Chapter Ten
Porthos was in front of Athos now, his worried face filling his vision. He wrapped his arms carefully around him and bore his weight as the others relinquished him. Athos's head fell forward once more, to rest in the crook of Porthos's neck. Porthos slowly sank down. Athos was now on his knees, arms hanging limply at his sides.
"The joints are still in place," Aramis said hurriedly, running his hands carefully but firmly over his shoulders.
"How?" d'Artagnan replied, incredulously.
They looked at where his feet had been, his boot heels having made a hollow in the packed earth at the base of the post.
"He dug in," Porthos replied, quietly. "For as long as he could."
Aramis moved quickly in front of Athos, reaching out and taking his face in his hands.
"Breathe, Athos," he said, urgently.
But Athos was done with it all.
Moving caused unbearable pain. Tied to the post for days, and finally with his hands above his head, trying to breathe against cracked ribs, with no water save the few drops of rain that had fallen through the thin thatch above him, and what little Silas had managed to pour down his throat, he gave himself up to the comfort and safety of his brothers.
The last thing he heard was Aramis, urgently calling his name.
Too late, he dropped painfully into oblivion.
oOo
"We need to get him to the Infirmary," d'Artagnan said.
Aramis looked up at him sharply.
"This is the Infirmary for this night," he said, tersely. "We cannot move him yet."
Porthos reached out and squeezed Aramis's shoulder.
"Alright then" he nodded. "What do you need?"
"d'Artagnan, can you bring our cloaks in? And my kit?" Aramis said, looking at the young man, standing apart from them.
Glad to be of service, d'Artagnan hurried outside, returning a few moments later with the required items.
He laid two of the cloaks on the floor next to Athos, who was still being held by Porthos. As soon as d'Artagnan had everything in place, Aramis and Porthos lowered Athos onto the cloaks, while d'Artagnan slung the third cloak over the wooden slats of the nearby empty animal stalls.
"Let's see what we have," Aramis said softly, feeling around Athos's shoulder joints.
"Still in place," Aramis reaffirmed, more to himself than the others, before looking up. "Though the muscles may be torn."
"Good job he's out of it," Porthos grunted.
Aramis hummed in response as he continued his examination.
The upper leg of Athos's breeches had been sliced through in areas and was soaked in blood, his knee swollen.
"What on earth happened here!" Aramis whispered, desperately, picking carefully at the torn material.
"Seems he fell foul of some vicious bastards," Porthos growled.
"Then let's hope the Red Guard do their duty," d'Artagnan exclaimed.
Careful of moving Athos's painfully swollen shoulders, Aramis now rested one of Athos's hands on his chest and the other on his hip. He noted the skinned knuckles and sucked in a breath at the state of his thoroughly abraded wrists.
Shaking his head, he next he ran a hand over his scalp, noting patches of matted hair over several small cuts. Cupping his head, he felt a large lump on the back of his head and looked back at the post they had freed him from. There was a blood stain on the post and Athos's state was an indication of a head injury.
Porthos followed his gaze and moved to the post, rubbing his fingers at the stain. It had mostly dried, but his hand still came away sticky with blood.
"Whoever did this smacked 'is head against the post," Porthos growled, furiously, slamming his hand against the post.
"Porthos?" Athos suddenly said, reacting to his voice and trying to raise his arm.
Porthos dropped down quickly and grabbed his hand carefully, laying it back on his hip, covering it with his own large hand to save him the pain of his screaming shoulder muscles, should he try to move his arm again.
"I'm 'ere, Athos," he replied tenderly, leaning over him. "We all are."
Athos was almost beyond reply, though he said one word;
"Silas."
Porthos exchanged a look with Aramis, who shrugged and shook his head, before turning back to Athos.
"What hurts, my friend?" Aramis asked, urgently.
"Everything," Athos gasped, before slipping away once more.
oOo
After d'Artagnan had laid out the cloaks for Aramis, who was now attempting to treat Athos as best he could, he began his own survey of the inside of the barn in an attempt to find anything that may help them see what had happened here. There had not been a soul in sight when they arrived, and it had remained eerily quiet ever since.
Seeing d'Artagnan crouch down on the far side of the barn, Porthos watched him for a few moments before he called across to him.
"Find somethin'?"
d'Artagnan dropped his fingers into the earth and looked up.
"Blood," he said. "A trail of blood. In a straight line," he finished, scanning the line of blood that stretched away from him.
"A straight line?" Porthos called, puzzled by the discovery.
"Yes," d'Artagnan called back, thoughtfully, before standing and walking over to the animal stalls at the end of the barn.
Opening the creaking gate of the nearest stall, he went inside and disappeared from view as he crouched down once more. A few moments later his disembodied voice called out from behind the wooden wall of the stall.
"Athos's empty scabbard," he called out.
Standing, he lifted up Athos's plain belt with the empty scabbard to show Porthos, who was now on his feet and walking toward him. Taking the belt, Porthos leant over to look over the pen to the rough earth.
"No weapon belt?" he grunted.
"No, just this," d'Artagnan replied. "There's no sign of his uniform."
"Could be with his horse," Aramis said then, from his place at Athos's side. "He's wearing his plain travelling clothing."
There had been no sign of Athos's horse, either in the deserted village or outside the barn.
"Could be," Porthos hummed, as he began searching the other stalls.
d'Artagnan and Aramis both looked toward him as they heard him suddenly utter an angry curse.
"What is it?" Aramis called, not wanting to stop helping Athos, but needing to know what Porthos had found.
Porthos rose to his feet and looked over at them.
"Athos's pauldron," he said, tersely. "Looks like they used this stall as a latrine. They knew he was a Musketeer, an' they weren't too happy about it."
He scraped some sorry-looking piles of straw together and dropped it over the urine-soaked pauldron, before gingerly picking it up.
"I'll get this knocked back into shape when we get back," he said, more to himself that the others.
Coming out of the stall, he scuffed his foot on the ground.
"More blood," he said. "He fought them," he added quietly.
"Well, it looks like he lost," Aramis said tightly, his hand gently resting on Athos's shoulder.
oOo
The decision had been made to spend the night and, as Aramis continued to work, Porthos and d'Artagan set up their camp beside him. No fire would be needed, as the night was warm, but with little straw, and their cloaks in use, there would be little comfort. However, none of them would get much sleep. There was also the added problem of how to transport Athos back to Paris. They were one horse down and it would not be possible for one of them to double up.
d'Artagnan brought in the rest of their supplies and their water skins and went looking around the barn once more to see what else he could find that may help. Some luck was with him when he found two rusted lamps. Shaking them, he grinned when he discovered they were both half full of oil. Carrying them over, he sat with his back to one of the stalls as he pulled the wicks up and withdrew the flints from his belt before beginning his attempt to strike a light and get the lamps lit.
It was no easy task, but eventually, he got one of them lit. The flame flared and then settled.
"Save the other one for later," Aramis said, "No point burning them both down at once."
Taking his knife, Aramis slit the material over Athos's damaged leg from ankle to hip, and Porthos bent to pull off his boot and hose, carefully placing them next to d'Artagnan, who was now apportioning some dried rations to see them through the night.
Aramis poured some of their water over Athos's leg to clean the skin, before rummaging in his kit for a small bottle of spirit. Dabbing it carefully on the worst of the cuts, he was dismayed that it did not rouse Athos.
Night fell fully, and it seemed they were in a small oasis of light within the vast black interior.
The sudden sound of horses made them look up.
"If they are ours," Aramis growled, dropping his gaze back to his task, "Send them back to the Garrison with word for Treville."
"And if they're the assailants?" d'Artagnan asked, kneeling up, hand gripping his sword hilt.
Aramis looked up, a feral look crossing his face that sent a shiver down d'Artagnan's spine.
"Send them to Hell," he said, his voice deadly.
"With pleasure," d'Artagnan replied.
Aramis pulled the lamp closer as Porthos rose to join d'Artagnan and greet their guests.
oOo
As it turned out, it was one of their own patrols. The Musketeers had no news, but they were heading back to the Garrison. After speaking to them, Porthos returned with a spare blanket, a coil of rope, a few extra rations and another water skin.
"Told them we'd be settin' off at first light," he said, as he walked past Aramis toward the back of the barn. Something in the shadows had caught his eye earlier but he had assumed it was old machinery and had been too busy since then to give it consideration.
"How are we going to do that?" d'Artagnan asked.
In response, Porthos held up his hand as he approached the covered hulk. He pulled an old oiled sheet partially from his discovery and grunted in satisfaction.
It was a cart. Not a heavy one but one more suited for transporting people. Probably field workers, or even the owner's family. The paint had long since peeled but the wood, though bleached, looked sound. He crouched beside it and examined the hubs. They had been greased at some point and he was reassured they may turn. They weren't that far from Paris, and this would ensure Athos had an easier ride. He threw the length of the rope he had taken from the patrol into the bed of the cart and walked around to the back. Putting his shoulder to the backboard, he shoved. At first, nothing happened, but then the second shove sent a creak and a shudder through the undercarriage and the four wooden wheels began to move.
Seeing what he was doing, d'Artagnan ran across and leant his shoulder and the cart moved forward much more easily, until it stood in the middle of the barn.
"Not bad," Porthos said, looking over it with some satisfaction.
d'Artagnan clapped him on the shoulder.
"Not bad at all," he agreed, and they both smiled for the first time that night.
Turning their grin on Aramis, he sat back on his haunches and returned their enthusiasm with a brief salute.
"God works in mysterious ways," he said.
"Maybe 'e can help us get it ship-shape then," Porthos grunted, taking the cart in. Battered, but serviceable, he silently thought.
d'Artagnan climbed up onto the bed of the cart and rummaged around. There were empty sacks and old straw but nothing else, save for the old oiled sheet that Porthos had pulled aside. He took hold of it and pulled it further aside, ready to clear the boards for their journey back to Paris. Something fell by his feet as it did so, he reached down and picked up a leather-bound folder.
"What is it?"Porthos said, as d'Artagnan passed it down to him.
Flicking it open he turned to Aramis.
"Athos's despatches case," he called out, holding it up.
Aramis paused and looked up.
"He must have got it hidden before he was captured," he called back; his admiration evident in his voice.
Porthos opened the wallet carefully and pulled the parchment out. Seeing the Baron's signature, he grinned.
"So he completed his mission," d'Artagnan said.
"'Course he did," Porthos said, quietly, tucking the folder into the inside of his jacket and making his way back to Aramis and their injured brother.
To be continued ...