CHAPTER 18

Athos spent his second day of captivity much like his first, securely tied to Roger's back, thirsty, hungry and sore. Passing the night tied to a tree had done nothing but aggravated his numerous aches and pains from the beating at the horse farm. Only the pounding in his head had lessened a little, for which he was grateful. His arm had stopped bleeding from the slash, though it still stung and he suspected too much movement might open the wound again.

Last night he had only slept in short snatches, so brief that even his nightmares couldn't get started, a blessing in disguise he supposed. Still when it came time to settle into his saddle for another day's ride, he couldn't keep a groan from escaping his lips.

"You seem not so tough for a King's musketeer," Anton, who was standing by supervising, mocked him.

"Untie me and give me a sword and we will see who is tough," Athos haughtily shot back.

The Spanish captain gave him a lazy smile. "While that is most tempting for it would be enjoyable to teach you a lesson, I fear if I hurt you, and I would, my superiors would be displeased. Dead men tell no secrets, only tortured ones."

Laughing, at his own wit, the Spanish captain rode off to ensure the ten stolen stallions were ready to move out. Shortly thereafter, the group was underway once more.

The second day went much like the one before, little rest breaks, but mostly steady movement. Athos was vaguely familiar with this area from his association with Jourdain and maps he'd seen of the locale. He and Jourdain had more than once searched these lands when one of his father's horses had escaped. They had also hunted these grounds. Because the estate was within a few days ride of the Spanish border, Comte Vergy had made sure his son and his guests knew where the border was for safety sake. There wasn't a wall or guard stations marking the border and many would dispute where the true line lay, but still, it paid not to be caught too deep into perceived foreign territory

The swordsman had been scanning the area as they rode and judging by the landmarks he recalled, such as the stream they had just stopped by at noon, that when they stopped for the night, they were a day's ride from the border.

That night, once again he was tied to a tree. One of the soldiers did come by and give him a cup of water which Athos eagerly took, forcing himself to drink it slowly. It felt wonderful sliding down his parched throat though it only slightly slaked his thirst. He knew he was given the water not out of kindness, but necessity, for he had to be alive in order to tell the secrets they thought he possessed.

Like the previous night, Anton stopped by for what seemed was becoming their ritual nightly chat. Again, he brought a filled cup and bowl that he placed on the ground just out of Athos' reach.

"Did you have a nice ride today, Musketeer Athos?" This evening, the Spanish captain used his knife to whittle a branch. "Do you find it humiliating being tied to your horse?"

Lack of food, water and sleep was affecting Athos' common sense. "No more so than talking to you," Athos replied, though he regretted the words the moment they left his mouth.

As expected, Anton didn't like the sass. He lashed out with the stick in his hand and smacked Athos across the face. "Do not be insolent with me or next time I shall beat you with something more painful than a tree branch. Do not count on the fact I need you alive, for there are many degrees of living where you can be in tremendous pain, but still able to talk."

Trying to behave in a more strategic manner, Athos dropped his eyes to the ground and didn't challenge the Spaniard any further. It served no purpose at this point, other than to feed his own foolish pride. Better to lay low for a while and strike when it gained him some sort of an advantage.

Anton resettled himself on the ground and smiled when he saw Athos drop his gaze in a subservient manner. Progress. Now for a few more questions.

"What rank are you in the musketeers?" he asked, thinking he had at least captured an officer. Anton had spent enough time in France, as a spy, to learn the language well and he detected a sophistication in this man's speech as well as his mannerisms.

Keeping his head down, Athos answered, "I am no one. A common man. I have been a musketeer for only a few months."

"Somehow, I don't know that I believe that. I spent many years as a spy in France. I infiltrated and associated with many of France's nobility. I am not unfamiliar with their mannerism and customs, many of which you, Athos, display. Also, the King's elite musketeers are supposed to be composed of the sons of the nobility not commoners."

Inwardly, Athos berated himself for it was not the first time his upbringing had been detected in his speech patterns. It was one of the reasons, besides his basic nature, he was often taciturn, for when he opened his mouth, he told more of his personal story then he wanted known. His father would be proud, he supposed, that all those years spent beating him into being a Comte hadn't been wasted.

"You are indeed clever and have a good ear for I have been around nobility," Athos confessed, "And I suppose it has rubbed off on me. I am the bastard son of a lowly Baron who had a dalliance with a maid. I was allowed to stay in the household, as a servant, and was offered a few lessons that allowed me to pass myself off as a person above my station. However, when the Baron died and the Baroness remarried, I was ejected from the household as no one wants bastard sons lying about. I used my knowledge of the nobility to pose as the third son of a rather far away and out of favor noble family fallen on hard times. I am somewhat skilled with a sword and so, I became a musketeer."

Anton, who had stopped carving on the stick as he had listened to Athos' tale, once again began shaving strips of wood off the branch as he digested what he'd been told. What if this man was telling the truth and knew nothing of value? His mission had only been to steal the stallions. If this provoked an incident with France his superiors would be very unhappy.

Then it dawned on him. The Comte of the estate. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage. When they were taking their leave, he had shot at the man, but purposely had not hit him. However, out of this group, he was the only one that knew it had been a ruse. He had done it for many reasons. It bolstered his image with his men. It had shown that he was not afraid to use force. He was sure the captives in the house were scared upon hearing the noise, fearfully wondering who had been shot and if they were still alive. And Athos had reacted violently to the Comte being shot, almost as if he personally knew the man. Perhaps that was something Anton could now use to his advantage against the stubborn musketeer.

"You seemed to know the Comte who bred the horses," Anton idly suggested to Athos. "Perhaps he was an acquaintance? A friend?"

Athos wasn't sure where this conversation was going so he kept his head lowered and stared at his tied hands.

"It was a shame I had to kill the Comte," Anton lied, hiding the smile that wanted to appear on his face when Athos slowly raised his head to stare at him. "Did you not know he was dead?" Anton scratched his chin, then grinned. "Perhaps not, since my man knocked you out. I can assure you he is… dead. I am a very good shot."

The soldier took the stick he'd been carving and tested the point he had made with the tip of his finger. "Sharp," he vaguely noted after sucking the drop of blood off his finger. "The horse breeder, you understand he had to die, because of your disobedience."

Athos did his best to hide the fact this news shocked him. Jourdain was dead? He tried to force his concussion-muddled mind to recall what had happened at the estate when they were leaving. Incomplete images flashed through his mind leaving him even more unsettled. He thought, perhaps, he did recall Jourdain being shot.

Slowly, Anton rose to his feet and Athos' guarded green eyes followed him. "I wonder what your Captain would think? I know," Anton stated as he casually twirled the stick between his fingers, "if it were my man causing an innocent person, and nobility at that, to be killed, I would not be pleased."

Guilt cut through Athos' soul like a well-honed sword. Once again, his actions had caused harm to someone else. His stomach twisted in a knot and he couldn't keep the distress from momentarily showing in his eyes.

Anton looked into the eyes of his captive and for the first time saw something other than defiance; he saw a flash of uncertainty. Perhaps this man could be broken with the right tools.

"I hope," Anton stated menacingly as he took a step closer to Athos, "none of your musketeer friends come after you for if they do…" Anton took the pointed stick and without warning, stabbed it deeply into Athos' right hand. "…I will be forced to deal harshly with them too."

Turning on his heel, Anton strode away leaving Athos biting the inside of his cheek so as not to scream out in pain as obscenities flowed through his mind. The musketeer laid his head back against the tree trunk to which he was secured and closed his eyes, taking measured breaths to ease the pain in his hand, the sick feeling in his stomach . . . and his temper.

When he felt he was somewhat in control, he slowly opened his eyes and gazed upon the stick protruding from his right palm. It hadn't completely pieced his hand for it had not come out the other side. He wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

His arms had been tied more loosely tonight giving him some limited range of motion. There was only one way he could think to remove the pointed stick from his hand, and he did want it removed, immediately. Taking a deep breath to steel his resolve, the swordsman grabbed the stick with his left hand and before he lost his nerve, he jerked it cleanly out. With a muffled cry, he dropped the stick in the grass, then bit down on his lower lip to halt the further screams his throat was trying so desperately to release.

Blood welled out of the wound, ran off his hand and dripped into the grass. Controlling his breathing once more, Athos worked through the pain, dampening it enough so that he could think. The cup that Anton had left behind was, with a bit of a stretch, within the range of his left foot. Carefully, he pointed the toe of his boot and attempted to nudge the metal object closer to him. Luckily, the ground was fairly smooth and for the next few minutes, between the waves of pain, he cautiously prodded the cup closer. However, it got to a point where he could no longer move it along with his boot, so with reluctance, he picked up the stick that had been impaled in his hand and used that to move the cup up the side of his leg until he could grasp it with his left hand.

Before he attempted to raise the cup from the ground, he took a break, dropping the stick and leaning his head back against the tree once more. It would be very easy to close his eyes and let the black curtain that was trying to envelope his brain win. But that wouldn't solve anything and he might wake and find the cup gone. Even in the little time he had known Aramis, the medic-musketeer had managed to impress upon him the importance of taking care of wounds. Pouring the water over it to flush it out would be the right thing to do, though his thirst was warring with the idea of not drinking the water. A compromise, Athos decided, as he raised his head. A few sips of water and the rest poured over the wound. He picked up the cup and set about his task.

When it was all over, Athos let the cup slide out of his hand and into the grass. He probably could bring the bowl of food close enough using the same methodology, but he was too tired to try. Instead, he closed his eyes once more and leaned his head back against the tree.

He finally allowed himself to dwell upon what the Spanish captain had told him. Jourdain was dead. And he, Athos, had been responsible for his death. Worse, if Aramis and Porthos came to rescue him, he might get them killed too. The black cloud that was his life was once again settling over those around him.