When d'Artagnan had finished taking care of Aramis, they both finally lay down to sleep. They were incredibly exhausted, almost as much mentally as physically.
Both the them were very concerned about their brothers. Unknown to each other, though, both of them were thinking much the same thoughts, worry causing them to lay awake long into the night. They had no idea where Athos and Porthos were now.
Had they delivered the letter? Had the nobleman insisted they stay a day in order for him to have time to compose a letter of reply to the King? Even in the event that they had, they should have reached the original location of the attack already.
But Athos and Porthos would have had no way to pick up their brothers' trail. D'Artagnan knew he was very good at wiping away all traces of footprints. His father, who had been acknowledged by men in the area where their farm had been located to be an expert, had often told his son that he had mastered and passed his own skills.
Had the hooded men been lying in wait for their brothers? Were they even now captive in the hands of that evil band? They had no way of knowing. Athos and Porthos hopefully hadn't run into any other problems in their journey.
D'Artagnan, his senses finally almost at rest now, hoped both brothers were well and just searching diligently for them as he fell asleep at last.
Aramis at length fell asleep , too, having given his brothers into the Lord's hands to protect and guide them in safety.
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Water hit his face, rudely awakening him once again. Athos' eyes opened as the other times to the grinning face of his tormentor. The man seemed to be immensely enjoying himself.
"Shall we begin again?" he heard, the same phrase thrown at him each time he had passed out.
His back was now littered with the marks of his ordeal. Athos could feel every place where the knife had landed-his own main gauche used against him. Even now, he could imagine its handle jutting out from the campfire, its blade once again being reheated.
Porthos! Worry for his brother caused his head to fly up, twisting his neck to search for his brother. Finding him, their eyes locked in silent unity.
Porthos was now sitting against a large tree, his arms stretched and tied around its trunk. The leader must have grown tired of Porthos' heated defense of his brother, as a rag had been shoved into his mouth, and tied there with another piece of cloth. But if looks could kill...
The leader got in Athos' face again. "I'm disappointed...disappointed, but not surprised. You noblemen are all alike. Strutting around like you own everything, but buckling under at the least stress."
Walking around his helpless victim, his smile increased. "Shall we try again?"
Strutting over to the fire, he pulled a cloth out of his pocket to draw the knife out, then turned back to Athos.
"Where should we play this time?" he mused aloud. "Do you have a preference maybe? Or would you like to give me the answer to my question, and then maybe I will let you two worthless dogs live?...No? And as he said the word, the blade's flat side hissed as it once more made contact with Athos' back.
Not able to help himself, Athos' body arched away from the blade, a groan escaping as he did so.
"Oh, we have all the time in the world, and you're not going anywhere, now are you?" the point making contact this time.
As Athos distantly heard Porthos futile struggles nearby, his world was consumed by the fire ignited anew behind him.
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Treville was starting to get a little worried. Sitting behind his desk taking care of the seemingly never-ending paperwork that fell to him as the Captain of the Musketeers, his mind kept returning to the whereabouts of his four best Musketeers.
They should have been back by now, he thought. It was a simple, there and back mission.
His mind began to run through the possibilities. Did the nobleman take an extraordinary amount of time writing a reply? Did one of their horses throw a shoe, or have an injury over unexpectedly rough roads? Has one of his mem become ill? Or maybe bandits attacked?
The more the list went on, the more he convinced himself he should take several men and ride out to make sure they were all right. This was not like them. There was a reason he considered them (privately, of course) as his best men. He felt he needed to back them up now, if he found out that they might need it.
Having made his decision, he rose and strode rapidly across the room to his office door. Going out on the landing, he shouted down to Pascal, telling him to choose four more men, and prepare horses and enough supplies for at least four days' journey. Then, he told him to have everything ready in one hour, the veteran's eyebrows going up at that last command.. Going back into his office, he sat down and wrote a brief note to be taken to the palace for Louis and Richelieu, informing them of his impending departure.
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In an underground chamber down in the bowels of Paris, a man smothered in a dark cape, a wide-brimmed dark pulled down over his eyes, met to report on the progress of his assignment. Dank walls surrounded the two men, their words echoing down the passageway. But there was no one but them to hear the words exchanged. The dark made it hard to see each other, but that didn't seem to matter to either of them.
"So, you are telling me that everything is going according to my wishes?"
"It will be done as you instructed. We had a couple of minor problems, but nothing for you to worry about," the hired man replied nervously, knowing plans had not been able to be carried out as this powerful man wanted yet, but not wanting to be the bearer of news that might turn the man's anger against him.
"I do not worry. I act. Now, return to your leader and tell him to finish your assignment. I will not be pleased if it fails. You will incur my wrath in that event. Do you understand?"
Already turning to leave, the man gulped, and responded quietly, "Yes, Eminence," before fading into the shadows once more.
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Darkness had fallen over the hooded men's campsite. Their leader had finally walked away from his victim, throwing a last taunt over his shoulder. "I have to give you a little credit, much as it pains me to do so. You actually held out against me today. But it will avail you nothing." He paused, sure of his captive audience's attention.
"You have won nothing. Tomorrow, we try a new victim." At these words, Athos' heart clenched. No, not his brother! Over his dead body, he silently promised to himself, if his plan didn't work.
His tormentor signalled to two of his men, then strolled away, making himself comfortable on a blanket on the other side of the fire.
The two men who had been summoned cut Athos down at last, his body limply plummeting to the ground, landing hard because he had no way to break his fall with hands numb from the ropes. Figuring the Musketeer was in too bad a shape to again tie his hands in back of him, they dragged him over near Porthos and moved away to their own blankets to sleep.
Porthos ,still gagged and tied to the tree, tried to reach Athos with the tip of his boot, but failed. He was worried sick over his brother's condition and the fact that he lay unmoving where he had been dropped, and was helpless to give him any aid.
Athos lay utterly still for over an hour, curled up on his side. Then, emitting a soft groan, he at last moved. Maneuvering himself slowly and painfully, he began to reach downwards.
Porthos was at first mystified. What was he doing? But he continued to watch him. When it at last dawned on him where Athos was trying to reach, his heart started to hammer.
Athos at last reached his boot, where he with bound hands slowly and awkwardly pulled out a long, thin stiletto, something he and Aramis often carried with them on their mission. None of their captors had bothered to pull off their boots to check them for weapons. For some reason, boots were often left unchecked, which was exactly the reason why his brothers used the trick so often. He made a silent promise to adopt his brothers' idea from now on, though.
Athos was now sawing slowly away at the ropes binding him, being extra cautious that no one saw his movements. But it seemed that they were considered as not worthy of guarding in the condition they were in, so everyone remained asleep. Athos couldn't believe how naive, or maybe stupid, the band was to leave them untended, but he was thankful, as it made their chances much better.
The ropes finally gave under the knife, and Athos flexed numb hands over and over bring feeling back into them. Then, he slowly crawled over to Porthos, and a few moments later, he was also free.
"How...," Porthos softly began, only for Athos to signal him to silence.
Moving slowly and cautiously, they located their horses, and began moving towards them. It took them a while, as Athos wasn't able to move very quickly. But their turned-around luck was still holding, and none of their captors awakened.
Reaching the horses at last, Porthos undid the rope corraling them, and patted their rears, moving them slowly away. The horses kept moving, for which they silently gave thanks. Their captors would hopefully find that all their horses were long gone and not be able to pursue them for a little while, giving them a chance at an easier escape. Porthos lifted Athos onto Roger's bare back. He then mounted behind him, putting an arm protectively around his brother's waist for support.
They had ridden away from the camp and a short ways down the road, when they heard a cry of alarm from behind them. Their escape had been discovered! Porthos kicked Roger's sides to urge him faster til they were galloping down the old dirt track, hoping the men behind them had no luck getting their horses back quickly.
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Earlier that same afternoon, Aramis awoke with a prickly feeling on the back of his neck. Knowing how many times that feeling had saved he and his brothers over the years, he rose as quietly as he could to check things out. He wanted d'Artagnan to get as much sleep as he could, as the Gascon had tirelessly taken care of him the past few days despite an injury of his own, and he figured he must be dead tired by now.
He could feel the pain shoot through his side, and the sharp ache across his ribs, as soon as he began moving his body. As he so often did, drawing the ire of his brothers, who would understandably get upset at his hiding his pain, he ignored the signs of just how unwell he actually was.
Moving over to the entrance of the cave, he saw that it was almost twilight, the sun slowly moving its way downwards. But his breath caught in his throat, his heart clenching up as he found the source of the sense of danger.
As he crouched lower and watched, he saw a group of riders enter the clearing below him-hooded and moving cautiously-as if they were hunting something-them.