A/N: Thank you beeblegirl and SnidgetHex for reviewing!
Chapter 4
Constance stood in the doorway of Athos's bedroom, unsure whether she should try to move in closer or keep her distance. Aramis didn't seem to know she was there. He was huddled on the floor in the corner, hands clapped firmly to the sides of his head, eyes squeezed shut.
"Aramis?" she called. "It's me, Constance. Can you hear me?"
To her surprise, he looked up, blinking rapidly as his gaze struggled to fix on her.
"Constance?" He scrambled to his feet. "No! Leave her alone!"
She couldn't help looking around, but of course there was no one there. "Aramis, I'm fine. No one's here."
His eyes were wide with terror. "Marsac, don't. She's innocent!"
Constance moved forward, reaching out to him. "Aramis—"
He recoiled sharply, bumping against the wall at his back and dropping to the floor again where he buried his face in his hands. "Stop, please stop," fell from his lips in desperate pleas.
Constance's heart clenched and she stayed where she was, feeling helpless and not knowing what to do. This was black magic, and what was there that any of them could do? Except find Milady and make her reverse the spell, like when she'd stolen Porthos's eyes. But the Musketeers had to rescue Porthos from the Spanish first.
And in the meantime, all Constance could do was watch Aramis sink further into madness and wonder whether they'd be able to bring him back at all.
.o.0.o.
Porthos sucked in a sharp breath and tried again to steel himself. "I need you to stop the bleeding," he called over to Samara.
She put her book down and hurried over to him, looking at his leg worriedly. "What bleeding?"
"When I pull the bolt out."
"You're mad. You'll die!"
"People have said that before and I'm still here."
And as much as he wanted to believe his brothers would find them, he couldn't just lie around waiting.
"Tie off my leg. And I'll need some bandages."
He struggled to get his belt off as Samara began to rip strips of fabric off her skirts. Porthos slipped the belt around his thigh above the bolt, beginning to breathe in shorter, faster gasps at the prospect of just how much this was going to hurt. Samara took hold of the belt and Porthos turned his head to take the collar of his leather coat between his teeth. He then nodded to her.
She yanked the belt tight and he immediately grabbed the shaft and yanked with one harsh move. The shaft ripped free with a squelch and Porthos yelled into his coat. Samara picked up the rags of her skirt and pressed them to the wound.
"How are you feeling?"
Porthos nodded jerkily. "Better."
"It doesn't hurt as much?" she asked incredulously.
"No, it's worse. But now," he held up the removed bolt, "I've got a weapon."
He struggled to push himself to his feet, but this time Samara actually helped, and he hobbled his way to stand behind the other pillar closest to the door.
"Bunch your blanket up to make it look like I'm sleepin' there," he instructed.
Samara moved away to do as he said. "Now what?"
"Now you get their attention by tellin' 'em I'm dead."
She arched a dubious brow but went to the door. "Hello!" she shouted. "Your musketeer hostage is dead!"
Porthos shook his head; nice to know she was as brusque with everyone as she'd been with him, even her captors.
A few moments later the sound of clomping footsteps came from the other side of the door. Samara backed up several feet, keeping her distance. The lock clicked and a guard entered, striding toward the mound of blankets. As soon as he passed the pillar, Porthos surged forward and grabbed him from behind, holding the bolt head to the man's face.
"My leg hurts," he growled. "Someone's going to pay for it. Make sure it's not you."
He then snatched the man's pistol off his belt and nodded to Samara. Together, they slipped out of the room and down the hall, where they came upon Baltasar and a flunky in another room. Both of them quickly whipped out their pistols in response and the lackey fired right away, but the ball struck the wall.
Porthos glowered back, his human shield held tightly against him and his weapon aimed back at them. He hadn't been lying about his leg.
"One shot. Who's it going to be?" he bellowed.
.o.0.o.
Rhaego had been understandably worried about Aramis and slightly reluctant to leave the garrison without him. But to his credit, he'd also recognized the urgency in finding Porthos. Five Musketeer dragon riders took to the skies and circled the square as Rhaego went down to pick up the scent of Porthos's blood from the street. Athos felt marginally bad for the fright it gave everyone still in the area, but it was necessary. And with the blood still fresh, Rhaego was immediately able to pick up the scent.
He tracked it to a building only two blocks from the square, which made sense; Baltasar's men had disappeared with Porthos rather quickly. The dragons swooped in over the large courtyard, not quite landing but giving enough space for their riders to hop down, then they spread out to completely surround the place.
Athos was still formulating a plan of attack when they heard a shot go off inside, which decided things for them. Drawing their pistols, the musketeers stormed the building.
The door they kicked in led to a narrow foyer with a set of stairs that headed straight up to the next level. They were fish in a barrel, and men at the top of the steps immediately fired down at them. D'Artagnan barely jerked away in time to avoid being hit. Athos shot another man before he could fire, and they charged up the stairs to find Porthos on the floor, a pistol aimed at his head, and another man restraining Samara. The five musketeers lined up and drew their pistols.
"Put down your weapons," Athos ordered.
"You have no authority here," Baltasar snapped.
"That man is a King's Musketeer and the girl is under protection from the Spanish Crown," Athos replied. "Release them."
"They mean nothing to me," Baltasar responded. "I want Tariq."
"And here I am."
Athos flicked a startled look over his shoulder, jaw tightening as Alaman strode up the steps. He must have followed the rather obvious troop of dragons to this location. The musketeers held their ground, not allowing him to push his way through fully.
Baltasar's eyes lit with hatred and he gestured to his man, who drew a knife and held it to Samara's throat. "Your choice, Tariq."
"I will return to Spain of my own free will," he replied. "And explain how the cipher works. But only if you release my daughter."
Baltasar sneered at him. "You haven't even produced the cipher. I should kill your daughter right here and now."
"No!" Alaman took a breath. "The cipher is in Samara's book."
The girl's eyes blew wide with fury. "You shouldn't have told him. I'd rather die than help them!"
"I know, my love," Alaman said, expression pained. "But I want you to live."
Baltasar looked at him skeptically before going over to the girl and yanking the white book from her hand. "General Alaman and the cipher will stay here," he declared. "The girl and the musketeer can leave."
The men holding weapons on the hostages stepped back.
"I won't go without my father," Samara said staunchly.
Alaman pushed past d'Artagnan and moved toward her. The Spanish didn't stop him. "You must go," he said fervently, taking her by the arms. "As long as you are free, I will always be at your side. Samara, listen to me, the world that we knew is dead. You have to build a new one where our people can live in dignity and with peace. That is your task now. Now go. Go!" He pushed her toward the musketeers.
Athos and d'Artagnan kept their pistols raised as Etienne and Geoffrey moved in to help Porthos off the floor. Athos wasn't thrilled with this turn of events, but they were at a stalemate, and he chose to prioritize getting Porthos and the girl out before reevaluating how to handle the rest. With the dragons surrounding the place, the Spanish were not going to get away with the cipher.
They made their way out of the building, retreating only to the courtyard.
"Are you all right?" Athos asked as he came up alongside a limping Porthos.
"Fine," he said gruffly. "But what now?"
"Those three windows are the room," d'Artagnan said, pointing. "A dragon could break in, catch them off guard."
"Any assault on Spanish citizens will provoke a diplomatic incident," Athos pointed out reluctantly.
"They're operating on French soil," d'Artagnan countered.
Athos nodded; it wasn't ideal, but they needed to make their move. "Prepare to enter the building."
"Please," Samara interjected. "My father is in there."
"We'll do our best to get him out," Porthos promised.
Athos signaled Savron to make an assault on the windows, but before the dragon could get close, the building suddenly exploded with a massive concussive force that knocked everyone off their feet and showered the entire courtyard with rubble. Dragons shrieked in surprise and leaped away from the shrapnel flying at them.
Athos coughed on a mouthful of dust as he scrambled to his feet again.
"Father!" Samara screamed. "Father! Father! No!"
She stumbled toward the smoking ruins, but Porthos managed to catch her and hold her back, wrapping her in his arms and trying to soothe her.
Athos stared in disbelief at the wreckage. Alaman had been willing to die rather than give up the cipher to Spain. But he didn't have to! He could have waited and trusted the Musketeers to get him out. Instead of this colossal waste.
The others went to pick through the rubble in case there were any survivors. Porthos stayed with Samara until her sobs died down, and then d'Artagnan stepped in and gently guided her over to Ayelet to fly her back to the garrison. Athos put a hand on Porthos's arm and steered him toward Savron.
Porthos pulled up short and frowned when he spotted Rhaego amongst the dragons but without a saddle. "Where's Aramis?"
Athos looked at him grimly. "I'll explain on the way back to the garrison."
.o.0.o.
Rochefort held his new compass in his hand as his borrowed dragon made a circuit above the city. Unlike his other tracker, this one's arrows were all pointing him toward the woods outside the palace.
He directed the dragon to land on the outskirts and then proceeded on foot on his own, the arrows guiding him straight and true. He pulled a special, jeweled dagger from his belt and gripped it firmly as he navigated his way under the trees, senses peeled for his quarry.
He smelled the woodsmoke before he found the campsite. A cauldron was cooking something over an open fire and a woman in black was leaning over it, waving her hand through the tendrils of smoke. Even from this distance, he recognized the widow from the church the night he'd been hunting the necromancer.
Eyes hardening, Rochefort stepped quietly over the forest floor. The witch was absorbed in her spell and didn't hear him approaching. Rochefort slunk up and grabbed her roughly from behind, pressing the dagger to her throat.
She hissed in surprise and opened her mouth, probably to cast a spell, but Rochefort pushed the blade harder against her skin, nicking it.
"Ah, ah, ah," he warned. "Let's keep that forked tongue behind your teeth."
He could feel her shaking with rage, and for a brief moment, he let himself relish in the power he held over her. Killing her would be swift in this position, one quick slice through porcelain flesh.
But he didn't. He stretched out his leg and kicked over the cauldron, spilling its contents across the ground.
"Listen to me very carefully," he said in her ear. "Stop toying with the musketeers and just kill them. Then leave Paris and never return. Or I will have you burned at the stake."
"You don't frighten me," she seethed.
Rochefort smirked and rotated the dagger just enough to caress her neck with the edge of it, eliciting a sharp gasp. "I found you once; I'll find you again. This is your one chance to exact your revenge once and for all and live. I suggest you take it."
He waited an extra beat to press his point home, then released her. She spun away from him, eyes blazing with fury.
"Don't forget to clean this up," he said blithely, flicking his gaze at the spilled cauldron. Then he turned on his heel and walked away.
With any luck, he could kill two birds with one stone…