CHAPTER 23

Athos drew Roger to a halt as he made sure the dagger in his hand was not visible to Anton. It was his only advantage and he didn't want to reveal it. The sword, on the other hand, was somewhat more visible since the musket holder wasn't deep enough to conceal it.

"Where is Germalli who was escorting you?" Anton inquired as he continued to point his loaded pistol at Athos. He noted the sword grip sticking out of the gun pouch and he really didn't need the musketeer's reply to know what had happened to his soldier.

The swordsman gave an indifferent shrug as he sat coolly on his black stallion. "It seems your man...fell off his horse."

Frowning, Anton remarked in an offhand manner, "How strange. Germalli is an accomplished horseman. I wonder, did he have help falling off his horse?"

The musketeer's face remained impassive as he spoke. "His horse…stumbled and he fell. Your Spanish horses," Athos made a rude noise, "they leave a lot to be desired. I see why you felt the need to steal France's magnificent stallions."

"As we see that didn't work out so well for Spain. Perhaps, I should have spared that horse breeder instead of killing him. I could have brought him to my country to improve our horses," Anton goaded the musketeer. A stiffening in the posture of the swordsman confirmed in Anton's mind that this was Athos' Achilles heel; his loyalty to others. "In a few seconds, those two musketeers that were pursuing us, they will also be dead. My men are well-hidden in the ravine and will shoot them as if they are sitting ducks. You might as well submit to your fate now and come along quietly for there is no escape for you."

"I would rather die," Athos growled as he continued to stare defiantly at the Spaniard.

"Your death could be easily arranged as I am holding the gun. Still, I believe you do possess knowledge of France that will be useful for us when we invade your country. So, I think I shall keep you alive, for now. Perhaps though, I will shoot you in the leg to slow you down." Anton raised his pistol as if to make good on his threat.

As the two men sat on their horses glaring at each other defiantly, two shots rang out from the ravine. An evil smile slowly spread across Anton's face when he heard the sound. The deed had been done.

"My trap has been sprung. Your would-be rescuers are no more. More men killed because of you. Now, come along quietly, musketeer. There is nothing left for you," Anton demanded with a little wave of his gun.

"There is one thing left!" Athos bellowed as he spurred Roger forward towards the Spaniard. "To kill you!" Brandishing the dagger in his left hand, he aimed his mount squarely at Anton's horse. The two massive animals slammed into each other, both stallions screaming with fury. Athos swung the knife at Anton's chest as the Spaniard pulled the trigger.

The gunshot rang through the air, echoing off the rocks of the ravine as Anton and Athos fell from their saddles to the ground. Instinct took over as both fighters rolled away from each other. Upon quick examination of himself, the Spanish captain found that Athos' aim had not been true and the dagger's blade had only left a small gash in his chest.

Athos, a few feet away, marveled that the bullet from Anton's pistol had burrowed through the side of his right arm before exiting. The wound hurt like hell, was freely bleeding, and when he lifted his right-arm he found his mobility compromised. But he was alive!

The horses snapped at each other with their teeth, but neither one inflicted any damage before they broke apart and separated, each moving a few yards down the road. The two fighters were also quick to get back on their feet, Anton swiftly drawing his sword and Athos scurrying to his horse to grab his pilfered weapon from its holder. His face twisted in agony as he stretched to grab the blade. Once he had it in his left hand, he spun around to see Anton already armed and facing him.

"Are you left-handed?" Anton goaded, his blade held horizontally, tip pointed towards Athos' chest. "I think not. What a shame you have to fight at a disadvantage."

The musketeer wasn't about to give the Spaniard any information about his swordsmanship, so his only reply was to raise his sword with his left hand, aligning the flat of the steel blade with the ground, mirroring his opponent.

Anton began moving to his right and Athos kept pace with him across the imaginary circle being paced in the dirt. The Spaniard made a testing jab, which Athos easily brushed aside. After a few more feints and jabs, Anton declared with a smile, "You are not unskilled with your left hand. Good. If I am going to kill you, and I am, I at least want it to be enjoyable. There is no fun in slaughtering a pig."

"A man I once knew told me head over heart if you want to win a duel. You, Monsieur, are proving to be neither intelligent nor passionate. Therefore, I must do the honorable thing and insist you lay down your weapon now as you have no chance of winning." Athos dropped his sword to his side and stood there as if he fully expected his opponent would yield.

There were rumors in Spain that the French musketeers were an odd and crazy lot and the one in front of him was confirming every tale. Did this musketeer truly think he, Anton, was simply going to lay down his sword because he was told to do it? That was a crazy notion for it was clear, at least to him, that he had every advantage over Athos. He had not been kidnapped, starved and beaten for the last three days. He was not fighting with his non-dominant hand. He, Anton, was in perfect health, other than the minor scratch the musketeer had just inflicted upon him. Surrender? Never.

"You must have hit your head, Monsieur Athos, if you think you have won. You are the one that should be placing your weapon on the ground and kneeling in front of me in defeat," Anton informed him in an arrogant tone.

Anton drew his main-gauche so he could fight with both weapons. But in the end, it made no difference. The musketeer wove a deadly dance around him. Spinning, thrusting, his blade flashing in the sunlight, its sharp surface reaching out and finding Anton's arm, side, back. Suddenly, dread flooded over Anton as he realized even left-handed this musketeer was better than he was, much better. He realized that the swordsman was toying with him, like a cat with a mouse. Anton finally understood what many over the years would come to know; injured or not, he was going to lose to Athos.

Even though Athos was tired, he didn't immediately seek to defeat his opponent. The last few weeks had been stressful: the battle, seeing Jourdain again, being kidnapped, Jourdain's death. He felt the need to burn off his frustrations and this was a convenient opportunity. He was going to kill Anton, no doubt in his mind, but he was going to do it slowly.

Athos had always enjoyed the challenge of a sword fight, both the physical and mental aspect of the contest. His father, however, had never thought his overt interest in swordplay appropriate for his future position in life. The Comte didn't mind that his son was good, very good, but sword fighting had its time and place. It was not something a first-born son did for fun. It was simply another skill a good Comte possessed.

Even though Athos knew he was at a disadvantage, fighting left-handed, without his own main-gauche and not being at his physical best, Athos continued to toy with the Spaniard. A touch here, a light slash there, marking his opponent, but not disabling him or going for the win.

In the distance, the sound of horses approaching made itself heard over the ringing of the swords.

"Ah. Finally. My men are returning after having killed your musketeer friends," Anton goaded again, taking a step back as Athos paused to listen. "You musketeers. You are nothing more than toy soldiers. An ornamental decoration that the King has in his Palace, like a fancy wall hanging. Perhaps pretty to look at, but of no real value."

Athos took a step back too, listening to the sound of the approaching horses. Two, based on the hoof beats. It could be Aramis and Porthos. He had seen them entering the camp as they rode away. The three of them had only been a team for a short while, but he thought they would try to rescue him, though, as always, there was a small niggling doubt in the back of his mind. He had been hurt often, by many people, and sometimes it made him doubt his self-worth.

Anton, continuing to try to distract Athos, began speaking again. "Don't even think it is your two friends come to rescue you. They had no chance. That ravine was the perfect trap. There is no way my men would fail to slay your musketeers."

Again, Athos' mind warred with itself. Aramis and Porthos were experienced musketeers, but he had just ridden through that ravine. It was a death trap. Had he once again caused harm to those around him? Tendrils of guilt began to weave themselves through his battered soul. Though his friends often noted it, Athos never seemed to understand he was his own worst enemy at times.

Anger and guilt washed over him and with a shout, he launched a vicious attack that caused Anton to have to move backwards in order not to get skewered. Athos pressed on relentlessly, and Anton retreated more quickly until he lost his balance and fell. His weapons dropped from his numb hands when his back slammed into the dirt. The tip of Athos' rapier quickly pressed itself into the Spaniards chest, directly over his heart, while he used his feet to kick the downed man's weapons out of reach.

The hoof beats grew louder and Athos pushed the tip of his sword deeper into the flesh of his enemy until blood began to seep out of the wound. This man killed Jourdain. And Aramis. And Porthos. He deserved to die. He was getting ready to push his blade into Anton's heart when a voice rang out.

"Athos!" Porthos' booming voice cut through the air as the two musketeers rounded the bend and spotted their third.

The horses drew to a halt as the two men slid from their saddles and rushed to their friend's side, pointing their own pistols at the captive on the ground.

"So, all this rushing about for nothing. You escaped without our assistance. I knew we should have stopped for a nice lunch," Aramis quipped, as he stared down at the man pinned under Athos' sword. "Funny, I thought he was taller."

Porthos gave a gruff laugh. "Oi, people tend to look smaller when skewered on the tip of a sword. Also, dumber."

Aramis and Porthos waited a moment, expecting Athos to remove this sword so the prisoner could arise and be bound. After all, they did have their guns trained on the man too. There was no way the Spaniard was going to escape.

After a few awkward moments passed by, Aramis slowly declared, "You can let him up, Athos. We'll bind him and take him back to Paris for trial."

Athos didn't move a muscle as he continued to glare at Anton, while keeping him pinned on the ground.

Aramis and Porthos passed a questioning glance between themselves before Porthos spoke. "We've got him, Athos. Let him up."

"No." The word was spoken quietly, but firmly, with all indications there would be no quarter given in this discussion.

"Athos. It's over. He and his men have been captured. The horses are safe. Spain has been defeated. This is over."

The tip of Athos' blade pushed harder into Anton's chest, causing the small red stain on the Spaniard's shirt to grow larger.

"Athos!" Aramis barked. "What are you doing?"

That was a good question, Athos thought to himself. What was he doing? Part of his conscience, the small rational part still operating, understood and agreed with Aramis. This was over. But the rest of his mind as well as his hurt body and weary soul wanted to kill this man for what he had done. For the pain and the suffering he had inflicted.

Treville's words drifted across Athos' warring conscience. 'Remember, while we are musketeers, sworn by oath to protect our King and country, we are not the King or the judge. It is not our duty to decide the fate of a person.' Had it only been a week ago when his Captain had uttered those words? It seemed like an eternity at the moment.

This man had killed Jourdain. One of his, make that Olivier's, only friends as a child. His life had been rather cold and sterile growing up. He knew from early on in his life he was a disappointment to his parents. Jourdain had been a bright spot in that life.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, he glowered at the man he had pinned to the earth. The one who had killed his friend Jourdain for no reason. The man who had to die; the man he needed dead. His sword quivered.

"Athos! No! You don't have the right to kill him!" Aramis pleaded.

"The hell I don't!"

'Life is precious and none of us have the right to arbitrarily end another's' Treville's words flooded his mind again. Damn the man. This wasn't arbitrary. Anton had killed Jourdain. An eye for an eye as the bible said.

Porthos advanced on Athos until he was within an arm's reach. Slowly, he reached out his hand and gently placed it on Athos' left shoulder. "Athos. You are hurt. Not thinking clearly. You don't need to kill him."

"I do. He killed Jourdain. He deserves to die. By my hand."

Startled, Porthos glanced over at Aramis. Athos thought Jourdain was dead?

"Jourdain is very much alive," Aramis stated hoping to catch Athos' attention, which he did.

"Alive? I saw this bastard shoot him. In the yard. For no reason." Athos' sword vibrated with his anger and the tip sank a little deeper.

"I assure you Jourdain is very much alive. I wouldn't lie to you, Athos?" Puzzlement soaked Aramis' voice.

Olivier the Comte had been lied to, hurt by, so many that Athos the musketeer found it hard to trust. "People lie," Athos spat out more harshly than he truly intended.

"Yes," Aramis said sadly, "They do. But not friends. Please, put the sword down."

"You told me," Athos growled at the Spaniard. "You told me you killed him!"

"I lied. I lied to get you to cooperate," Anton confessed, not wanting to die here, now. "I pretended to shoot him. But I didn't. I swear. If you don't believe me, believe your friends."

Porthos started to move, but a little head shake from Aramis had him halt. Aramis was sure Athos would come to his senses and he was afraid if they interfered, it would be taken as a betrayal and hurt their blossoming trust.

Time seemed to stand still as they waited to see what Athos would do, kill Anton or walk away.