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I shall not waste time. Here we are - the long-awaited, inevitable (and feared) confrontation between Athos and L'Hernault.

CHAPTER 117

The fight between Athos and L'Hernault was desperate, for both men understood from the outset that it was to the death.

And from early on, Athos knew with alarm that unless Fortune smiled upon him, it would be his death for his body was not responding in the way that he had come to expect; his legs and sword arm were leaden. Gone was the agility, the fluidity of movement, and he was without his main gauche to parry the other man's onslaught. He had to have dropped it somewhere on the battlefield, but he had no opportunity to look out for it; he dared not take his eyes off his opponent.

L'Hernault was transformed, imbued with the incredible and desperate strength of the madman. He was beyond words but snarled like a wild animal, his nostrils flaring, spittle on his lips and his eyes gleaming wide in a terrifying mixture of insane recklessness and jubilation that at last he 'had his man'.

Athos was being driven backwards, his exhaustion causing him to be continually on the defence. As he fought for his life, it was too late to concede that he should never have been there. The world around him had ceased to exist and time itself had stopped. There was only the here and now, this frantic conflict, and it could only be measured with each violent clash of sword upon sword.

It was merely fourteen days since his brothers had found him in the aptly named 'dying room' and twelve days since his raging fever had finally broken. He had been back on his feet for seven days and he had pushed himself hard, disregarding all advice, so determined was he to join the Musketeers at Versailles.

The journey to the hunting lodge alone had left him drained even though he had ridden in the cart with Serge and the drugged sleep he had had that night - courtesy of Aramis – had done little to replenish his energy levels.

Then there was yesterday. Life might have been a little quieter for him had he accompanied the hunt! Both he and Tréville thought erroneously that it would be slower, calmer and less exacting working for the Cardinal in his office but then Menier had arrived and, from that moment onwards, the day had descended into sheer lunacy!

Athos had unwittingly incurred the hatred of the Red Guard Captain; the two regiments had completely disregarded orders and fought over food; L'Hernault had tried to shoot him and killed Planque instead; Richelieu had then seconded him to command the Red Guard; the murderer and Allaire had been apprehended and interrogated; and he had allowed L'Hernault to break through his carefully erected barricade to elicit an emotional response.

And the day had not ended there, for then there had been necessary work with the Red Guard, a meal with his brothers, an appearance at the banquet and a late-evening meeting with Tréville and the Cardinal. The hours had involved lots of walking between the camps and the lodge itself and two bone-jarring encounters with the ground and a wall had not helped matters. Add to that the discovered journal belonging to the dead Captain and it meant Athos had not had any sleep until the early hours. He had not even had the relief of a bed, instead sinking into a deep, uncomfortable slumber on a hard chair at a table.

He was never supposed to have been on the battlefield, but his unexpected command of the Red Guard had put him at the forefront for he knew that it was impossible to lead those men from the sanctuary of the lodge.

All of this had taken a grave toll on Athos and he could not spur himself on. He dug deep for any reserves of energy, but there were none. His lungs were burning as he struggled to draw breath, the pain in his side had blossomed into an excruciating agony that spread throughout his torso and his arms screamed their protest from wrist to shoulder with the weight of each blow from L'Hernault who fought as a man possessed. He could not even manoeuvre himself to employ any of the dirtier tactics he had learned from Porthos. Sweat ran into his eyes, blinding him momentarily so that he blocked L'Hernault's next move on instinct alone.

And then he lost his footing!

Pushed ever backwards by L'Hernault, he had not seen the corpse on the ground behind him and it tripped him. Arms flailing, he nearly lost the grip on his weapon as he hit the ground hard, the back of his head and shoulders impacting first so that he lay there stunned and winded, his lower legs hooked over a dead man.

Fighting for breath, he looked up at the crazed L'Hernault who stood over him, sword raised and poised to be plunged into him.

This was his ignominious end then - at the hands of a madman. He tried to summon up a last burst of stamina, his brain shrieking orders at his unresponsive body.

He had nothing left and fixed his gaze on L'Hernault, resolving to look Death in the face with courage and honour.

Blood roared in his ears so that he could hear nothing. The first he knew that something was wrong was when L'Hernault's expression changed from a triumphant leer to one of utter surprise. He glanced down at his chest, and Athos looked up, fascinated, at the blossoming red stain spreading rapidly across the shirt.

L'Hernault's eyes glazed and he swayed. Standing over Athos, he resembled a chopped tree in its last, wavering moments before toppling.

Athos' eyes widened in realisation. L'Hernault was about to fall forward and land on him, pinning him to the ground with the blade. With a wretched cry and a surge of energy pulled from he knew not where, Athos threw himself to one side and rolled over and over, only knowing that he was safe when he felt the vibration through the earth beneath him and realised that L'Hernault had fallen.

Lying face down, Athos squeezed his eyes shut and sobbed into the dirt; whether it was from relief, agony or utter exhaustion, he could not tell.

The next he knew were voices talking at him, the words urgent but indecipherable, and then hands pulling at him, rolling him over and lifting him up into a sitting position. Arms engulfed him, rocked him and held him tight in a protective embrace. The decorative studwork of a leather doublet impressed itself onto his cheek. He allowed himself a slow, crooked smile of recognition.

Porthos.

Then there were more voices at odds with each other.

"Is he alive?" That was d'Artagnan.

"How can I tell?" Aramis, and he sounded frustrated. "Porthos, you have to relax your hold a little. You are in danger of smothering him and I need to examine him."

A hand stroked back his sweat-soaked hair from his face and rested on his head. "Athos, open your eyes." It was an order. Tréville.

His lids fluttered and he looked up at the most wonderful tableau he had ever seen in his life. He lay against Porthos with Aramis on his knees before him, Tréville crouched at his side and d'Artagnan standing and leaning over him, blocking out the sun.

"What happened?" he croaked.

"The Captain shot L'Hernault," d'Artagnan explained.

"I would have shot him the moment I saw him," Tréville went on, "but with a discharged pistol, I had to reload and prepare but I could not get a clear aim until you fell."

"And we were with Grenouille. Your fight was well underway before we realised," Aramis said apologetically.

"Gave us quite a turn, you did," Porthos scolded gently. "Looked for all the world like you were lettin' 'im think 'e was winnin'."

"He was," Athos admitted grimly. Then, not wanting to dwell upon what had so nearly happened, he struggled to push himself up further. "Now, if you will just help me to my feet, I have to supervise things. There is the aftermath of a battle to sort out."

It was Tréville who pushed him back into Porthos' arms. "Oh no you don't! This time I am giving you an order and you are damn well going to follow it. You will go inside with Aramis to the makeshift infirmary where he can get a proper look at you and you are going to rest there. Do you hear me? Don't let me regret that I just saved your sorry hide."

His words may have sounded testy but the relief in his blue eyes told a completely different story.

Athos looked up at him and earnestly held his gaze, his unspoken gratitude to the man who had just saved his life abundantly clear to the small group. There would be time to have a quiet conversation with the Captain later when they were alone.

For now, there was the hint of a mischievous glint in the fatigued eyes.

"Well, when you put it as nicely as that, how can I refuse?"