CHAPTER 46

"Athos, do you need to get your hair cut?" Aramis half-joked as he stitched up another sword slice on his friend. It seemed in the brief times the two were able to seek out each other, or rather he sought out Athos, the marksman was forced to provide some form of medical aid. "I swear you have gotten zig and zag mixed up," he complained as he tied off the knot on his neat little stitches. "Is your hand still bothering you?"

As usual, Athos didn't reply but sat there grumpily, tolerating Aramis' doctoring. His hair wasn't interfering with his swordsmanship. The issue was Roudon, who was making a habit of sending him on missions without enough support. The swordsman had a sneaking suspicion this was the Lieutenant's new way of trying to get rid of him. Drive him out of the unit or have him get killed on a mission. He suspected Roudon hoped it would be the latter.

Pondering while Aramis stitched, Athos wondered if either of his friends questioned, as he did, the composition of the men on the missions since Treville left. There was rarely more than one common soldier on any assignment. And though he had no way to prove it, so far, he swore that the nobility was leaving the common soldiers to fend for themselves in sword fights, deliberately not coming to their aid when needed. More than once he'd been set on by multiple opponents and the nobility never had any time to assist him. Being a consummate swordsman, he was able to handle these challenges, mostly, though as Aramis had noted, he was getting nicked more than was his norm. Some of the other common soldiers had not been so lucky.

The musketeer Henri, the son of a baker, had not fared as well. After repeatedly being sent on assignments with impossible odds, Henri quit the musketeers and went back to his father's shop. Simeon had not been as fortunate. He had no chance to quit because he was killed on a mission. His body had not even been brought back to Paris for a proper burial in the musketeers' graveyard. Roudon claimed it was because Simeon had asked to be buried in the graveyard of the small church where he died from his wounds. But for some reason, that answer did not ring true with Athos.

One miraculous day when Athos had a few hours to himself, he rode out to the church where Simeon had supposedly died and was buried. When he arrived, and questioned the priest, it didn't exactly surprise him that the religious man had no idea what he was talking about when he asked to see where the dead musketeer had been interred. Yes, the priest had heard of musketeers fighting with some bandits that were bothering a nearby village, but none had been brought to his church. Leaving the priest with a small donation to make up for what seemed like his odd behavior, Athos rode away towards the village.

The road wound in and out of a gloomy forest, a perfect spot for an ambush. He rounded a blind curve and immediately reined in Roger. The ground and the edges of the forest clearly showed a battle had been fought in this area. The trees bore marks of passing bullets and the ground cover was crushed and scuffed in many places.

Dismounting, he instructed Roger to stay while he walked in an ever-widening pattern looking for something, though he wasn't sure what until he saw it. Marks of something, or someone, being dragged through the trees. After following the tracks into the forest for half a mile, he drew up short when the trail ceased at a rather large dead tree trunk which was laying on its side on the forest floor. With trepidation, he clambered over the trunk, then nearly lost his dinner when he saw what was on the other side. A body, or what was left of it after the wild animals of the forest had had their way with it. There was no doubt in his mind he had found the missing musketeer though he'd never be able to prove it. The body had been stripped naked, nothing left behind to identify it. However, Athos was willing to stake his life on the fact that it was Simeon.

Hoping to find some parcel of proof, he cast about in a circle around the area, but he could find no signs of any clothes, or anything that could aid in a positive identification. Hating that the body was already too ravaged to try to take back for a proper burial, at least not without a cart, Athos reluctantly left and returned to the patiently waiting Roger. The black stallion sensed his rider's low-spirits and prodded him with his warm nose. Absent-mindedly, Athos rubbed the horse's muzzle, then allowed himself the luxury of a few minutes of grief while burying his face in the stallion's thick mane. When was this going to end? He had no proof, but he was sure this was Roudon's work. Had the obsessed Lieutenant actually killed Simeon, just because he was not of noble birth? Or had he simply instructed the rest of the men to not assist and the bandits killed Simeon? Either way it was murder Athos felt, sure as if Roudon had shot Simeon himself.

Shaking off his grief, Athos gathered up Roger's reins, mounted and slowly rode back to the garrison, his mind fully occupied trying to figure out how to rid the musketeers of Roudon. And in the end though he didn't yet have a plan, he knew one thing; he would not get his friends involved. He and he alone would bring Roudon down.

When he arrived back at the garrison, it was at the tail end of dinner and even though he knew if he went to the dining hall there would still be food available, he decided against it for two reasons. The first was he might see Roudon, and the second was he might see Aramis and Porthos. At the moment, he didn't trust himself to see any of them without untold consequences. Instead, he swiped an apple from the stash the stable lads kept hidden in the barn to bribe the horses and headed to his room. He got there without anyone noticing and once inside, firmly shut and latched the door. Being disturbed was the last thing he wanted tonight.

Casting his eyes hopefully around his room, he realized there was no wine to be found, not an unusual circumstance these days. Since his last unpleasant detox in jail, he had been cutting back on his drinking. Not giving it up, no that he wasn't ready to do, and maybe never would be, but he did try to keep it from being excessive and controlling. And one of the measures he had taken was not to keep full bottles of wine lying around his room. If he wanted to drink, he had to make an effort to do so by going to a tavern.

Stripping off his weapons and outer garments, he lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling, unable to find sleep. The few snatches he did manage to grab were filled with nightmares of Simeon. The crack of dawn found him more exhausted than when he had laid his head down.

Rolling out of bed, he splashed some water on his face, dressed, put his weapons belt on and then did a few stretches and maneuvers with his rapier to ease his stiff muscles. When he was done, he sheathed his blade and headed outside. Musketeers were starting to assemble in the courtyard. Treville's routine had been meal, then muster, figuring a well-fed soldier is a more attentive one. Athos always liked the routine because he had longer to prepare for muster after a hard night of drinking, as long as he was willing to forgo breaking his fast.

However, shortly after Roudon took over he had reversed the order, muster then meal, if there was time for food, which often, for common soldiers, there was not. Just another way Roudon had found to make their lives miserable. Somehow the nobles always had enough time to get their meal, but the commoners were assigned tasks which left them starting the day without food.

Athos joined the men in the courtyard looking for, but not seeing, Aramis or Porthos. It really wasn't a huge surprise for Roudon had done an excellent job of keeping them separated. Athos had no idea if Aramis and Porthos saw each other more often than he saw them, but he suspected not. The Inseparables had been separated and surprisingly he had mixed feelings about it. After his brother's and wife's death, he vowed never to allow anyone to get that close to him again. Yet those two had gotten partially around his defenses and he found he missed them.

Looking about, Athos saw only two other soldiers who were not nobility this morning. Had others quit like Henri and he hadn't heard? Or worse, died like Simeon? His attention was brought back to the present when he heard his name called out to go on a mission with five other musketeers, all nobles but one and led by Roudon personally. This was a surprise and he was pretty sure the sign of an upcoming disaster.

After they were dismissed, Athos walked over to join the other members of his mission and as soon as he did, Roudon instructed him and Stephen, the only other common soldier on the mission, personally to oversee the saddling of the horses as well as securing extra munitions. The Lieutenant gave Athos a haughty look as if daring him to object, but Athos merely nodded an acknowledgement before heading off to the supply area.

"Be sure the horses are ready when we come back from breaking our fast," Roudon called after the retreating men. Once again, Athos made no argument, simply heading about his assigned duties. Missing breakfast was no hardship compared to some he had endured. Besides, there was still the stash of apples in the barn, though he was getting a little tired of a diet of apples and the snorts of disgust from Roger, who felt he wasn't getting his fair share.

By the time Roudon and the rest of the musketeers assigned to this mission emerged from the dining hall, the horses were tied up outside, fully ready to go with packs of extra ammunition hanging from the saddles. Roudon indicated for the men to mount. As the group moved out, Athos and Stephen fell into line, side by side, at the back of the column.

"I've been hearing things," Stephen quietly stated as they rode along. He kept his voice pitched low so the conversation stayed between them. "That people like us aren't wanted in the regiment anymore."

Athos quirked an eyebrow at him, but didn't say anything. Interesting, he thought, that others were confirming what he thought he was seeing and willing to speak about it, at least to some.

"Henri was a friend of mine, before he left. He liked being a musketeer, up until…," Stephen's trailed off.

Stephen fugitively glanced around then lowered his voice even more when he began to speak once more. "Henri told me on his last mission that when they got into a sword fight with the mercenaries trying to steal the King's gold, the rest of the musketeers wouldn't come to his aid, even though he was fighting multiple men and they had already subdued their opponents. They stood there, those nobility, and simply watched Henri fight for his life. Did nothing. Henri said it was if they hoped he would be killed," Stephen concluded as he scanned about once more. "When he got back to the garrison, injured, but alive, he quit. Said it wasn't worth his life being thrown away as if he didn't matter. He said if he had to die for his King and his country he would have. But not because some pompous ass like Roudon and his cronies refused to believe he was worthy to be a musketeer. Sure, Henri wasn't born into some rich family, but he was a good soldier and a good man. Better than those privileged ass…"

Suddenly, Roudon sharply drew his horse around and rode back to Athos and Stephen. Stephen's face blanched white as their Lieutenant approached. "He couldn't have heard," he mumbled under his breath.

Roudon scowled furiously at the two musketeers. "Stop dragging your heels you good for nothing mongrels. If your riding skills are so poor you can't keep up, dismiss yourselves now. You are making a mockery out the righteous men that do belong in the musketeers."

Athos was a little surprised to hear Roudon speaking so candidly, but then again who was here to object? Everyone on the team, other than he and Stephen, were loyal to a fault to Roudon.

"Consider yourself on notice," Roudon warned, looking specifically at Athos, "again. I am not blinded like Captain Treville. I will see that this regiment brought back to glory."

Athos, his back straight as a rod, kept his eyes facing forward, looking straight between Roger's pointed black ears. If Roudon hoped to get a rise out of him, the Lieutenant was going to sorely disappointed. Athos would not give Roudon the satisfaction of a reaction. However, he was concerned at Roudon's rhetoric, which was exponentially escalating and might soon lead the prejudiced leader to take even bolder actions against those he felt didn't belong in the musketeers.

The group rode through the city heading for a building in the northern-most quadrant of Paris which, according to sources, was said to be housing a group of mercenaries, hired to bomb an important, yet unnamed target. Though the information was scanty, Roudon had felt it was enough to act on. When they arrived at their target, Athos saw it was a two-story wooden building, quite remote and set far away from any other structures.

Though he thought it was unwise for their group to spilt up this soon, when he and Stephen were commanded by Lieutenant Roudon to scout around the back for additional exits, Athos and Stephen dismounted and obeyed. Keeping out of the sight-lines of the windows, as best as possible, he and Stephen made their way to the rear of the structure where they found one door and very little cover. The only thing behind the building was a broken-down wagon sitting cockeyed on three wheels with the fourth being broken. Guns drawn, Athos was considering their next move when he heard a terrible racket out front. It didn't take long to figure out that Roudon and the rest of the troops had stormed the front of the building, which meant only one thing if there truly were mercenaries inside.

"Behind the wagon," Athos yelled to Stephen as the first mercenary burst through the door, saw them and took aim. He heard the whistle of the bullet as it narrowly missed his diving form. Hitting the ground with a shoulder roll, he came up in a crouch and fired back at his assailant, placing a hole dead center in the man's chest.

Stephen was not so lucky as the second man out the door took aim and fired. The projectile tore through Stephen's thigh and the musketeer collapsed with a yelp in the grass. Using his second loaded pistol, Athos took aim at the second gunman, neatly taking him down too. Aramis would be proud of his marksmanship, which was improving under his tutelage.

Another mercenary came out the door, being driven to the back by the large party of musketeers in the front. What wasn't occurring was any reinforcements being sent to hep Athos and Stephen, which Athos was sure was a deliberate act by Roudon.

Athos sprinted across the grass, scooped up Henri's unused gun, spun and shot this third man as well. He grabbed the downed musketeer by the nape of his jacket and dragged him across the ground until they were behind the wagon. Stephen's agonized screams only confirmed what Athos knew, that he was causing the fallen musketeer great pain. But leaving him lying in the open was a certain death sentence. He propped Stephen up against the wagon as best as he could then took a cursory look at his leg which had major damage.

"Take off your belt. Wrap it above the wound on your thigh and pull it tight," Athos instructed as he turned to watch the open back door. So far, no one else had exited, yet. However, he was pretty sure there were more and they were just being cautious after seeing their first three friends gunned down.

Athos had tucked his two spent pistols in his belt and Stephen still had one of his two. Taking his powder pouch and bag of shot from his belt, he dropped them on the ground by Stephen's side. "Can you reload them?" Athos inquired as he piled the empty pistols by the injured man.

Stephen, who by now had the belt secured gave a quick nod. He was already feeling woozy and disorientated from blood loss, but he'd try.

Athos heard battle cries rising through the air and he turned his attention back to watching the door where he saw movement. Damn Roudon. The Lieutenant knew he and Stephen were the only ones back here and yet he kept driving the mercenaries at them without sending any additional musketeers to assist. If Athos wasn't totally convinced before, he was now; Roudon was trying to kill him and Stephen on this mission.

Cursing, Athos drew his sword and main-gauche, prepared to defended himself and Stephen as long as he could. A quick glance showed Stephen had not even managed to reload one pistol yet, so Athos didn't hold out for much hope in that quarter.

Four more men tumbled out the door, thankfully without any firearms, only swords, a small piece of luck in the two trapped musketeers' favor. In his usual bold style, for what did he have to lose, Athos stepped out from behind the wagon, sword in hand.

"Surrender, in the name of the King," he demanded with authority, as if he fully expected them to obey. His demand did get the four man to stop for a moment and look at him. Athos' only saving grace was these men didn't seem to possess any firearms.

"You have to be joking, right?" the lead mercenary said with disbelief as he stared at the lone musketeer. "There are four of us and one of you."

With the slightest hint of an arrogant smirk on his face, Athos replied, "Don't say you weren't warned."

While the swordsman was maintaining a cool exterior, inside he was fighting the sinking feeling he has about to see how hot it really was in hell. It wasn't that he hadn't successfully defeated multiple men before, but not with a partially healed right wrist and palm. Plus, he was still not as fit as he should be, courtesy of his extended stay in the garrison's prison. To say he wasn't at the top of his game was a gross understatement. In passing, he wondered how Stephen was making out loading the guns before realizing he probably shouldn't count on assistance from that quarter.

His four adversaries began advancing on him, swords drawn and at the ready. He hated to do it so early in the fight, but he felt he had no choice so in one swift motion he threw his main-gauche into the heart of the man on the left. His technique, perfected as a young man, was swift and true and the body crumbled to the ground.

The three remaining men halted in their tracks, looking at their downed fourth, then over at the lone musketeer, sword raised, waiting for them.

"I did warn you," Athos chastised them. "It's not too late to bring this to an end. Lay down your weapons and submit to the King's justice."

"You do realize there is three of us still, one of you, and you don't have your little knife no more," the one who seemed to be the spokesman of the group pointed out.

With a tone of puzzlement, as if he wasn't believing what he was hearing, Athos commented, "You can count. I admit, that surprises me."

Unexpectedly, a shot rang out from under the wagon where Stephan was sheltering. The shot was good and another mercenary dropped dead.

"It seems," Athos remarked drolly, "that the odds are increasingly in my favor."

With a growl, the remaining two rushed Athos, the intensity of their attack driving him backwards as he attempted to weave his single sword in a defense against his adversaries two blades. It wasn't a pretty fight and he did get struck by his opponent's blades more than he liked, but in the end, he was victorious. He'd been forced to switch sword hands a number of times, which left him vulnerable for a moment. Athos also used every maneuver, every trick, every piece of knowledge he'd ever learned about fighting to stay alive, including a few underhanded ones that Porthos had taught him.

When his last opponent finally fell to the earth, Athos' sword arm dropped to his side as if it were made of lead and he stood there trying to draw air into his straining lungs. Slowly, because of his injuries, new and old, he hobbled back to the wagon to check on Stephen and was saddened, but not surprised to see that the man had died. Leaning his sweat-soaked head against the worn wood of the wagon, moisture welled up in his green eyes. Stephen, Simeon, Henri… all of the people being persecuted by Roudon deserved better.

He had tried to wait for Captain Treville's return, but he could no longer. Stephen and Simeon, dead. Henri driven off. Who knew who else would be dismissed or dead by the time Treville returned? It was clear Roudon was purging the musketeers of undesirables and, like lemmings, the rest of the nobility were blindly following him.

Ignoring the aches and pains of his body, the bleeding gashes, he bent over and hoisted Stephen's limp body over his shoulder and staggered around the front of the building. When he got there, he let the body slide to the ground as he stood dumbfounded. Not a single musketeer was there. The only horse left was Roger, and only because the loyal animal wouldn't let himself be led or driven off without his rider.

Roudon and the rest of the team, knowing full well there was a battle going on around back had simply ridden away, abandoning him and Stephan to die. For Athos, this was the last straw. Roudon's persecution had to end when he got back to the garrison.

Picking up Stephan once more, he carried him over to Roger and laid him across the saddle. Awkwardly mounting behind his human bundle, Athos urged Roger into a sedate walk. Stephan's legs and arms flopped against the stallion's black hide, but the horse bore it with good grace, as if he knew it was a solemn task. Slowly, the one-man funeral procession wound its way through the streets of Paris towards the garrison and the ultimate show down.