and swooped in, clamping his jaws around the beast and flinging it away. It flapped furiously with an obviously broken wing before spiraling toward the ground to join the others.
Aramis quickly looked around to see if there were more, but the skies were clear. Athos let out a shrill whistle and signaled for them to land, though they took a longer, sloping descent so as to put some distance between them and those creatures in case they were still kicking.
Once on the ground, Aramis immediately dismounted and began a survey of Rhaego for injuries. He seemed fine, so he moved on to Ayelet. She had some superficial scratches which d'Artagnan was already fussing over worriedly.
"They're not deep," Aramis assured him.
"Do you think those things could be poisonous?" the young Gascon asked anxiously.
Aramis hesitated. He didn't know what they were. "Most likely not the claws," he hedged. The beak and mouth could be another story…
"Let me know if you start feeling ill," Aramis told Ayelet seriously.
Having finished her examination, he swiftly checked over Vrita and Savron. Once he had an idea of everything, he'd know what to treat first.
"Any of you hurt?" he asked, casting a quick glance over his brothers.
Athos shook his head.
"Porthos, you all right?" Aramis pressed when his friend didn't respond.
Porthos gave a clipped nod. He looked a tad shaken, probably from having to cling to his saddle upside down for several terrifying moments. Aramis didn't blame him.
"The dragons have a few scratches," he reported. "I can treat them easily." He headed back to Rhaego to get the medicinal supplies from his saddlebag.
"What the hell were those things?" Porthos finally spoke.
"I don't know," Athos replied. "But I wouldn't be surprised if Milady had a hand in sending them after us."
"Because she doesn't want us to save Rochefort?" d'Artagnan said dubiously. "That's a lot of trouble to go to over him. Why would she care?"
"I'm not sure," Athos answered. "But it's a question I've been thinking about."
He didn't elaborate any further, apparently not ready to share what his musings had been.
"Should we go back and try to get a better look at one of those things?" d'Artagnan asked next.
Athos was silent as he thought about it. Aramis focused on cleaning Ayelet's scratches.
"Our mission is the flower in the Jura," he finally said. "Can Ayelet fly?"
"Yes," Aramis replied even as she squawked her own response. He gave her a fond smile and spread some salve on the scratches.
"Uh, we might have ta rethink that," Porthos said, nodding to the north. Dark storm clouds seemed to be billowing up out of nowhere.
They stood there for a long moment, watching the gathering brume. It would be dangerous to fly in weather like that, especially if lightning was a factor.
Athos heaved a sigh. "It looks like we'll need to find shelter for the night."
"You think that's Milady too?" d'Artagnan asked, a thread of nervousness in his tone.
None of them had an answer. It was either a coincidence…or a very frightening thought that she could summon weather on such a scale.
"Let's go," Athos finally prompted.
Aramis packed up his supplies and they began to make their way on foot in search of a place to make camp.
"Might be God's will," Porthos put in gruffly. "Us not savin' Rochefort in time."
Aramis didn't have a response to that. The Lord worked in mysterious ways. And Milady worked in malicious ones.
All the Musketeers could do was follow their orders and try not to get themselves killed in the process.