III. Kriegsglück

"Fire!"

On Aramis' command, the weapons of the musketeers thundered through the night. The first row of enemies tumbled to the ground as the bullets found their target. There was a short break, and Athos handed his weapon to Mathis at his back, and received a fully reloaded one in exchange.

Another salvo hissed through the air to find multiple targets. Athos had to admit, Aramis had been right. Half of the shots continued to miss their target, so there had been no point in trying to shoot at the ships earlier.

"Athos!" Porthos' voice cut through the noise of wind and battle and he elbowed him hard.

Athos wanted to protest, but instead, he followed Porthos' alerted gaze and saw Commander Decart's battalions marching towards the soldiers that had just landed on the beach.

"What is he doing?" Porthos shouted and fired his weapon again.

"Leading his men into battle," Athos replied, but his words were lost under the sound of another musket being fired.

"This is madness!"

"Contrary to us, he wasted all of his bullets on a distance nobody can hit," Athos growled.

Porthos was watching helplessly as the troops of the Commander clashed with the forces of Buckingham. Athos fired another shot, his eyes narrowed as he tried to make out what was happening on the beach.

He could see the fire of the muskets lighting up the night, but the scene was obscured by the thick fog that lay over them like a curtain. He could see the silhouettes of the English, some of them twisting and turning on the ground, others kneeling in the sand – with their own weapons aiming at the dunes.

Athos' eyes widened and he turned his head to the right.

"Get down!" he yelled with all the strength and authority he could muster. His warning came just in time, and he managed to crawl backwards just as the English muskets started firing back.

To his right, he could hear Porthos mumbling something incomprehensible, and he felt a weird twist in his guts as he heard the muffled cries of at least two musketeers who had been hit. He couldn't make out who, but he could hear other voices, Arthur's amongst them, who called to Athos.

"It's alright, nothing serious!"

"It's just a scratch!" another voice hissed somewhere among the rows of the musketeers.

Athos was startled when he noticed movement to his left, and he immediately aimed his pistol at the person who crouched down in the grass next to him.

Aramis just raised a questioning eyebrow and scanned the pistol with a skeptic look.

"Wrong direction, my friend."

Before Athos had the chance to reply or to just sigh in exasperation, Aramis continued, his face a mask of concern.

"Athos, we have to draw swords. There's no use in trying to keep the distance."

Athos grunted and got into a sitting position. "No, that's right. We might hit our own men." He peeked over the hill, and all he was able to make out was a muddling mass of men down on the beach. "Suggestions?"

He didn't get a response and turned his head back to Aramis, only to see his comrade's eyes wide open with alarm.

"I don't think you want to hear them!" the marksman yelled and pointed at something behind Athos. Both Aramis and Athos jumped to their feet, and the determined roar of Porthos assured them he too was on high alert. English soldiers had approached, and were charging towards them with their rapiers held high above their heads.

Athos hesitated for a split second. Was this the part where he, a common musketeer, had to give orders? Orders that would decide the fate of the musketeers?

Before he had a chance to waste further thoughts about it, the musketeers drew their rapiers in one single motion, awaiting their enemy shoulder to shoulder. Athos, Aramis and Porthos quickly took their places in the formation, and Athos realized that the musketeers did not need any orders. They were disciplined, and they knew what they had to do.

The English charged towards them, their swords ready to strike. Athos and his comrades wordlessly leveled their guns at the attacking enemies and they all fired their pistols at the same time, before they too drew their swords for the impact.

An intimidating war cry sounded in Athos' ear and he didn't have to look to see Porthos' angry and threatening face. He focused on the man running up to him - a short man, with a brown moustache and red, angry eyes – and prepared for the strike.

The sword clashed against Athos' weapon with more force than he had anticipated, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. He was trained to keep his enemies at a distance, and defeat them at the end of his sword.

He didn't fight as physically as Porthos, nor did he fight as energetically as Aramis, but he fought with efficiency, and with something Aramis liked to teasingly call 'unnecessary elegance'.

His opponent sent a series of hard blows against his blade, but Athos merely took a few steps back, parrying the strikes quickly and precisely. He could feel his boot sink into the slick sand, and for a split second, panic seized him as he was unable to move backwards.

The man in front of him noticed Athos' dire situation and started another forceful attack. The musketeer was able to see the blade flashing in the light of the moon, and while he struggled to get his foot free, he managed to lift his blade up and caught the enemy's sword only inches in front of his face.

The other man's face was red with anger and exhaustion, and he used all of his strength attempting to bury the blade in Athos' head. With a gasp of relief, Athos managed to free his foot, and he made a surprising step forward. He could feel his opponent's blade slice through his biceps, and he could hear the man's pained grunt of surprise when Athos pulled out his main-gauche and plunged it into the man's torso.

For a few moments, Athos was kept in what must have looked like a grotesque embrace, but then the man fell to his knees and tumbled backwards down the dunes.

Athos did not have time to catch his breath, nor did he have time to assess the situation. All he was doing was raising his sword in defense, and sending the attackers down the dunes from whence they had come. His sword was cutting through the rows of enemies, throwing itself into one duel after the other, and Athos felt like he was only subconsciously participating in the battle.

After a while, his ears started ringing due to the constant sound of steel clashing on steel. His eyes became teary due to the smoke and the wind, and he could feel warm blood running down his left arm, but the adrenaline kept him going.

Just when he had buried his main-gauche into the shoulder of another man, he was finally able to take a step back and evaluate the situation. The air was filled with gunshots and screams, the first thing Athos had to determine was how the musketeers were dealing. And how his brothers were doing.

It did not take long for him to find Arthur, the angry and strong fighter. He was a man in his thirties, about as tall as Athos, with a two long scars on his face and the strength of a boar. His face was a mask of hate, and it seemed like he was fighting driven by nothing but anger.

Not far away from him was Mathis, young and quick. He jumped around his enemies with an agility of which even Aramis would be jealous, but now and then, the recklessness of youth almost cost him his head.

Finally, Athos spotted Porthos. His friend seemed to use his pistol to stop assailing enemies and catch swinging blades, and the angry roars that escaped his throat were truly frightening. Nobody managed to come closer to the big musketeer than three feet.

Aramis was on Athos' other side, going against three men at once with his usual firm but effective method of throwing them into each other's blades, and if that wasn't enough, he almost looked bored doing so. It looked effortless, which made it even more terrifying.

"Musketeers!" The words barely reached through all the noise that surrounded him, but Athos managed to divert his gaze from his brothers and his eyes fell on Captain Méchant on top of a small, white horse, wielding his sword wildly to get Athos' attention.

Athos ducked just in time to avoid getting shot in the head and he hurried over towards the Captain, coming to a slithering halt in front of the man's horse.

"What?" he yelled over the noise as he automatically continued to reload his weapons.

Méchant bent down, so Athos could hear him better.

"We retreat. There's no point in holding the beach. The Commander and his troops will barricade themselves in the citadel, we will sit this out!"

Athos heard Porthos scream something behind him and he couldn't help but turn around. Another group of men had made it past the musket lines and up the dunes, and they were surrounding the musketeers. Porthos was wielding his sword with pure anger and determination, while Aramis dove underneath his enemy's sword and finished him off with his pistol.

Athos didn't hesitate when he saw another man running up to Porthos, ready to impale the tall musketeer with his dagger. In one swift motion, Athos took his aim and fired his pistol. The attacker collapsed to the ground a split second before he would have reached Porthos, and the musketeer didn't even have time to give Athos a grateful nod. They were mercilessly outnumbered.

"What about the musketeers?" Athos now yelled at Méchant, his face turned in the opposite direction, as he was trying to stay aware of their situation. "Where do we retreat to? Fort de la Prée?"

"No!" Méchant's voice reached his ears. "You have orders to head north-west, there's an abandoned wooden fort. It is said to be in good condition. Décart will send you further orders soon. Take your men, take your supply cart and get the hell out of here!"

With that, Méchant violently tore on the reins. His horse neighed in protest and reared up, before he galloped back to his own men.

"Athos!" The warning almost got lost under the noise of the battle, but he captured Aramis' words just in time. Instinctively, he ducked his head and felt the hiss of air as the sword missed its target. He whirled around to face his opponent, only to see the man on his knees, his uniform coated in blood from the blade sticking out of his chest.

With a disgusting sound, the blade was removed and the man fell forward, revealing Aramis. The marksman's eyes were wildly roaming over the open area, and he was bleeding from a nasty cut on his temple. Despite everything, Athos was glad he could count on Porthos and Aramis to watch his back in times like these.

Athos just nodded a thanks before he snatched Aramis' pistol from his friend's belt and fired it into the air.

"Retreat!" he yelled with a raspy voice, accompanied by a raw scratching in his throat due to the smoke and all the shouting. "Musketeers, retreat!"

All around him, heads turned towards him. Some musketeers seemed relieved; others stared at Athos in disbelief. Slowly but surely, the battlefront began to disengage. There were other orders in another language yelled across the beach, and casting a quick side-glance to the beach, Athos noticed that Commander Décart's troops had started running away from the beach, and into the safe cover of the trees. They headed north-east, towards Saint-Martin.

The English troops too started to fall back, and build a formation on the beach, in front of a man who had just descended from one of the boats, with a pale cloak and an armor Athos would recognize everywhere.

The Duke of Buckingham.

Athos gritted his teeth, but he concentrated on his task.

"Get the damn cart," he yelled toward the location he believed Porthos to be. He received no answer, but the noises assured him that somebody was doing as he was told. Athos' senses told him to run, to search for cover and to bring as much distance between himself and the beach as possible.

He had to lead the way, he had to fulfill his task and keep those men together. But his eyes were locked onto the confusion that was the beach. In a way, it looked like a grotesque painting. The sand was torn apart by still smoking cannon balls, and colored red and black. The remains of the boats that had shattered in the bitter storm were slowly washed ashore, and bodies, more than he could count, were floating in the shallow waters. Both, English soldiers and French.

A few soldiers on the beach were still engaged in combat. Athos wasn't sure whether they had heard the orders or if they just did not care about them. He could do nothing but watch as one man after the other fell victim to an English sword.

Buckingham was still yelling orders, and the English muskets still thundered through the night.

"Athos!" A voice reached through his muffled ears and when he jerked his head to the side, his eyes met Aramis'.

"Athos, come!" his friend said and cast one last worried glance towards the beach. "We need to go."

He could feel Aramis dragging him with him for a few steps, and after he regained control, his legs started cooperating again and he ran, his mind fully concentrated on the musketeers, the men he had a responsibility for.

He couldn't allow himself to be distracted. His feet carried him away from the beach and into the safe cover of the trees. It didn't take long until he and Aramis reached the cart with supplies, Porthos was sitting on the coach box, staring at Athos in anticipation.

"There you are!" he growled, but Athos only granted him a short nod. He put a foot on the wheel and lifted himself up to check the content of the cart. There were boxes with food, clothes and other essentials stacked so high it almost looked unstable.

Athos' eyes wandered upwards and he narrowed his eyes when he caught a flash of silver in the distance by the dunes.

"We got everything, Athos," Porthos assured him confidently. "Let's move."

Athos' eyes were still locked on the dunes, and they widened as soon as he saw the men and the banner bearer emerge from behind the dunes, their weapons ready to fire. One man was leading them, he was wearing a dark armor and a golden weapon belt. Even from a distance Athos recognized him as one of Buckingham's commanders.

"Look out!" Athos' warning came just in time and Porthos instinctively ducked his head. The bullet missed his head only by inches.

"Let's go!" Aramis said; his eyes locked on the Commander of the British troops.

"Move!" Athos yelled forcefully, and luckily the musketeer company was very disciplined. Athos knew that there were men among them, who doubted his provisional leadership, but right now, no one commented, and nobody dared to protest.

The chase continued for at least another mile. The musketeers ran through forest and open area, heading north with no real idea what they were running towards. Their pursuers continued to shoot at them, making it clear that they didn't intend to let them get away.

"We could make a stand, and face this commander and his men. In open battle, we have a chance," Arthur yelled through the noisy wind.

"Are you insane?" Mathis countered, breathing heavily. "There's no cover for us here."

"These men are not letting us get away!" Porthos roared angrily as he steered the cart around a big tree.

"We just gotta keep running!" Aramis' voice echoed in Athos' ears, even though he had no idea where the musketeer was in the crowd. "They'll tire eventually."

The bullets riddled the ground behind them, but the English troops couldn't come close enough to do any serious harm. Musketeers were fast.

However, they were forced to run over a hill, and the sudden cry of pain that tore through the air forced Athos to an abrupt stop. He whirled around and saw one of the musketeers on the ground, his hands wrapped around a hole in his leg.

Without thinking twice, Athos ran towards him, fully aware he was exposing himself to a rain of bullets. He heard someone shouting something and he looked up to see that Aramis had had the same idea.

"I've got him, go on!" Athos shouted and pulled the wounded musketeer's arm over his shoulders, dragging him into the shelter of the cart, and Aramis hesitantly did as he was told. Athos could hear the bullets whiz past his ears, and he knew he was incredibly lucky that none of them actually hit him.

And suddenly, the shooting lessened and eventually stopped.

"They're falling back!" Mathis yelled in Athos' direction.

"About time they gave up," Porthos confirmed from his place on the cart.

Athos turned his head, the wind whistling in his ears, and he indeed saw the men turn around and head back to the beach, though not without shooting another salvo of bullets in their direction.

"No stopping until we're at the camp!" Athos ordered and no one dared to argue with him. The more distance there was between them and Buckingham's troops, the better. Nobody would deny that.

And so they continued running. Athos wasn't entirely sure they were going in the right direction, but Porthos seemed to be certain, and he trusted his friend. He was running next to Aramis, who looked exhausted to say the least, but he did not show any signs of stopping anytime soon.

About ten minutes later, their salvation finally revealed itself in form of big, wooden fences that appeared in front of them behind some rocks. The gate was open, and the musketeers stormed through it and gathered in the camp. Porthos brought the horse to an abrupt halt, and Athos carefully lowered the man he was carrying to the ground.

"What on earth was that?" Aramis panted once he firmly closed the fragile gate behind their backs. The musketeers were spreading out in the camp, looking for a place to rest for a while. Athos couldn't hold it against them, his own legs were shaking with exhaustion.

He was joined by Aramis, Porthos and Arthur, and they all had a half serious, half shocked expression written all over their faces.

"A very persistent Englishman, I'd say," Athos brought out between clenched teeth, his lungs still taking in as much of the fresh air as they could in an attempt to calm down.

"I have no idea who that was," Porthos said in a worried voice. "But he had every intention of stopping our retreat with violence, I was able to see it in his eyes, when I battled him at the beach. Quite determined to kill us all if necessary."

"Question is why he didn't stay on the beach in the first place, like all the rest of Buckingham's troops?" Aramis said thoughtfully.

Porthos shrugged. "Seems like he wanted to find out why we're not going with the Commander. Or he just likes killing musketeers." The bitterness in his voice was evident.

"Doesn't matter, I know his flag," Arthur pointed out. "That's one of the English Generals that fought at La Rochelle. If it's truly him who's supporting Buckingham's siege…" Arthur went silent, and steered his gaze towards the ground.

Aramis stepped forward, placing one hand on his weapon belt. He looked at Athos, ready to deliver an explanation. "They call him the butcher of La Rochelle," he explained carefully. "The stories that are being told about him…"

"…are just stories," Athos cut in sharply. "I'm not getting panicked by a myth"

Aramis raised his hands in defense. "All I'm saying is that we shouldn't underestimate him."

Porthos snorted. "I'm never going to underestimate a man who wants to kill me."

Aramis scowled, his arms crossed indecisively in front of his chest. "Sometimes, I feel like it's up to luck to decide who survives this war and who doesn't."

"It's in our hands," Athos replied bluntly. "Nobody but us decides about our fate."

Aramis looked at Athos with a strange expression in his eyes, somewhat melancholic, and somehow weary. He said nothing, but he lowered his gaze and stared at his boots.

"We need to build up this camp, and we need to do it quickly," Athos continued matter-of-factly, returning to his usual impassive tone of voice. "Buckingham will need at least a day to fully secure his position on the beach. God knows what he will do then."

Aramis nodded. "I'll go see after the others," he explained. "And see who's able to work on it." With that, he left, and Athos briefly closed his eyes and took a deep breath in order to ease his nerves. The adrenaline was still flowing through his veins.

Porthos exchanged a quick look with him, and the unspoken truth hung in the air between them.

A truth Athos could see, but was powerless against. They had been sent here as a diversion, to confuse the enemy, a sacrifice to facilitate the escape of the main body of the army.

Because in the end, this was not a fortress that could resist a siege for long. They had a target on their backs and Athos wondered how long it would be until they paid the price.

Note: The title 'Kriegsglück' literally translates to luck of war. It's a reference to a poem by Goethe. And just in case anyone was wondering: The story will be written from Athos', Porthos' and Aramis' POV. Thank you for the comments!