VI. First Blood

Within moments, chaos erupted around them. The air was filled with screams and gunshots, and Porthos was outside barking orders at no one in particular.

Athos had pulled the woman down to the ground, one arm drawn over his head in a protective manner, the other one reaching for his belt, drawing his pistol. One bullet after another riddled the door Athos had been standing in front of only seconds ago, and the splintered wood was flying in all directions and raining down on them.

He looked down, only to see the woman's face absolutely terrified. Athos quickly scanned her, and himself, for injuries, but he couldn't find any.

"Stay inside," he ordered her brusquely, and raised his pistol in his right hand, peeking behind the shredded door.

"My children!" the woman screamed, and Athos looked towards her again. Tears were streaming down her face, and she helplessly scrambled backwards on all fours. "Please, my children!"

"Where are they?" Athos asked, as he blindly fired a bullet in the direction from where he believed the shots were coming. He immediately started to reload.

"My daughter is in the small house, over there!" She pointed towards a wooden building, about twenty paces away. "My son is working at the barn, two miles north."

"Your son should be safe for now. You stay here, don't move until I say so." He was interrupted by other civilians who came running through the shattered door-frame, yelling and cursing. Some of them were dragged by others, and Athos gently, but firmly shoved them behind his back.

"Don't move," he said once again, before he turned his head to look at the scenario outside.

There were two carts thrown over in the middle of the street, and he spotted Porthos leaning against one of them, his arms drawn protectively over a young girl, who was screaming in terror. Athos could see how Porthos tried to soothe her and shoot back at the English troops without scaring the girl too much. Only Porthos could look like a caring brother and a deadly soldier at the same time.

"Madame," Athos growled, and waved with his hand behind his back.

He could feel the woman approach, trembling terribly, and he held his arm out to keep her in the safe zone. He pointed towards Porthos.

"Is that your daughter?" he asked, and the surprised scream that escaped the woman's throat answered the question for him.

"Don't worry," Athos said with all the assurance he could muster. "My friend's got her. He'll get her out."

She nodded, but her eyes were still wide with horror and locked on the spot where the little girl was crying and screaming.

Athos stepped aside just as another bullet hit the wall next to him, and he spotted Aramis taking cover behind some old barrels, whose contents were spilling onto the ground. Lucien, the self-proclaimed spokesmen for the village, was running around, trying to avoid getting hit by the bullets. Athos could see at least three or four English soldiers running towards him, with their rapiers raised high in a charge of violent rage.

Athos barked a warning and an order, and without further hesitation, he, Aramis and Porthos simultaneously rose from their cover and fired their pistols. Two of the men crashed face-first to the ground, but the other two still ran towards Lucien. Athos did not know who of them had missed their shot, it wasn't important anyway.

"Merde," Athos could hear Aramis curse, and every fiber in his body was urging him to enter the battle with his sword, but at least two new gunshots right next to his head forced him back under cover. When he got the chance to risk a glance again, about ten seconds later, he just witnessed Aramis, who had broken cover, pulling his sword out of one of Lucien's assailants. The other one was knocked out.

"Who are they?" Lucien's voice rose over the tumult, and Aramis grabbed him at the last second and forced him behind the barrels as another rain of bullets came down.

"Buckingham's troops," Aramis snapped, and sent a questioning look towards Athos. The swordsman looked over to where Porthos was holding his position behind the cart, and he made a gesture towards Aramis, knowing his friend would understand without a word.

Athos took a deep breath and closed his eyes, his ears picking up every sound there was.

For about five seconds, all he heard were the gunshots fired by English muskets, but suddenly, there was a small break. Athos took the chance and stormed out of his cover, sliding over the ground towards Porthos and almost colliding with Aramis, who had Lucien on his heels. Aramis almost lost his balance and steadied himself on the cart.

"Next time," he panted, shooting Athos an amused glance and ignoring completely the complaining of Lucien to his right, "We should exchange signals to decide who'll go first."

"We'll work on that," Athos replied and prepared his pistol. He faced his friend again. "How many?"

Aramis shrugged. "No idea. They're shooting at us from behind the trees, but it won't be long until they decide it's a waste of bullets and try for the honor of taking out the King's musketeers with a sword."

"We have to get the civilians out," Athos stated matter-of-factly, moving to the side when he heard the wood behind his back shatter.

"We are only three, how the hell are we supposed to get the people out of here?" Porthos queried and flinched at another salvo of gunshots.

"It's three against forty," Athos said mildly, not sure what it meant for him or his friends.

Aramis grinned. "Sounds like fun." He hesitated when his gaze fell on Athos' and Porthos' unreadable faces. "Arthur is getting reinforcements," Aramis pointed out and hissed as one bullet missed his head only by inches. He threw his hair back and angrily reloaded his pistol. "We just need to hold on long enough."

Athos just grunted affirmatively.

"Porthos, get the child out of here, then come back and help us secure an escape route."

Porthos nodded, covering the girl's head with his giant hands. "What about you two?"

Aramis chuckled and grabbed Lucien's arm. "Where are the others?"

The man looked surprised that he was asked a question. He was shaking violently with fear, his eyes squeezed shut until the moment Aramis addressed him.

"I…what?"

"Where are your people?" Athos repeated impatiently, his voice dangerously low.

"Well, you left some of them in my house!" the man replied in a ridiculous attempt at bravado. "I believe the others tried to go to the forge."

Aramis lifted his head over the cart and risked a quick look into the village, before he crouched down again, his eyes wide open.

"Alright, bad news for us, the forge is at least twenty-five toises* that way," and he used his head to point in the said direction, which was opposite of Lucien's house, "and…," he made a short pause and shoved his pistol back onto his belt before pulling out his rapier and his main-gauche, "bad news for them. They're coming, mes amis. Charging at us with swords."

Lucien made a weird sound and his eyes were rolling in panic. "How is that bad news for them?"

Porthos grinned darkly, and even Athos' mouth twitched a little.

"If that's the case," Athos concluded and rose to his feet, "Aramis, you'll go to the forge, and try to get the people there to safety. I'll secure a route between Lucien's house and Porthos. All clear?"

Aramis nodded and jumped to his feet. "See you two later," he commented as if he was just going out for a casual stroll, then he ran toward the forge. Athos still heard a few gunshots, but nothing he or the others couldn't handle.

"Don't die!" Athos shouted dryly, but he wasn't sure whether Aramis had been able to hear him.

"Alright, Athos, now!" Porthos yelled and Athos didn't need to be told twice. He turned around to face the charging enemy with a loaded pistol aimed straight at the first man he laid eyes on. He was still a few lengths away, but Athos didn't give him the chance to come any closer. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see how the people that had fled into Lucien's house were trying their best to block the entrance with anything they could find, but Athos quickly realized that the English soldiers were completely focused on the musketeers at the moment.

Which was exactly what they wanted. Athos took one deep breath and grasped his rapier even tighter.

Porthos could feel the warmth of the little girl in his arms against his chest – a constant reminder of what he was protecting, and what he had to do next. His own heartbeat was hammering against his armor, betraying his calm façade and telling the story of his own fear, of his own doubt.

He watched Aramis disappear behind one of the houses, and judging by the sound of metal clashing on metal, he had found Buckingham's troops. He could hear men and women scream, but Porthos just hoped that the civilians would escape safely.

To his right, he watched how Athos felled the first man with his pistol, before he ripped the rapier off his belt with elegance and threw himself between the English soldiers and the barricade a few civilians had built in the entrance of Lucien's house.

Everything in Porthos screamed at him to go to his brother's aid, but the weeping in his ear reminded him of what he was supposed to be doing, and swiftly, he moved into action.

He jumped to his feet, grabbing his pistol with one hand and holding the girl tightly with the other.

"I'll get ya out of here, don't worry," he tried to soothe her, but over the riot of the battle, he almost had to shout, and the result was contrary to his intentions. The girl shook even harder, and her tears coated Porthos shoulder. Without hesitation, he started running. The sound of boots hitting the ground assured him that he was being followed, just as he had expected.

He tightened his grip on his pistol and he sensed the second before one of the soldiers reached him. He dove underneath the blade he had felt coming and fired the pistol straight into the stranger's chest. The man stared at him with wide eyes, apparently assuming he had had the element of surprise on his side, before he crumbled to the ground. The girl in Porthos' arms was sobbing, and he had given up trying to calm her.

All that mattered now was bringing her to safety.

He heard a gunshot somewhere and he ducked, only to feel the bullet miss his head by a hair's breadth. With a cry of rage, he whirled around to face the source of the gunshot, and he lifted his pistol just in time to avoid getting stabbed in the face. The steel clashed against the barrel of his pistol, and Porthos could feel warm blood running down his hand. He had no free hand to draw his sword, so he decided not to waste any time trying.

Careful not to expose the girl to the enemy's sword, Porthos leapt to the right, using the moment of surprise to forcefully knock the pistol-butt against the soldier's temple. The man stumbled, but swung his sword in Porthos' direction.

The musketeer noticed how the man deliberately avoided attacking Porthos' left side, where he was holding the child, so he concluded that Buckingham's troops probably weren't the heartless bastards they had been told about after all.

Still, when another English soldier approached, Porthos panicked for a split second and considered letting his pistol go in order to grab his sword, but he didn't have enough time to follow through.

A heavy kick to his knees sent him to the ground, and the child's scream tore his ear apart. He rolled onto his side to protect her from any harm, and judging by the lack of attacks that followed from the enemy, he guessed that they didn't want to harm the girl either.

Porthos saw his chance, and he took it. With a forceful blow of his elbow, he disarmed the first soldier, grabbed him by the collar and threw him face first against the nearest tree trunk. A dull sound assured him that the attacker was out-of-action, and he whirled around to face the second opponent.

The man's face was dark red with anger after watching how brusquely his comrade had been dealt with, and he launched multiple attacks with his sword, so quickly that the musketeer had a hard time defending himself and the child. Two or three sword strikes hit his armor, but didn't manage to cut through.

Finally, he had enough. Porthos used his already injured hand with the pistol to stop another strike, dropped the weapon briefly and grasped the enemy's rapier tightly with his gloved hand. The expression on the much smaller man's face changed rapidly from anger to fear, and Porthos gritted his teeth when he tore the rapier out of the man's hands and used it to finish the duel between them, quick and precisely.

Porthos didn't waste another second and picked up the pistol again. The sounds of steel clashing on steel in the distance assured him that his friends were still engaged in several battles of their own. He ran north into the safe cover of the trees, not without having to defend himself against two other Englishmen. It was difficult with the girl in his arms, but he wouldn't risk letting her go off on her own. He had two or three close calls, but luckily, his skills hadn't abandoned him.

Just when he thought he could use a split second to breathe, the hissing sound of steel cutting through air announced another soldier's attack. Porthos instinctively leaned backwards, but the second blow followed so quickly he had nowhere to go. Before he had the chance to react, the sharp metal cut through his skin over his eye.

For a second, he was stunned, and almost dropped the child in his arms. The skin around his eye burned hot with pain, but the adrenaline in his veins burned even hotter. He didn't give the man a chance to celebrate his triumph. He forcefully kicked him against the chest and away from him, before he blindly dove underneath the blade he sensed coming and rammed his head against his enemy's skull.

The years he had spent brawling in Paris' taverns finally came in useful, and he knew that the headache he was going to have was worth it. The soldier blinked at Porthos a few times, completely stunned, and didn't even notice when the musketeer broke his leg with another kick. The man collapsed to the ground, and Porthos again didn't hesitate a second.

He strengthened his grip around the girl, finally dropped the pistol in his right hand and hurried north. In the distance, he heard voices, and he panicked at the thought of Buckingham's troops literally surrounding them.

He couldn't see much with warm, sticky blood running down his face. With his vision blurred, he was forced to a stop when multiple figures appeared in front of him. A tall figure stepped right in front of Porthos, who felt threatened by the stranger's posture.

He roared with anger, and in one fluid motion, he pulled out his sword, wielding it menacingly.

The unknown man in front of him took a step back, and motioned the others to do so as well. He didn't behave like a threat, but Porthos, devoted to his duty, wouldn't take the chance. He growled and kept the others at distance with his weapon.

"For the love of God, Porthos!" the man exclaimed. "Tell the difference between friend and foe, will ya?"

Porthos blinked the blood out of his eyes and squinted to recognize the stranger's face. He frowned.

"Arthur?"

As soon as he had run from cover, Aramis had regretted his impulsive decision. It was not that the reaction was unexpected – he had known there were muskets aimed at him, and he had known that there were soldiers running towards them with rapiers raised high. Still, he was outnumbered, and he had run blindly into an unknown number of enemies.

But it was the adrenaline that had kept him going, and with a good amount of luck, he wasn't hit as he crossed the distance towards the next house, which provided cover for him.

He threw a quick glance back, and saw Athos running towards Lucien's house, which Buckingham's troops were already besieging. There was no trace of Porthos yet, but Aramis had faith in his friends. They would do their duties. Now, he had to fulfill his.

He didn't get another warning and the fact that the sword being flung at him missed him was all due to his quick reflexes. Aramis blindly stabbed sideways with his parrying dagger and felt the blade slice through flesh and an agonized yell assured him he had found a target.

After straightening back up, Aramis briefly saw the face of the attacker right before he stabbed his rapier through his torso. He whirled around just in time to parry another blow from another English soldier, and behind the man's back, he could see that the civilians who had fled towards the forge were arming themselves with everything they were able to find.

The English forces were attacking aggressively, but their defensive moves were somewhat sloppy.

Aramis plunged his main-gauche into his attacker's shoulder and moved him aside.

"Out of my way," he hissed to no one in particular, and started running towards the crowd.

"Head over to Lucien's house!" he yelled towards where he believed the villagers to be, then threw himself between Buckingham's troops and the French citizens. He automatically fell into the movements he had practiced so often with his friends, and it was easier imagining that the tall, broad soldier who challenged him to a duel was Athos on the training ground, and that the giant swordsman who came running towards him with a cry of savage rage was Porthos after a long night in the tavern.

He tried to anticipate the moves that would come from them, and tried to adapt to them, but truth was, Porthos and Athos both were far superior fighters than the men attacking him. He was able to keep them at bay and control the duels easily.

He caught a blade being swung at him from up above with his dagger, and steered the Englishman's sword in the direction of another attacker, before he kicked him in the back and managed to take out two enemies at once.

The only problem Aramis could see at the moment was the number of enemies. The Musketeers were mercilessly out-numbered, and their priority was getting the people out of here. Right now, Aramis did not know how he would get them safely to Lucien's house, and to Athos, on his own.

That's when he sensed someone to his right stabbing one of Buckingham's soldiers in the back, and he recognized one of the civilians swinging an iron bar and covering Aramis' right side.

"I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but get the hell out of here!" Aramis yelled at him and saved him from being impaled by an enemy's sword.

"Let us help you!" the man insisted, and Aramis fought the urge to repeat Athos' way of handling things from earlier.

"I don't have the time or the energy to argue!" Aramis growled instead and threw his current enemy into another attacker who had sneaked up from behind. "Run. Now. I'll hold them off."

He was sure he heard a "Thank you!" from somewhere in the crowd, but he didn't bother to look, nor did he care. All that mattered for now was protecting the small group of civilians against the heavily armed, greater number of Buckingham's men.

The seconds he had wasted on yelling led to one attacker smashing the butt of a pistol against Aramis' chin, and he stumbled backwards, regaining balance just in time to block a deadly blow.

As a result, he had to take another hit against his knee, and he could feel the blade slice through the leather and his skin. He barely felt any pain, the anger flowing through his veins as well as the determination gave him the strength to smash his own head against his enemy, and use the unexpected shock it caused to his own advantage. Not even five seconds later, the duel was over.

Aramis took a deep breath and risked a quick glance over his shoulder. To his relief, there were only two civilians left who were trying to make their way through gunfire and pure chaos, and Aramis believed he heard noises from behind his back that could only belong to Athos.

He had no time to reassure himself. Years on the battlefield for the king had taught him that most battles lasted long, and mostly ended because one side ran out of strength or energy. He didn't plan to be on that side.

With the hope that Arthur would be coming with reinforcements soon, Aramis turned to face the next group of English soldiers that charged at him with swords drawn and faces red.

He managed to get rid of the first one quickly, a move with the sword Athos had taught him only a few weeks ago. Aramis made a mental note to thank his friend.

The two men that followed were harder to deal with. Both were very tall, and they were surprisingly agile for their statue. It took all of his reflexes and energy just to avoid getting beheaded, and he kicked one of them in the knee to put him out of action for a few moments.

The remaining man didn't seem to be bothered, but had a hard time parrying Aramis' precise attacks with the sword. He launched more than one counterattack.

The musketeer on the other hand caught the second man rising to his feet again out of the corner of his eye, and he mentally prepared for an attack from the side.

But in this tiny moment of inattentiveness caused by exhaustion, his opponent managed to push Aramis' sword arm aside and break through his efforts at defense. Aramis caught the reflection of the sun on the blade right before it was rammed straight through his injured leg.

A strangled scream of surprise escaped his throat and he blindly fired his pistol at the man who had impaled his leg, but judging by the grunt of pain and the angry growl, he had failed to hit anything vital.

He reached for his leg with a shaking hand, but once again he spotted the attacker coming towards him. Gritting his teeth, Aramis stumbled backwards, before he lost his balance and sank to his knees.

He looked up into the face of the soldier, and suddenly, the tides had turned.

Athos had soon realized that at the moment, he was the only sword standing between the English forces and the civilians. The barricade at the door looked quite substantial, but it didn't correspond to their current plan anymore. They were getting the people out, and giving up this godforsaken village.

Luckily for Athos, Lucien had been brave enough to follow him, and was tearing the barricade down and shouting instructions at the people inside. Athos was busy enough outside.

One foolish enemy tried to shoot Athos from close-range, and all he had to do was duck his head and stab forward with his rapier. It made an ugly sound when he pulled the blade out.

His main-gauche collided with the blade of the second man, and Athos quickly but elegantly managed to break through his poor defenses and disarm him. One strike later, the man fell face-first to the ground.

Out of the corner of his eye the musketeer caught Lucien urging the people out of the house, and in the distance, he could see a line of villagers approaching from the forge, where Aramis was doing his best to keep the English at bay.

Athos was fighting on two fronts now. He used every loaded pistol he could get, his own or those of the poor souls that dared to oppose him, to shoot at the English pursuing the fleeing villagers, and at the same time, he fended off the soldiers approaching Lucien's house with his sword. His eyes were continually searching the entrance of the village for any sign of Porthos or Arthur, but he could see nothing. The only evidence for Porthos was the fighting noise not too far away.

"Hurry!" Athos yelled over his shoulder to spur the villagers into action. They needed to get out of here, now.

He barely even noticed the men he was crossing swords with anymore; most of his attention was on the people running away at his back. He saw that no English soldier pursued them, probably because they were all focused on the French musketeers. More and more English troops started to swarm the entire village, and when Athos risked a quick glance, he wasn't able to see Aramis around the forge anymore.

Still, there was no trace of Porthos, or Arthur and the rest of the musketeers. Athos lost track of how many men he had fought, and he had lost sight of the villagers a few minutes ago.

When an English blade cut through his left arm, right underneath the fresh bandage, he let out a hiss and dropped his main-gauche. He was going against five men now, and wherever they had come from, they intended on ending this as quickly as possible. He wasn't able to block five strikes at once, so he did the only thing he could do.

He made a step back, evading two swords at once, while a third cut through his armor. Athos rammed his injured elbow into the attacker's face and turned around for a counter-attack, but he was hopelessly outnumbered.

The last thought that crossed Athos' mind before he felt a bolt of pain shooting through his back was that they hadn't stood a chance from the very beginning. He crashed down to the ground, trying not to let go of his sword.

They had confidently walked into their doom. A pistol went off somewhere else in the village.

Athos managed to lift his gaze and he saw the attack coming, but he was too slow. With a loud crack, the foot connected with his head.

*A toise was a measurement unit in Pre-Révolution France. It equals about 2 metres, or 6,5 feet.

Thank you for reading, and also a big thank you to Uia and Laureleaf for your lovely reviews. I appreciate them!