CHAPTER 30

It was if the storm had hunkered down over their location. Even though morning had come, the sky was nearly as dark and ominous as the night before. One look out the barn door as well as one look at Athos, who was at best semi-conscious, and Aramis and Porthos decided they would stay one more day in their shelter. They spent the day assuring the stallions were comfortable and tending to the fever that had risen in their friend.

By the next morning, the storm had passed leaving behind a blue sky with fluffy white clouds. As they readied themselves and the horses to continue their journey, Porthos, who had been observing Athos, pulled Aramis aside, concern written all over his face.

"He still don't look so good."

Aramis agreed with the assessment of his friend, but knew there was nothing he could so about it. "True. But he isn't going to agree to stay here another day and rest. The only reason he agreed to yesterday was that he couldn't even sit up. It's only half a day's ride back to Comte Vergy's house, I think. He'll be fine enough until we reach there. Then we shall tie him to one of the Comte's four-poster beds until he is well."

"That will be a sight to see," Porthos replied with a chuckle.

Within a short while they were mounted and on their way back to the Comte's estate with his stolen stallions. Porthos and Aramis were leading the string of horses so as not to tax their friend's deteriorating condition. Athos rode a few feet in front of them, his normally relaxed riding posture looking haggard as pain and exhaustion took their toll on his body. Still, he stubbornly clung to his pride and tried to give the appearance that all was well, a subterfuge he wasn't pulling off.

They had been riding for more than three hours when the stallions they were leading suddenly pricked their ears forward and began to grow animated. For whatever reason, sight, sound or smell, the horses knew they were approaching their home. Soon enough, the track leading to the estate came into view and the stallions pulled on their leads as they eagerly stepped onto its worn dirt surface.

A few of the stallions burst forth with neighs of greeting as the road wound between the lush pastures of the estate. Comte Vergy's stablemaster heard the familiar sound and couldn't believe his ears. He stepped out of the stable into the yard and scanned up the drive, almost not trusting what he thought he was seeing. He dispatched one of the stable boys to the house to alert the Comte. He hoped it was what he had been praying for, but the distance was still too great for him to be one hundred percent sure.

The timing of the Comte coming out of his house and the stolen stallions arriving in the yard was perfect. He stepped onto his porch and saw the three musketeers and his beloved horses. Aramis and Porthos led the stallions towards the waiting stablemaster and his assistants. Athos dismounted, secured Roger's reins to a nearby hitch and began to make his way across the yard towards the house. Jourdain limped down the stairs and met the musketeer halfway, his face lit up with delight at seeing his horses returned and his friend, battered, but still alive.

Drawing Roger to a halt, Athos half-slid, half fell off his horse. After he got his bearings, he told Roger to wait, let go the reins and began to walk towards Jourdain. He wanted to remind the man not to overdue it and give him away.

Arms open wide, Jourdain greeted his old friend with a hug. Athos had no choice but to accept this gracious greeting, even though it made him uncomfortable. However, his abused body was not up to a strong hug for when Jourdain's arms wrapped around his abused flesh, waves of pain rippling through him causing him to stumble. The two embracing men swung around 180 degrees trying to avoid falling over.

Without warning, the sound of a shot being fired rent the air and seconds later, Jourdain went lax. In his weakened state, Athos did his best to keep them both upright, but failed and they tumbled into the dirt. The musketeer did his best to shield his friend, twisting so it was his body that hit the ground first.

When the shot rang out, Aramis and Porthos, still mounted, immediately had their pistols in their hands, searching for the gunman. A thin trail of smoke from the discharge was enough to allow the two musketeers to target their man. That and the more obvious fact that he was standing in the open and aiming his second pistol at the two men lying unprotected on the ground.

A few seconds after they landed, Jourdain slid off Athos and when the musketeer looked down at his torso, arms and hands he realized they were covered in blood. Funny, his muddled brain thought. He didn't feel any overwhelming pain as he felt he should, given the amount of blood seeping out of his body. It was then that he realized it wasn't his blood covering his body, but Jourdain's.

The functioning portion of his mind was screaming at him to move and find cover, they were sitting ducks lying in the open. Pushing to his knees, he tried to gather Jourdain in his arms and rise the rest of the way to his feet. Adrenaline coursing through his veins gave him the strength of desperation and he was able to get to his feet with the injured man in his arms. As he slowly turned, looking for an avenue of escape, his eyes lit on the cause of this disaster, Anton, standing and aiming a gun directly at him.

A myriad of emotions flashed through his eyes at the same moment the sound of two more gunshots pierced the air. Like mirror-images, he and Anton simultaneously dropped to their knees, then toppled over sideways.

Aramis' head turned from where he had just shot Anton to where Athos crumpled to the ground. In his head he was praying fervently even as his voice screamed "Athos!" He slid from his horse as did Porthos.

"Go!" Porthos shouted as he pushed the immobile Aramis towards their downed third. "I'll go check that the bastard is dead." Porthos gave the marksman another shove as he moved towards where the Spanish captain lay in the dirt.

Aramis shook himself out of his daze to sprint to Athos' side, dropping to his knees on the ground. Jourdain lay an arm's length away and both men were splattered with blood. As Athos began to struggle to rise, Aramis admonished him to lay still until he could examine him.

Shaking his head, Athos pushed himself into a seated position despite Aramis' efforts to stop him. When Aramis realized Athos was not going to acquiesce, he began to help the man, propping him up with an arm. "Where are you hurt?" the concerned medic asked as his eyes scanned Athos' bloody clothes.

"Not mine. His," Athos panted as he jerked his chin at Jourdain. "He was shot."

"By the first bullet. But the second?" Aramis asked as he slowly moved towards Jourdain.

"Second?" Athos echoed in confusion.

By now, Aramis was on the ground next to Jourdain, who was lying on his left side with his eyes open, though somewhat unfocused. Aramis could see the source of the blood was coming from the lower belly area of the man and he was pretty sure that was the exit site. Leaning over the Comte, he could see what he had surmised, an equally large red stain marking the entry point for the bullet. The medic was surprised to see it was a through and through wound and he briefly wondered where the bullet had ended up if not in Jourdain. However, even though the bullet had hit no bone on its path through the horse breeder, it had torn through all sorts of soft body parts and it was a 'gut' shot. No one survived those. No matter what was done, infection would set in and cause the recipient to suffer a prolonged, painful death.

Aramis looked up and saw Athos' eyes staring at him, questioning, even while knowing the answer to the unasked inquiry. Members of the Comte's household were now in the yard, surrounding the trio. Aramis tore his eyes away from Athos' uncomfortable stare as he rose to his feet.

"You," he said pointing to the nearest manservant, "ride for the nearest doctor. The rest of you need to get the Comte into the house. Get a flat surface, a board, carry him to his bed chambers, strip his clothes and gently bathe him. I'll get my medical supplies and meet you there shortly."

"What about the man that shot him?" one of the household staff cried out.

"He's dead," Porthos said succinctly as he joined them. "The Spanish captain, Anton, is dead."

Porthos moved to support Athos who had shakily climbed back to his feet. They watched in silence as Aramis supervised the careful loading of the Comte onto the flat wooden plank one of the stable hands had produced. Then two strong servants reverently lifted it and made towards the house. Aramis moved back to stand by his two friends as the watched the procession.

"How is he?" Porthos asked quietly glancing over at Aramis. The look on the medic-musketeer's face told the story without words, though the man did answer.

"It's a gut wound. I'm afraid there is nothing to be done but make him comfortable until…" his voice trailed off.

"It should have been me," Athos spoke softly. "It was my back that was to the captain, until I stumbled, from fatigue. Jourdain bolstered me, and we rotated, exposing him to the bullet. I should be the one dying, not him."

"It was an accident, Athos. No one's fault other than that bastard of a Spaniard and he got what he deserved from Aramis," Porthos declared, placing his hands on Athos' shoulders and turning him slightly to face him. "It wasn't your fault."

"And if you don't let me examine and clean your wounds, you very well may join him," Aramis admonished as he too turned to face Athos. "I don't believe all of that blood is the Comte's. If you were facing each other, when the bullet went through Jourdain it must have hit you."

Porthos dropped his hands from Athos' shoulders as Aramis examined the front of the injured man's jacket. He spied what he thought was a new rent in the side of the leather. Pointing out the slit, he stated "The bullet did graze your jacket after leaving Jourdain. Did it score your skin as well?"

Considering all his aches and pains, Athos wasn't sure, but he didn't think the bullet had touched him. "No," he said without a lot of conviction. Knowing he could either do it himself or they'd gladly do it for him, slowly Athos unbuttoned his coat, slid it off and handed it to Porthos. All eyes shifted to his side where there was another rent in the grimy shirt. Athos caught Aramis' eyes for a second, silently asking if he had to continue. Aramis' folded his arms over his chest, giving Athos the answer, he knew he'd get. With a little sigh, he untucked his shirt and raised it enough so that his side was visible.

Gently, Aramis brushed his fingertips over the pale, unblemished skin as if to confirm with his touch what his eyes were telling him. "God must love you for the first bullet scored your jacket and shirt, but didn't touch your skin at all. Miraculous."

"What about the second bullet?" Porthos asked, which earned him a scowl from Athos.

"I believe it too must have missed me."

Thinking about where Anton had been shooting from and where Athos had been, Porthos started examining Athos' left side, but could see no signs of bleeding. "Guess it did miss." Holding out Athos' coat, he helped the swordsman slip it back on. Once it was on, he noticed Athos' pauldron was not settled correctly. As he reached over to fix it, he whistled. "Damn you are lucky. The second bullet hit your pauldron. That's why it's hanging crooked. But it didn't touch your body. Amazing."

Craning his neck, Athos could see what Porthos meant. The bullet had torn a path in the leather shield attached to his shoulder without ever touching his skin. It was amazing.

"Best we get inside and see to the Comte since you appear to be in no immediate peril." Aramis turned and headed for the house with the other two musketeers falling into line.

Athos softly asked as they assisted him in walking along, "There's no hope for him is there."

"Unless God grants another miracle today, no, not with a gut shot. He'll live for a few days if he is unlucky. Better if God is going to take him to heaven He do so expeditiously. Otherwise the pain will be tremendously unpleasant."

Athos folded into himself as he processed what Aramis had said. He had known the truth all along, but he still needed to hear it. He couldn't stop the grief and guilt from nibbling at his soul. Again, he had brought misfortune to those he loved.