CHAPTER 28

Athos ate sparingly and was the first of the three musketeers to stretch out on his bedroll and nod off. Porthos looked over at the slumbering man then gave Aramis a concerned glance. It was obvious the streetfighter was anxious.

"It's nothing to be worried about. Rest is as important as food. We'll make sure he eats before we head out tomorrow morning," Aramis said before turning his attention back to the rabbit haunch he was eating.

Not too much later, they too turned in and a silence, only interrupted by the natural noises of the night, descended over the campsite. The moon was well traveled through the star-lit sky when a hoarse scream pierced the night and Athos, dagger in hand, sat up and began stabbing at the air. His eyes were open, but what he was seeing was for his eyes only.

They kept coming, one right after the other. He slashed, swung, struck and slaughtered the never-ending sea of soldiers attacking him. The ground around him was tainted with red and the footing became treacherous. Slipping to one knee, he fought off his latest attacker before lurching to his feet. More than once, he was driven to his knee and each time he recovered, until finally he couldn't remain upright. He felt himself sinking downward and try as he might he couldn't regain his footing. Something snaked itself around his upper body and began dragging him backwards. Struggling to break away, he found he was unable. With his dagger, he struck at the hand reaching for him, but as he did, he found the pressure on his chest increasing to the point where he was forced to drop his main-gauche.

As his now empty hand flew backward to claw at the object around his chest, he realized he was hearing low indistinguishable sounds, almost like a crooning. The timbre of the muttering voice somehow felt familiar and despite the situation, he found himself relaxing. He allowed his arms to drop to his side lulled by the soothing voice.

"It's all right, Athos," Porthos repeatedly murmured in the swordsman's ear, his powerful arm wrapped around the smaller man's chest, half-hugging, half-restraining him.

Aramis took possession of the dagger Athos had been brandishing about in his nightmare and watched with amazement as Athos calmed down in Porthos' embrace. Slowly, the hazy green eyes began to focus back on the real world, blinking a few times as if to clear away the nightmare.

Turning his head slightly, Athos peered around and saw it was Porthos who was restraining him. Shame and humiliation washed over him as he realized what had happened. A damn embarrassing nightmare.

He tried to struggle out of the streetfighter's hold, but Porthos held him tight. He'd seen this happen to the swordsman a few times so he knew exactly what Athos was feeling. He refused to let go and let the man go crawl into his shell of isolation to beat himself up. Eventually, when Athos figured out he was not breaking free, he gave up and actually leaned back into Porthos' comforting support.

Silence settled over the camp again, as Aramis set the dagger on the edge of Athos' bedroll before moving back to his own to lie down. Exhaustion overtook Athos, his eyelids dropping despite the fact he didn't want to go back to sleep for fear of another nightmare. But sleep won out and he went slack in Porthos' arms and the gentle giant carefully positioned his friend in a comfortable position on his bedroll. Athos squirmed a little then settled into a deep sleep. Porthos moved back to his own blankets and was soon fast sleep.

Come morning, Athos was the last to rise, waking to the smell of food cooking which made his stomach growl. Aramis looked up, filled a bowl and offered it to him, but Athos shook his head.

"You have to eat," Aramis broke the morning silence. "I heard your stomach growl," he added with a small grin.

Athos looked away in the direction of the stream. "Yes, but I want to go to the creek first to...wash off."

Setting the bowl back down the marksman said, "Far be it from me to upset your morning routine. After all, cleanliness is next to Godliness."

Ignoring the joshing, Athos rose, stretched his stiff joints, then made his way down to the creek. He splashed a few handfuls of water on his face and then decided the hell with it, bent over and stuck his head in the creek. After thirty seconds he raised it, letting the cool droplets of water drip down his neck and snake down his chest and back. It was cool and refreshing, though nothing could drive away the embarrassment of what happened last night. He could control his body with an iron will during the day, but it could still betray him at night.

Sitting back on his heels, he shook his head like a wet dog, droplets of water flying in a 360-degree circle around him. It could have been worse. It could have happened in front of the entire regiment. Porthos and Aramis already knew of this...he struggled for a word and settled on weakness. His two friends already knew of this weakness and had kept it to themselves. He hoped no one else would ever learn of it.

With a sigh, he rose, walked back to the camp and accepted the bowl of food offered to him. Slowly, he spooned the food into his mouth, awkwardly using his left hand. While he could fence nearly as well with his left hand as with his right, simple things, such as handling a spoon without spilling its contents, were proving to be more difficult. About halfway through his meal he quit, whether from being full or the frustration of having to use his clumsy left hand, remained unclear.

"How are you feeling this morning?" Porthos asked as he picked up Athos' discarded bowl and began to finish its content.

"Fine."

"Don't know why I ever bother to ask," Porthos grumbled around a mouthful of food.

"We could camp here another night, leave tomorrow, give your wounds a chance to heal," Aramis suggested mildly, though when the rebuff came it was not a surprise.

"No. We leave now. I am fit to travel," Athos proclaimed with finality.

"Well, since experience has taught me you can't be persuaded, we'll leave. But only after I have checked your wounds once more," Aramis declared in a tone that told Athos he too was serious and would not be deterred.

Porthos rose from the ground where he'd been sitting. "I'll pack the gear." He was happy not to have to be involved with the overbearing medic and the stubborn patient.

Eventually, they got on their way with Aramis and Porthos leading the string of stallions. It had been decided, after much debate, that Athos' wounded hand would do best if he didn't use it. So, the swordsman used his left hand to rein his horse and cradled his injured one in his lap. Aramis was also concerned about the bullet wound in Athos right arm, which to him was showing signs of an infection.

They made good time, halting now and then, but mostly maintaining a steady pace. Come nightfall, they stopped and set up a quick camp. Athos showed little interest in dinner and an unappreciated hand on his forehead showed he was running a low fever. Aramis made a tea of willow bark and stood over Athos until the reluctant man drank the entire, bitter drought. After that, the rest of the night passed peacefully with no night terrors.

The next morning found Athos no better and no worse as they set out once more to return the stallions to the Comte Vergy's estate. As the afternoon went on, Porthos began to grow restless, constantly checking the sky.

"We're in for a storm," he finally announced after staring at the sky once more. "It's gonna be a bad one."

Even though the day was still bright and sunny, Aramis had learned not to discount Porthos' weather sense. Maybe it was from growing up on the streets, but Porthos had an amazing, eerie ability to predict the weather. More than once he had warned them in time for them to seek shelter from a nasty weather event.

Athos scanned the sky, twisting to examine the sky in every direction. Aramis, seeing the swordsman looking confused said, "Though the sky may look blue now, I have never known Porthos' weather sense to be wrong. It has saved us many a time from being caught in terrible storms, especially with lightning."

The big man was shaking his head. "This is gonna be bad," he reiterated. "We need to find shelter."

Athos grew thoughtful. If he was not mistaken, there was a lodge not too far away. He and Jourdain had used it a few times. However, he wasn't sure how to direct his friends to the lodge without receiving a lot of probing questions he would rather not answer. So, he remained silent.

As they continued to ride, dark clouds appeared on the horizon and swiftly blotted out the sun. The stallions were now sensing the impending storm and they began to dance and fidget on their lead ropes. The wind rose from a whisper and built towards a roar as the leaves on the trees flipped over and rattled ominously. In the distance, white hot lightening streaked across the sky and the thunder's boom echoed through the forest.

Suddenly, Athos realized that letting his friends and the horses suffer for his foolish pride was stupid. "I know a place, nearby," he yelled over the howling wind. If either of his companions questioned him, it was lost to the wind.

Taking the lead, he confidently led them to a small track that ended at the lodge. There was a large stable adjacent to the lodge and he headed there, drawing to a stop in front of the barn's double door. Though the door was padlocked, it only took Porthos a few minutes after he dismounted to use his skills and open the lock.

The rain began pelting down on them as they swiftly ushered the horses inside. The lightning bolts had increased in frequency and intensity and the thunder booms were so loud they rattled the musketeers' teeth. The winds picked up to what sounded like gale force and shortly after they had the horses arranged in stalls, hail began slamming against the wooden sides of the stable. They had definitely gotten out of the storm just in time. Once again, Porthos' weather sense was spot on.