Disclaimer: Raw violence ahead.
VII. Among the Dirt and Steel
Aramis was breathing heavily, looking up into the eyes of the man who intended to be his executioner. The other soldiers let go of him, and started running towards a target behind his back. Aramis realized with a heavy heart, that target could only be Athos.
He couldn't turn his head to look. Right now, there was only him and the English soldier standing in front of him. The man sighed, and while he leveled his gun at Aramis' head, he maintained eye-contact. Aramis could have sworn he saw pity in his pale eyes.
"I'm sorry," he said in broken French, and his finger nervously twitched towards the trigger of the pistol. Judging by the man's posture and his expression, Aramis could guess that he had been a soldier for a long time; however, he didn't take his duties lightly.
Aramis made the decision in the blink of an eye. Just as the flash of determination passed the English soldier's eyes, the musketeer used all of his remaining strength and leapt forward, catching the man in his chest and throwing him off his feet. The pistol went off way too close to Aramis' left ear, and he grimaced and wrenched the smoking weapon out of his opponent's hands. Without thinking twice, he dug his boots into the ground and pinned the other man to the ground before he started throwing punches.
His fist connected with his opponent's face, and he could feel how he knocked a tooth out of the man's jaw. The soldier struggled, and his free hand found Aramis' wounded leg. He grasped the hilt of the dagger still embedded in Aramis' leg, and gave it a twist.
The musketeer hissed in pain and let go of the man, only to receive a heavy punch against his temple. He fell backwards, and his back collided with the village forge. He desperately searched the area for some kind of weapon, but he couldn't find any, and seconds later the claws of his opponent dug into his throat and the English soldier's red face appeared above him.
As Aramis gasped for air, he felt something cold and heavy underneath his searching hand. Without thinking twice, he grasped the unknown object and smashed it hard against his enemy's head. The grip around his throat disappeared and the musketeer crawled backwards through the dirt, gasping for air and trying to get up on his feet.
The English soldier was pushing himself to his knees. Aramis, in pure survival mode, tried to gain as much distance as possible; half crawling, half stumbling, he made his way out of the forge.
Suddenly, his foot slipped and he landed on the ground again, his shoulder colliding with a cold weapon. His eyes widened when they landed on the pistol that had almost killed him just a few moments ago. He snatched it off the ground, and started fumbling with the gunpowder he always carried with him.
The English soldier was back on his feet, clearly stunned, but already looking for Aramis. The marksman was reloading the weapon with calm and steady hands. As soon as he had held the weapon in his hands, he felt victorious.
The man had found Aramis and picked up a sword somewhere before he approached. Aramis didn't waste one second. He raised a shaking arm, and barely managed to catch the surprise on the man's face before he pulled the trigger.
The cry of pain and the ultimate collapse of the English soldier assured Aramis he had hit his target somehow, but he was unable to go and make sure. He collapsed to the ground and for a moment he lay there, stretched out among scattered weapons and fallen soldiers.
Pain, no longer numbed, suddenly exploded in his leg and he risked a quick glance towards the wound. The knife was still sticking out of it, and a pool of blood had begun to form on the ground. His skull was aching, and he still felt the phantom fingers digging into his throat.
Under usual circumstances, he would just have lain here, and waited for a rescue. But somewhere in his mind, he remembered that he wasn't alone here. He heard no more fighting noises at his back, and his heart clenched with fear for Athos. No matter how much the musketeer had tried to keep his distance from the other men during the past two years, Aramis had grown to like him; he even considered him a friend. And the image of a friend being defeated in this godforsaken place filled his heart with terror.
Not being able to walk, he started dragging himself through the dirt.
Porthos was fuming with anger, and the adrenaline flowing through his veins urged him to ignore the burning sensation that threatened to consume half of his face. He carefully set the girl down. He heard a high scream somewhere in his back, and saw a woman rushing towards him. She had probably just escaped the village, and she immediately cradled the little girl in her arms, speaking soothing words.
Porthos straightened back up, to see the crowd of musketeers lined up in front of him, staring at him expectantly. As if they were waiting for what he had to say. Why would they?
"We should split up," Porthos suggested, failing to hide his panic.
Arthur nodded in agreement, and for a short moment, nobody said a word. The fighting noises from the village sounded even louder in Porthos' ears.
"Théo, take five men and guide the people towards the camp," Arthur ordered, and Théo complied without comment. Arthur grabbed Porthos by the shoulder. "Lead the way."
Porthos, a little bit surprised at the blind faith and trust these men seemed to put in him, nodded and turned on his heel to head back towards the village. At least ten English soldiers greeted them in front of the village, emerging from the main road up the slope.
The musketeers, about thirty men, had approached quietly and the English troops, complacent due to their presumed victory in the village, blindly ran into the waiting swords. Porthos had learned to pity his opponents, but at the moment, he wasn't capable of such emotion. The only thing he felt was anger, and the adrenaline was running through his veins, guiding his sword through the English forces.
When the Englishmen were dealt with, Porthos raised a fist, motioning the others to hesitate. He heard hooves in the distance, announcing the arrival of the horsemen Aramis had warned them about.
"Use the pistols," Arthur, one of the most experienced men among them, hissed. "Try to take their horses if possible. We need every animal we can get."
"Athos and Aramis are down there," Porthos added. "Priority is to support them, and to guide the civilians to safety, should any of them still be stuck in the village."
He heard several agreeing noises in his back; not all of them sounded as determined as he had hoped, but he couldn't care less. The English riders had emerged out of the forest, and they were heading towards the village, presumably to support their troops there. They had not noticed the Musketeers.
Porthos led the musketeers towards the village entrance, not without throwing worried glances in the direction Théo and the civilians had taken.
"Perhaps it's best to not make our stand inside the village?" Arthur hissed. "We still have a chance to decide where we want to fight."
"We've got men in there," Porthos replied bluntly.
"Porthos!" another musketeer had approached, grasping Porthos' arm tightly. "Do you hear any fighting noises? Any evidence that there's still resistance?"
Porthos considered just storming the village himself if he had to, but he had to admit that defeating the English soldiers had to be their top priority. He gritted his teeth, but he nodded.
"Fine. Suggestions?" He didn't even try to hide how much he disliked this.
"Lure them out of the village," Arthur explained, "and fight them on an open space, where we can see them."
"Good God, where have you learned your tactics?" another musketeer chipped in. "The horsemen will almost be unbeatable in an open field. In the village on the other hand, there's barely…"
Porthos didn't hear what advantages fighting in the village had. A flying piece of metal had caught his attention, one that looked sharp and deadly. Without thinking twice, Porthos grabbed Arthur by the arm and moved him aside, the shouted warning getting lost in the sudden tumult as the dagger missed Arthur only by inches.
Porthos turned his head, and saw the English troops charging towards them.
"So much for the plan!" the musketeer to his right said, and Porthos knew that his brothers-in-arms did not need any orders, nor did he feel obliged to give them any. They formed two lines, just in time as the English soldiers arrived. The second row fired their pistols, and at least eight English soldiers were taken by surprise and tumbled to the ground.
"The horsemen, the horsemen!" Porthos reminded them angrily, knowing that they had used half of their ammunition when there were still at least ten horsemen who would be hard to take out with a sword. He could immediately hear the sound of men reloading pistols behind him.
Due to the blood from his facial wound, Porthos had trouble seeing his enemies properly, but he raised his sword just in time. He blocked the attack from an English soldier, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small and agile horse charging towards him, the rider wielding his sword menacingly.
In one very lucky moment, Porthos parried the blow of the foot soldier so hard that instead of Porthos, the English soldier was hit by his own comrade's sword. The musketeer used the expression of surprise on the rider's face to his advantage, and just when the man tried to regain the control over his horse, Porthos roughly cut through the man's armor and sliced through his leg. The horse reared up, and Porthos backed away, feeling unsafe without his pistol, which he had lost when he had rescued the girl.
The rider locked his eyes on Porthos again and dug his heels into the animal's flank. The musketeer grabbed the hilt of his sword with both hands, planting his feet firmly in the ground and preparing himself for the impact that was to come.
Suddenly, he heard the wheezing sound of a bullet missing his head only by inches, and the bullet lodged itself in the chest of the rider, who collapsed over his horse's neck.
Porthos turned around to see Arthur lowering his pistol, winking at his friend with grim satisfaction.
"I consider myself lucky that you're a good marksman!" Porthos yelled and stepped aside in order not to get run over by the riderless horse.
One of the musketeer cadets had approached from behind, and hastily grabbed the agitated horse's reins, apparently remembering that they could use the animal.
Porthos threw himself into the next battle, but had to realize every now and again that he was lucky to have musketeers like Arthur by his side. The man had saved Porthos from at least three attacks on his blind side.
His eye was bothering Porthos more than he was willing to admit, but the adrenaline kept him going and he didn't stop once. The battlefield shifted towards the other end of the village, and he blindly fought one duel after the other, driven by nothing but sheer willpower.
Every now and again, he had a close call with one of the horsemen, but the musketeers, disciplined and focused, managed to take most of them out with their pistols. Most of the animals however disappeared into the woods.
"They are running away!" the cadet Guillaume said triumphantly, and pointed towards the English forces, who indeed had started to retreat. But Porthos didn't feel victorious yet.
"We pursue!" Porthos yelled as he yanked the sword out of his enemy's hands. The man dove underneath Porthos' punch and started running with the others.
"Where to?" one musketeer asked, but it was a question Porthos could not answer.
"As far away as possible!" he yelled angrily, and continued to pursue his former opponent and chase him towards the southern shore.
Arthur suddenly appeared by Porthos' side, throwing him a long dagger.
"We could be running straight into a trap, you know," the man commented, but with such serenity it made Porthos believe Arthur was on his side after all.
Porthos merely shrugged and concentrated on not getting shot. The Englishmen ran out of the village and into the safe cover of the trees. The entire musketeer division was on their heels, and as they blindly ran through the village and towards the forest, Porthos couldn't help but keep an eye out for Aramis and Athos. But in the chaos of horses running around and men engaged in duels, while others simply ran away, he wasn't able to make out his friends.
They just had to hold on long enough.
And they pursued the English forces south, with only one goal in their minds: As far away from here as possible.
Athos awoke with a loud gasp. His mouth felt dry, and he rolled to the side trying to catch his breath. He was nauseous, and his head felt like it had been cracked. There was blood all over his temple, he could feel it, but he just continued to gasp for air and get some fluid back into his mouth.
"Monsieur, you must stay down," a voice sounded from somewhere, and Athos wearily tried to make out the blurred features of a young boy, fourteen years old at most, hovering over him and pressing a piece of cloth against Athos' aching head.
As far as Athos could tell, he was surrounded by silence. Except for the boy, he didn't hear another soul, so either the battle had been won or he had been left behind.
The musketeer narrowed his eyes. "What…?" he cleared his throat, his hand grasping the hilt of a knife he carried with him. "Who are you?"
A shadow passed the boy's face, but he kept pressure on the side of Athos' head. "You have a head wound, monsieur. You shouldn't move until help arrives."
"Answer my question," Athos replied firmly, slapping the hand away and grabbing the boy's wrist.
"I'm Leo," the boy answered mildly. "I live in this village with my parents. I was helping out at the stables, but as soon as I heard of the attack, I came back." He made a pause, apparently waiting for any kind of reaction from Athos. The swordsman merely sighed and closed his eyes, not responding to anything.
"Cévry has been overrun," Leo continued slowly. "I believe the English general's troops tried to push further north, but they encountered the musketeer division. Last I've seen, the musketeers chased them back towards the beach at Saint-Blanceau."
Athos swallowed hard, and eventually opened his eyes again. "You shouldn't be here. It is dangerous." He tried to move backwards, but stopped when the movement caused a burning pain in his back.
"You didn't stand a chance," Leo continued to talk, and Athos needed all of his self-control to stay calm. "Alone against at least forty men?"
"Three," Athos whispered grimly. "We were three against forty."
Leo raised an eyebrow and lifted his head to search the destroyed village for any indication of other musketeers. "Well, you are the only one I found, and you were the first one I found. Three against forty." He shook his head in disbelief. "I suspect the stories we hear about the musketeers are true. You are tough, and slightly insane."
Athos felt a strange urge to laugh, but he contented himself with rolling his eyes and sending the boy a piercing glare. "You should go. Go to your parents, they should be in the camp north of here."
Leo nervously twitched his fingers. "I can't leave you here, Monsieur."
Athos, tired of discussing this, took the cloth out of Leo's hands and pressed it against his head himself. "The musketeers will probably come back for me."
Probably? To be honest, he wasn't sure. He doubted that Porthos and Aramis would leave him here, but Athos wasn't exactly the most popular man amongst the other musketeers. Hell, he barely knew them and vice versa. Perhaps they assumed he had fallen in the battle.
Leo didn't move, he just stared at Athos skeptically, so Athos finally had enough.
"The English might still be around. I don't want this to be for nothing. So get up, and go."
Leo's eyes widened slightly, and he looked insulted. He got up slowly, casting one last glance back at Athos before he disappeared out of the musketeer's sight.
In his mind, Athos could almost hear Aramis scolding him for the lack of courtesy, but truth was, Aramis wasn't here. Porthos wasn't here. Athos had no choice but to hold on in the bitterness of the fresh battlefield, relying on his own stubbornness and the hope that the musketeers cared about him enough to come back for him.
On the other side of Cévry
Aramis had only managed to crawl a few feet before the pain in his leg had become unbearable. He tried to move another foot, but the blade sticking out of his thigh jarred over the uneven ground, and caused blinding agony each time.
The marksman was exhausted, and eventually collapsed to the ground, concentrating on his breathing and listening to the fighting noises which seemed to grow more distant with each second passing.
How unnecessary. They had been sent here to defend the island, and they were defeated within the first week. Aramis almost felt embarrassed. He just hoped that it all hadn't been for nothing, and that the villagers had been able to escape. His mind ultimately wandered to Porthos and Athos.
He thought he had heard Porthos' voice among the others that had chased the English troops out of the village a while ago, but he wasn't sure. He had no clue about the whereabouts of Athos, but the silence that enveloped them was deeply unsettling.
His hand reached for his leg, but he didn't dare to remove the blade. Instead, he tore off a piece of his shirt, and started a poor attempt to stop the leaking blood. Aramis gritted his teeth, and eventually, his head sank back into the dirt, surrendering to the exhaustion.
He tried to turn his head, and his eyes found Lucien's house in the distance. He couldn't make out any living soul, and his heart dropped at the thought of Athos. Aramis carefully dug his hands into the dusty ground and tried to move his injured leg, but stars suddenly exploded behind his eyes and made him freeze immediately.
Aramis was sure that the battle wasn't over yet, it had merely shifted to a different location. Until it was over, he was left with nothing but the sheer hope that his comrades would stand their ground, and the hope that they would come back for him.
"You know, if it hadn't been for you, we would've just passed through." The sharp, but faint voice cut through the haze in Aramis' foggy brain, but for some unknown reason, he didn't even flinch.
The marksman looked the other way, past other bodies and shattered weapons, and found his former opponent, leaning awkwardly against the forge, his hand clasping the gunshot wound in his lower abdomen. Gut shot. Painful, and slow. Not what Aramis had intended.
"The moment we saw your uniforms…," the man continued with a thick accent, as soon as he knew he had Aramis' attention, "this village became our…how do you say it? Problem? Threat?" A dry, humorless laugh escaped his throat and ended up in a small cough. "How I wish you hadn't been here."
Aramis said nothing; he merely sent the man a look that spoke volumes. He didn't have the energy or the desire to engage in a discussion with a man who had tried to kill him moments earlier.
His hands automatically started fumbling with the pendant he wore around his neck, a small, silver cross he never took off. And in the agony of uncertainty, he started mumbling words of a prayer, some in Latin, and some in French. His bloodied hands clasped the pendant tightly.
A thud behind his back told him that the English soldier had fallen to the side now, and he could feel the man staring at him, but he continued. His mind wandered towards the musketeers, and fear, cold and dangerous, welled up in him the moment he realized that things had gone astray on their second day on this island. And he feared how many more they would have to endure.
He closed his eyes, sending his prayers and thinking of his friends, his comrades, each fighting their own battles. "Amen." The pendant dropped back on his chest, and his shaking hands found his bleeding wound again.
"Yes." The voice from behind him spoke softly, thoughtful, and filled with pain and understanding. "Amen, brother."
Also thank you again to Laureleaf and Uia who I can't respond to personally, I treasure all your comments!