A/N: Thank you LordLady, pallysd'Artagnan, SnidgetHex, and shewriteswords for reviewing!
Chapter 3
Aramis's second day in the fight ring, he and his opponent were given swords. He didn't know if that was typical to give some variety to the fights or if someone had mentioned his fighting style when he and Porthos had first been taken captive. Either way, he did much prefer the sword to brawling, which was more Porthos's niche.
So far they had managed to gather a limited understanding of Gunther's operation here—there were some other men held as prisoners for the fights, but there were also some who threw their names into the ring for the chance to earn monetary winnings if they came out victorious. Not every fight ended in death…though Aramis got the distinct impression that death would also be an acceptable form of triumph over one's opponent.
Still, he had yet to take a life and he didn't plan to as long as he was here. He wouldn't kill as someone else's sick form of entertainment.
What he was really worried about, though, was Rhaego and Vrita. The dragon fights sounded vicious, enraged roars sometimes echoing all the way down to Aramis's and Porthos's cell. Rhaego and Vrita were formidable in their own right, but being forced into a cage fight once or maybe even twice a day…even they couldn't keep that up and continue to come out unscathed.
Aramis circled his opponent, a red-haired man with a wicked gleam in his eye that suggested he was relishing this fight. Not likely another prisoner, then, but someone who wanted to test his mettle and maybe earn a few coins doing so. If he lost the fight, his entry fee went to Gunther. Aramis's stomach churned with the knowledge that throwing the fight wouldn't do him any favors, that either way, one of these bastards would win and the only thing Aramis could do was try to stay alive.
His opponent lunged with a battle cry. Aramis parried and riposted, their swords clashing with raucous screeches. His foe was skilled enough, matching him blow for blow. Aramis increased the intensity of his attack, forcing the other man to go on the defensive. Aramis drove him backward toward the wall, but Red realized what was happening and darted away before he ended up with his back against it.
They stalked around each other again before resuming the duel. Aramis probably would have knocked this guy flat on his ass any other day, but running on little sleep, rationed food, and bearing the aches of the previous day's fights had put a strain on his normally quick reflexes. Red feinted left, and Aramis fell for it, leaving his side exposed. His opponent slashed him across the ribs. The crowd cheered at first blood being spilled.
Aramis staggered back, hissing in pain as he glanced at the wound. He didn't think it was that deep but it stung like hell and stained the rent edges of his shirt red. This was taking a turn for the worse fast.
Red leered at him with eager anticipation and charged. Sucking in a sharp breath, Aramis ducked under his swing and sliced his own blade up his opponent's back. Red howled and staggered, almost going down on one knee. Aramis knew he had to finish it before he lost any more blood, so he gritted his teeth and stabbed his blade through Red's back. The crowd went wild.
He jerked his sword out and stumbled backward as Red hit the dirt, unmoving. He hadn't wanted to take a life in this sordid manner, but it was him or Red, and Aramis chose to live.
One of the gates opened and the guards came in, two to collect Red's body and remove it from the ring. Aramis turned to the others, sword still in hand. But they were armed with pistols and there was no way he could take them all out with blood streaming down his side. So he let the sword fall to the ground. The lead guard beckoned him forward with his pistol and Aramis reluctantly headed out of the arena to be taken back to his cell.
Porthos leaped to his feet at their return, standing back until Aramis was back in the cell and the door locked. "What the hell happened?" he exclaimed, rushing forward to take Aramis's arm and help him over to sit against the wall.
"We used swords this time," he said, grimacing as he slid down to the ground. He grunted and pressed a hand against his ribs, feeling the wet tackiness that slicked the fabric to the wound.
"How bad?" Porthos asked urgently.
"Could be worse," Aramis replied. He groaned again under another spike of pain. "Could be better." He forced himself to take a few deep breaths, then turned his attention to the wound and carefully pulled his shirt up. The gash was six inches long and, as he'd suspected, not very deep. But it could use stitches and they didn't exactly have any of those supplies at their disposal.
Porthos grabbed the single waterskin they'd been allotted and prepared to pour some water over the wound, but Aramis seized his wrist to stop him.
"We can't be liberal with that," he said regretfully. "My handkerchief is in my coat pocket."
Porthos reached for the coat and fished the folded cloth out. He then dampened it with water but hesitated when he turned back to the gash. "This is gonna hurt," he warned.
Aramis nodded, already bracing himself. "I know."
He sucked in a harsh breath and flinched when Porthos first pressed the damp cloth to his ribs, wiping away whatever dirt may have gotten in it. He was trying to be gentle, Aramis knew, but it still hurt fiercely.
"Gonna need somethin' to bandage it," Porthos grumbled. He cast a regretful look at Aramis. "Yer shirt's already ruined…"
Aramis huffed, but that only sent another wave of pain rocketing through him and his lungs momentarily forgot how to breathe through it. Porthos took hold of the bottom hem of his shirt and ripped a long strip off, which he then used to wrap around Aramis's torso.
"Dammit, this ain't even clean."
"I know," Aramis said quietly. He knew exactly how unfavorable their conditions were.
Noise drew their attention to the door as one of the guards brought Aramis's post-fight meal.
"Hey!" Porthos barked. "We need water and clean bandages."
The guard set the plate through the bars, ignoring him.
"It's no good if your fighters die outside the ring!"
The guard snorted. "We can always find more fighters." He glanced at Aramis. "You fight until you die. And if you're in no shape to fight, you become dragon food."
.o.0.o.
When d'Artagnan walked into the garrison to report for duty, he automatically veered past the dragon dens to see if Porthos and Aramis had returned. They had been due back three days ago, and while delays were not uncommon, d'Artagnan was starting to get worried. The sight of Rhaego's and Vrita's dens empty did nothing to alleviate that concern.
He strode toward the other end of the garrison yard and found Athos sitting at their usual table, nursing a cup of water.
"They're two days late," d'Artagnan said without preamble.
Athos flicked a look up at him, then set his cup down. "I know."
"Shouldn't we do something about it?"
Before Athos could answer, the captain's door opened and shut above, and the rest of the garrison was assembling for muster. D'Artagnan would have to hold his impatience for a few moments as he stepped into line. Treville went through the roster, assigning duties. Both d'Artagnan and Athos had been given the task of inspecting the weapons in the armory to make sure they were all in good condition.
D'Artagnan found it very hard to hold his tongue until the rest of the musketeers were dismissed, and then he hastened after the captain before he could head back up the stairs to his office.
"Captain, Aramis and Porthos still aren't back. Someone should go look for them."
Treville turned, expression lined as though he'd been expecting the topic. "Unfortunately, most of the dragon riders are out on missions of their own."
"Captain," Athos put in, stepping up to join them. "I'm sure the armory can wait. Savron and I can make a pass along the route they would have taken. I agree with d'Artagnan; it's not like them to be this late without sending word."
Treville nodded grimly; he also knew his men.
"I'll be Athos's backup," d'Artagnan added. "In case they are in serious trouble." He arched a brow at the captain as though asking permission, but they all knew he really wasn't.
Treville huffed. "Fine."
But he didn't seem that put off by d'Artagnan's audacity. In fact, d'Artagnan had the inkling that the captain had assigned him and Athos such a menial task in the armory so they would be free to go looking for their missing friends.
"Find them, gentlemen," Treville added over his shoulder as he climbed the steps.
D'Artagnan exchanged a sober look with Athos. What kind of trouble could have waylaid two musketeers and their dragons?
.o.0.o.
Vrita scrambled away from the dragon trying to take a bite out of her and lumbered over to the other side of the arena. It snarled at her in frustration. She growled back deep in her throat. Above them the crowd of humans booed and jeered.
The dragon came at her again, and again she shambled out of the way, giving him a warning snap in the face when he got too close. He glowered at her, not entirely sure what to do. She refused to fight him. He gnashed his teeth, barking at her to play her part. She curled her lip up. She would not. Turning her gaze up to the spectators, she reared up on her hindquarters and kindled her fire. Then, with every ounce of strength and fury, she spewed a stream of scorching flame as high as she could.
There were screams as the flames licked the edge of the balcony and the people at that arch scattered. Vrita dropped back down to all fours and bared her teeth. Maybe if she could climb partway up the sides of the cavern…
The other dragon was watching her carefully, piqued gaze shifting from her to the people above. At least he'd stopped his attack. Vrita craned her neck around, intending on unleashing her fury on the puny humans…
The gates creaked as they were drawn up and guards poured in from both ends, all armed with spears and poles. The other dragon immediately cowed at their arrival and allowed himself to be snared and led away.
Snarling, Vrita spun toward the men advancing on her and lunged with a snap of her jaws. The man scrambled backwards to avoid getting his head bitten off. But just like the previous times, these men were well coordinated as they surrounded her, forcing her back against the wall with their spears that easily pierced her hide. The hook poles snagged her collar and that was it—she was dragged out and back to her cage.
"This one just might not be viable for the ring," one of the humans in charge commented.
The man wearing the animal pelt considered her with shrewd eyes for a long moment. She glowered back at him and sneered.
"I'm not so sure about that," he said thoughtfully. "I think I know a way to make her fight."
.o.0.o.
Porthos glowered at the guards as he was returned to his cell after another fight in the ring. He'd won again, though he had a few more bruises to show for it. The ones he really wanted to pound his fists into, though, were the men running these despicable fights for sport. Porthos was almost tempted to, too, every time he came and went from the ring, but it wasn't just himself he had to worry about here.
The guards left and he turned and hastened to Aramis's side where the marksman sat propped against the back wall, eyes closed. His pallor was pale, almost on the verge of ashen. Porthos glanced at the red-tinged rag of a bandage and hung his head. There was no way Aramis would be able to go into the ring like this and not be killed. Maybe Porthos could take his place…buy him some time to heal some before he'd be forced to fight again.
Aramis lolled his head and opened his eyes. "You all right?" he asked.
Porthos forced out a grim smile. "Still in one piece."
They fell silent, both of them too exhausted to keep up much conversation. Footsteps sounded down the passage and Porthos got to his feet, bracing for a fight if it was Aramis they were coming for. His heart lurched when Gunther appeared with the guards.
"Which of you does the green dragon belong to?" Gunther asked.
Porthos stiffened. "What have you done to her?" he snarled.
"You then? Hm, that's unfortunate. You're becoming quite the champion in the ring. On the other hand, she might consider your friend the equivalent of a den mate."
"Why does that matter?" Aramis spoke up, eyes narrowed on Gunther.
"While I don't subscribe to the King's method of taming dragons, I can make use of it here. Bring them both."
Porthos clenched his fists as the cell was opened and the guards streamed in. Aramis struggled to push himself to his feet on his own power before he was roughly seized and dragged out. Porthos had to suppress the urge to fight back. They were outnumbered and half the guards had their pistols out and ready to shoot at any sign of rebellion.
They were led back to the arena and thrust inside. Porthos frowned in confusion and trepidation. Above, murmurs and hushed voices rippled through the audience. A few minutes later, one of the larger gates was drawn up and Vrita was forced through. She was a snarling, spitting force of fury, but the handlers knew how to keep a safe distance.
"Vrita!" Porthos shouted.
She whipped her head toward him. The guards unhooked their poles and scampered back through the gate as it was brought down, locking her in with them. Porthos had no idea what they were planning, but he was relieved to see his dragon and jogged toward her. She lumbered over to meet him, chirping urgently as she scuffed her nose through his curls.
"I'm here," he said with a small chuckle and sidestepped to inspect her for injuries. There were a few scratches but nothing major. He patted her shoulder. "You all right, girl?"
She let out a throaty gargle in response, eyes pained; she was as all right as any of them were.
She lifted her head to look over his shoulder as Aramis shuffled toward them, one arm braced across his middle. Vrita narrowed her eyes at the blood on his shirt and snorted in umbrage.
Aramis offered her a weak smile. "Nice to see you too." His expression pinched. "Have you seen Rhaego?"
She ducked her head regretfully.
"He's fine," Porthos immediately said. "He's a scrappy fighter."
There was the sound of creaking gears and another gate started to open. A dragon's shriek echoed through the tunnel, making Porthos's hair stand on end.
"Hey, dragon," Gunther called at them from behind the bars of the other gate. "You'll have to fight now, or your rider will be dragon food."
Porthos's blood ran cold and he exchanged a horrified look with Aramis as a large black dragon entered the arena. Yellow eyes narrowed on them and the beast's nostrils flared. With a blood-curdling screech, it charged.