Porthos stared at the small procession from behind a large, black tree trunk. Four horses trudged side by side head of a caged wooden cart and two horses remained behind. The cart was driven by a seventh man. Poulain had said eight; he assumed Aramis must have killed one and felt a fierce stab of pride for his missing brother. He longed to run out and to attack the traveling party, but a small voice in the back of his mind firmly insisted that it would be stupidly suicidal. The voice sounded uncomfortably like Athos. He glanced to the side and gave his companion a glare. The swordsman caught his eye for a moment.

"Do not even think about it," Athos whispered. Porthos scowled.

The two men turned away and returned to the horses that had been tied up further into the woods. "How much further?" Porthos asked.

"Perhaps another half-kilometer or so," Athos replied.

Porthos sighed before heaving himself up into the saddle. Every step they took felt like one too many. If that little bastard Poulain was correct, then he would be in the cart. It bothered him to no end that he could not even catch a glimpse of Aramis, that he could not see for himself that his friend was still alive.

Despite his distaste of Tréville's contact, Porthos had to grudgingly admit that the man was right about the mountain territory. They had ridden off the main trail, which snaked along the bottom of a deep, narrow valley between jagged, white-capped peaks. Fresh snow, which had fallen heavily through the night, covered the land in a thick blanket that nearly reached Porthos' knees. Beneath the powdery white, layers of older snowfall had packed and frozen into unstable sheets. Their borrowed horses, as hardy and surefooted as they were, struggled through the difficult terrain. Despite their slow pace, they had still caught up to the Spanish soldiers as Poulain had predicted. The wagon that rolled along at the rear of the convoy constantly slipped and became stuck in the snow. Shouts of frustration echoed in the air each time it did so. Porthos absently wondered how long it would have taken for the soldiers to give up on the cart and to simply sling their prisoner over the back of a horse.

The two Musketeers pushed their mounts forward, urging them to pick up speed despite the dangerous footing. They were aiming for a section in the main trail that curved between a very narrow passage of steep, icy banks. Athos had scouted ahead and had declared it their best opportunity. The natural channel would force the convoy into a single row, and it would help prevent the Musketeers from becoming surrounded during the attack. Porthos had wanted to meet Aramis' captors head on, but Athos had balked.

"There are only seven of them," Porthos had pointed out when Athos had returned from his ride.

"And there are only two of us," Athos returned.

"Three. Aramis is in that cart."

"We have no idea what condition Aramis is in. If he is injured or in anything less than fighting condition, he will not be of any help. If anything, he will be a hindrance."

Porthos' face flushed. The nobleman beside him obviously had not learned much in the past few months. "Aramis is always in for a fight," he grit out. "And he is never a hindrance."

Athos sighed. "That is not what I meant. Regardless, you cannot argue that if he is injured, our primary goal will be to get him to safety as quickly as possible. We cannot do that if we have to fight seven men at once," he said patiently.

In the end, they had decided to split their meager forces. When they reached the bend, Athos hid himself on the northern slope, while Porthos hid himself on the southern side of the trail. Porthos knew that the swordsman would be hidden up high with two arquebuses and two pistols loaded and ready to fire. Between the two of them, they both agreed that Athos was the better shot. It should be Aramis up there, Porthos thought sourly. Having Athos firing from a perch did not inspire the same sense of confidence.

Porthos waited, his eyes locked onto the mountain pass. Adrenaline was singing in his veins, urging him him to go go go. Instead, he held himself still. The only motion he made was the rise and fall of his chest as he took deep breaths, creating little white puffs in the cold air. He needed to wait for the right moment. After what seemed like an eternity, the party of soldiers finally rode into view, slowly snaking along the trail, and Porthos tensed. A few minutes later, a loud bang exploded through the silence, echoing in the narrow channel. One of the soldiers slumped on his horse and then fell to the ground, limp and unmoving. His own horse trampled the dead man's body as it pranced uneasily to the side. A shocked, quiet beat of confusion was broken by loud, unintelligible screams.

Another shot ripped through the group of soldiers as they attempted to organize themselves. The ball winged the soldier riding in front, and he ducked down on his horse, clutching at the bloody wound as he shouted angrily, gesturing wildly at the surrounding trees. Gunfire sounded once more; the sound was different, and Porthos assumed that Athos had switched over to a pistol. No one appeared to be hit, but the damage to the soldiers' nerves had already been done. Slowed by the limited amount of space, four of the Spaniards finally wheeled away, thundering up the northern slope towards Athos' hiding spot. It left only two men for Porthos to deal with.

He waited for another few seconds, until the four soldiers were well away, before emerging from the woods and rushing towards the cart. Pistol in hand, he silently urged his horse to move faster. The snow muffled the sound of his approach and the two remaining soldiers, who were staring intently at the direction in which their comrades had disappeared, did not see him until it was nearly too late. He leveled his pistol and fired at the soldier driving the cart, and his surprised cry was cut short as Porthos' shot took him square in the chest. The man toppled over as the other Spaniard whirled his horse around to face the big Musketeer.

Porthos drew his schianova and swiped at the remaining Spanish soldier. His adversary had drawn as well and lifted his own sword to block the swinging strike. Porthos' blade was heavier and longer than the light rapier that the other soldier carried, however, and the force of Porthos' worry and anger infused his attack with extra power. His schianova swept through the Spaniard's parry and the sharp blade sliced through the man's sword arm and his chest. Despite his scream of pain, the man maintained his grip on his weapon and ducked away from Porthos' reverse swing. He pulled his horse back, retreating out of range and shouting loudly. Porthos had no idea what the man was saying, but the Musketeer assumed that he was calling for help. With a growl of frustration, Porthos pressed forward. His time was very limited - Porthos needed to end this and free Aramis as quickly as possible.

As finesse had never been his strong suit, Porthos simply smashed his blade at the other man until he broke through the soldier's defenses. Overwhelming the Spaniard with his superior strength, Porthos used his greater reach to beat his opponent into submission. The soldier finally succumbed, gurgling blood as Porthos' sword crashed through his neck. Even as the dying man slid off his horse, Porthos jumped from his own, racing for the back of the cart.

"Aramis! Are you in there? Can you hear me?"

A rasping voice answered him. "Porthos? My God, is that you?" A profound sense of relief flooded Porthos, nearly bringing him to his knees.

Thin, shaking fingers curled around the bars that created a moving prison out of a simple cart, and a hollow face pressed into the space between the metal shafts. Pale skin was bruised purple, and one eye was nearly swollen shut under a tangle of wild, dark hair. Porthos swallowed back his fury as he took in Aramis' appearance. He might have failed to recognize this ragged man as his old friend were it not for the single wide, brown eye that stared at him in utter disbelief.

"It is. We are going to get you out of here." Porthos ripped off his gloves and fumbled with his picks as he tried to open the padlock that kept the door chained closed. As much as he would have preferred to have simply hacked at the thick chains, it would have taken too much time.

"We?"

"Athos is with me."

"Athos?" Porthos spared a glance at his brother at the confused question. Aramis looked dazed, and Porthos felt his chest tighten with worry.

"Yes, Athos. Blond, blue-eyed, frigid but good with a sword." The big Musketeer felt a flash of victory when the lock finally gave way to his skill. He threw the hunk of metal away and rapidly unwound the chain around the bars.

"I know who Athos is," Aramis said. "I do not mean to sound ungrateful, but how is this possible? How on earth did you find me?"

"I will tell you later." Porthos yanked the cart door open and Aramis fell back, twisting awkwardly and landing on his side with a grunt. His wrists and ankles were tightly bound with rough, heavy rope. Porthos slashed through them with his main gauche and hauled Aramis to his feet, pulling his brother into a brief but fierce embrace. The marksman wrapped his arms around Porthos' ribs, squeezing back tightly.

"Thank you," Aramis whispered. "Thank you, brother."

Porthos nodded silently. The marksman felt like a bundle of twigs in his arms, and he had to tamp down on another swell of rage. Now was not the time.

Porthos and Aramis jumped from the cart and Porthos took stock of their situation. They were alone for the moment, but judging by the cries that echoed through the valley, Porthos thought that would change very soon.

"Where is Athos?"

"He drew the soldiers away from here." Porthos cursed when he saw that the dead Spanish soldier's horse had fled. He thought about unhitching the carthorse, but immediately discarded the idea. It would take too long and the horse would be too slow.

"Is he all right?" Concern laced Aramis' voice and Porthos almost laughed. If a mirror had been available, he would have placed it in front of the marksman's beaten face.

"Let's go find out."

The two men hastily heaved themselves onto Porthos' horse. Aramis bent forward and pat the animal's neck as if in apology. He twisted in the saddle and glanced at the big man behind him. "Do you have a weapon I can use?"

Porthos drew out the pistol that he and Athos had taken from Poulain. Aramis' good eye lit with joy when he saw it. He flashed Porthos a quick smile. "My hero."

The big Musketeer grunted in response, rolling his eyes even as he jerked the horse's head to the side. He kicked his heels into the animals' flanks and she lurched under him, leaping into motion despite the weight of two riders on her back. Porthos could feel the horse's hooves slip beneath her before she found her footing and began to gallop away. He glanced behind his shoulder and counted three soldiers congregating around the empty wagon. Athos only killed one? Sick anxiety suddenly flooded his mouth, leaving behind a bitter taste.

They rode at a frantic pace along the valley floor, heading towards the rendezvous point that he'd agreed on earlier with Athos. They'd traveled about fifty meters when the pop of a musket firing could be heard. Something slammed into Porthos' back, catching him high on the shoulder. It threw him forward and knocked him into Aramis, who looked back with a startled expression.

"Porthos?"

The big Musketeer opened his mouth but the only thing that came out was a pained grunt. Fire began to lick at his back and his arm as his fingers went nerveless. Warm liquid started to soak into his shirt, spreading rapidly under his leather doublet.

"Porthos? What's wrong? Answer me!" Aramis turned again this time he raised his pistol. He fired it and cursed.

Porthos could hear the rising panic in his friend's voice and he wanted to respond but couldn't find the air to do so. It took all his might to simply hang on, to stay on the back of the horse, to stay upright, to protect his brother. If he faltered now, they would be captured. I can do this. I have to do this.

Black mist began to invade the edges of Porthos' vision. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but it persisted and began to slowly creep inward. He could feel his heart beating rapidly - too rapidly - as it struggled to deal with the sudden shock of the wound. Porthos had always prided himself on his strength, and now it was being slowly sapped from his limbs, leaching out of his body along with his blood. Despite his best efforts, he knew that he would not be able to hold on for much longer.

He thought he could hear the marksman murmuring something, but the words did not make any sense. With agony painting his back and making it difficult to breathe, Porthos tried to apologize to Aramis. Find us, Athos. Find him. Help him. With that final thought, his consciousness finally slipped away and he followed it down into darkness.

tbc

Well, that probably could have gone better. Thank you to everyone that left a review, and thanks for reading!