A/N: Many thanks for reading and commenting. I'm glad you seen to be enjoying this. It's been a tussle, I can tell you!

So, what awaits Olivier? And where are the others? One of those questions will be answered in this chapter.

oOo

CHAPTER NINETEEN

In the dimness of the passageway, Olivier could see the way widened ahead. Thick beams along the walls indicated they were now in a substantial part of the palace, the rooms beyond most probably part of the original building. Treville had told him Richelieu and others had added wings in recent decades. It gave him no clear idea of where he was, but his focus was on discovering who else was secreted within these passageways.

He was to find out sooner than he thought as he stepped over a small pile of rubble and came face to face with a man standing before him.

Unable to see his face in the shadows, the man's clothing was familiar. He was dressed as a Palace Guard, but this was no servant of the Crown. His arms were crossed before him and one hand held a sword somewhat mightier than the one he himself held, taken from the dead man in the corridor.

"Well, well. Milady's pet," the man said, his voice wreathed in contempt.

"What are you talking about?" the Comte replied, tersely. "I know no-one of that name."

"She has many names," Dubois replied, shrugging a shoulders, his black eyes visible now through the gloom.

"I told her I would kill you," he snarled.

"You can try," Olivier replied, his face blank of emotion, hand gripping the hilt of his sword; confused by the man's choice of words but recognising a fight was about to ensue.

"A one-armed man?" the shadow snarled. "This will be short work,"

The Comte slowly lifted his hand and pulled the sling over his head, before throwing it on the floor in front of him, an effective gauntlet challenge.

The passageway was wider here, and there was room to make a fight of it, especially if he could force the man into an adjoining room, should a door avail itself. After all, what was the purpose of these numerous passages, if not to move stealthily and quickly around the Palace, he thought.

In the meantime, the man was slowly approaching.

"So, do you have an equal number of names?" the Comte asked, locking eyes with his would-be assassin.

"My name is Dubois," the man replied, flatly. "I was Sarazin's man."

The Comte dropped the point of his blade to the earth floor.

"And am I to know this man as well?" he asked, eyebrow raised.

Dubois frowned. Something was not right here.

"The Musketeers killed him. And most of our men," Dubois said.

"Then," Olivier replied, "If they killed him, he obviously deserved it."

"They said you were arrogant" Dubois sneered, unable to make sense of it, but eager to engage.

"Are you going to talk me to death," Olivier sighed, "Or are we going to fight?"

"It will be my pleasure," Dubois sneered.

"Mine also," the Comte smiled, raising his blade and dropping into a balanced stance as Dubois approached.

With a flash of steel, their duel began.

Very soon, Dubois realised he was not up against an ordinary man. Nor did the lack of the sling seem to hamper him.

For his part, Olivier was beginning to wish he had not removed the sling. With nothing to support his arm, his damaged shoulder was protesting loudly. He gritted his teeth and concentrated on the job in hand. Dubois was a worthy opponent but he lacked finesse. Indeed, from his training set with d'Artagnan, he knew he far out passed this one, even for a much younger man.

He needed to overpower this man, who spoke of a woman with dubious connections, but obvious power. Convinced she was the woman he had pursued, he lashed out once more, driving Dubois back against one of the beams, his own sword embedding itself as Dubois turned a shoulder and rolled away.

The occasional rubble at their feet was an impediment and Olivier cursed the builders as both lost balance as their boots lost grip. When the way was clear, they both made headway.

Olivier had the advantage of moving forward, Dubois having to carefully back along the passageway. Ahead were cobwebs hanging in shabby splendour across the roof of the passageway and Olivier determined to time his assault on them to coincide with Dubois moving beneath. Raising his sword, Dubois attempted to parry but when their swords did not meet, he met his opponent's eyes, to see the Musketeer looking over his head. As Dubois turned his head upward to look at what his opponent was looking at, Olivier flicked his sword into the cobwebs and swept them over Dubois's face.

Roaring, Dubois staggered back, bouncing off the walls as he yelled, the cobwebs filling his eyes and mouth.

Olivier, however, could not get near him, as he was flailing his sword in a mad panic, so he paused to watch the man's mad dance, as Dubois dashed his hand across his face, cursing.

"You will die here!" the man yelled, as he cleared his vision. "Your body will rot within these walls."

"Your confidence is a credit to you," the Comte said, with a smile, before it dropped away, to be replaced with a dark look. "However misplaced."

"You should know, Dubois," he added, "Two of your men are already dead."

Let him assume the Musketeers had done that, for the truth was still a mystery.

With a yell, the man charged and they clashed swords again.

This time, fists were employed. Olivier was at a disadvantage without a free hand, though he wielded the fist holding his sword with equal fervour.

Both were tiring now, but it was a fight to the death.

Dubois had blood running down his neck from a cut, and the Comte from the back of his hand, which Dubois was targetting in order to make him drop his sword. They bounced off the walls, which were surprisingly solid, knocking the breath from each of them.

Both negotiated a small pile of rubble, which had been partially pushed against the wall, before locking swords, faces almost touching. Without warning, Dubois went to head-but Olivier, but the Comte ducked in time. However, he lost his balance and Dubois shoved him back into the rubble. Without waiting to see the outcome, Dubois turned and ran. An armed man on the floor was still dangerous, and he grabbed the opportunity to get away from the surprisingly adept opponent to get his bearings. Once sure of an escape, he would return to carry out his promise of death to the Musketeer.

Momentarily stunned, Olivier crashed to the floor of the passageway, the air rushing from his lungs as his shoulder screamed in agony.

Dust rose from the floor as Dubois disappeared and Olivier attempted to struggle to get to his feet, hampered now by the pain flashing down his arm and the rubble about him.

Gathering his wits, he followed. Marks in the dusty earth showed the way Dubois had gone, and aimed to follow, but a red mark on the wall to his left caught his eye. Sure that Dubois would soon return to finish the job, he ran his hand along the passageway wall, curious as to what the red mark signified.

oOo

Louis looked up, as the door in his wall suddenly opened.

Expecting Milady de Winter, for it was she who had last used that hidden door, he watched as a figure cautiously emerged, looking rather dusty and dishevelled. Picking up a silver candlestick, he held it aloft.

Uncertain of what to do, he gripped the candlestick and was about to issue a cry, when suddenly, it became apparent who the man was and in relief, he lowered the candlestick back to his desk. Before he could exclaim, Athos put his finger to his lips and walked to the doors. Opening them he looked outside and quickly closed them, before turning.

"Where are your Guards, Majesty?" The Comte asked, incredulously.

"I sent them away!" he almost wailed. "I cannot trust anyone!"

"And Captain Treville?"

"He left to ensure the Queen was safe."

Striding across the bedchamber, Olivier took hold of Louis's arm.

"If you will permit me," he said, moving him quickly over to the bed, where he indicated Louis climb.

Childlike, the King complied, climbing onto the counterpane. The Comte then whipped the heavy drapes closed on all four sides and turned, sword at the ready. As a second thought, he tucked his sword under his now-painful arm and dragged a chair across to the double doors, shoving it under the handles so that he didn't face an enemy on both sides.

Making sure the hidden door was standing ajar so that light spilled into the passageway, he turned to the King, now peering out through the drapes around the lavish framework of his bed.

"Quiet, Sire," he murmured.

"I believe we will shortly have company."

The King readily pulled his head back in and disappeared as the Comte turned to face the passage door, to await Dubois once more.

To be continued...