The sky peeking through the forest canopy was steel grey as the men approached the monastery, weapons drawn. They grinned at the remnants of the blood now mixed into the mud. They knew that one musketeer was dead, and this one was clearly injured. 12 men against one injured musketeer and a hall full of defenceless monks? This would be an easy pay out - and should a few of the braver monks need to meet their maker, well, wouldn't that be a service rendered – reuniting those holy men with the God they loved?
These grim jokes and laughter passed between the men as they approached the Monastery doors.
"Let us in! We seek sanctuary!" called one man wickedly as he pounded on the wooden doors.
Wordlessly, the doors were pulled open by two monks cloaked in heavy robes. The villains entered knocking the older monk to the ground. His companion stooped to help him up as three other monks entered the courtyard.
One of the hooded monks stepped forward to greet the gang of ruffians.
"'Morning brother,' called one of the men. "You've got something of ours and we want it. 'Else we ain't getting paid!"
"And," hollered another, "We'll take whatever's in your coffers too."
"This is a place of God," answered the monk coldly. "Leave now and he may be merciful."
"Oh yeah?" sneered another man, stepping forward and grabbing the monk by his cassock. "Why doesn't the mighty lord strike me down then, eh?"
Silently, the monastery gates were closed behind the men and locked by the elderly monk who had been knocked to the ground. He then quickly made his way out of the courtyard.
"God works in mysterious ways," said the monk held in the ruffian's clutches.
"We'll see!" said the villain, knocking the monk's hood off to reveal thick brown hair, as he pointed his pistol at the monk's head.
"Say hello to your God for me!" he sneered as he cocked the weapon.
The blue eyes of the monk narrowed as he gave a slight nod, and then, as if struck by a bolt of lightning from the Almighty himself, a crack went out and the villain's skull shattered as the ball made contact. The bell tower rang out and all hell broke loose.
Aramis threw off the robe he was wearing from where he stood at the top of the courtyard's stairs, pistol still smoking in his hand. Athos stepped forward over the body of the dead villain and began his attack with D'Artagnan dropping his robe and attacking from the right flank. Porthos, a terrifying and formidable figure in his cassock, barred the exit as the four musketeers engaged the bandits in combat.
Athos had his rapier and main gauche drawn and was battling with two opponents who both had some surprising skill with a blade. They pushed the musketeer backwards pressing their offensive. Athos read the men's patterns, discerning a break in their alternating attacks wherein he was able to deliver a devastating strike to one of his opponents' abdomens.
As D'Artagnan entered the fray, he too was set upon by two men. Using his speed, he dodged a massive lunge from one man with just enough time to parry a blow from another. He did not see the third man who had snuck around to his backside and attempted to stab him from behind. Another loud crack and a flash of powder proved that Aramis, however had seen the cowardly attack coming for their youngest. The man fell dead, crashing into one of the other attackers who had D'Artagnan engaged.
Aramis flipped his pistol around in his hand and using it as if was a club, struck the first man who came running across the courtyard towards him. The man crumpled at the foot of the stairs. Unsheathing his rapier, he ducked under the swipe of another countering with a riposte of his own.
In front of the gates, Porthos was just discarding his own spent pistol, the bullet having found residence in the torso of another of the villains. Casting it aside, he raised his parrying dagger to counter the man who leapt at him with a raised blade. He followed that up with a crushing blow to the man's jaw that had him spinning away. A third attacker leapt at Porthos and managed to plunge his dagger into the big musketeer's arm. Porthos bellowed with rage. The man was large and grappled with the wounded musketeer, locking arms as they fought for dominance.
At the sound of Porthos' bellow, the other musketeers reacted instantly, the intensity of their individual battles spiking. Aramis' deadly grace intensified its purpose as he exchanged blows with his foe. His tiring opponent went for a killing overhead blow, which the marksman easily stepped away from before plunging his rapier deep into the villain's chest. He kicked the body away and turned to make his way towards Porthos.
Athos was growing tired of his opponent who continued to plague him with murderous intent. The man was looking to kill and would not tire, so Athos took charge. After another wild move from his attacker, Athos suddenly pushed forward. The action startled his opponent who stumbled slightly, nearly dropping his weapon. Athos plunged his main gauche into the man's shoulder, nullifying the offending limb before bringing his sword's pommel up into the man's face with a sickening crunch.
D'Artagnan had just dispatched his opponent and was headed towards Porthos when one of his original combatants was finally able to extricate himself from beneath his co-conspirator's dead body. He lashed out at the Gascon from his knees. D'Artagnan leapt over the blade into a roll, somehow keeping his blade in hand. Glancing around, he saw Porthos grappling with the behemoth and Athos dealing with his errant combatant. From the corner of his eye he saw Aramis heading to aid Porthos.
D'Artagnan's opponent was now back on his feet in a hunched position, desperately swiping and lunging for the Gascon's midsection. D'Artagnan leapt back, trying to keep out of the reach of the wild swings. His foot slipped from under him, causing him to falter slightly as his adversary's blade sliced across his chest. D'Artagnan hissed as he felt the blade sting, but he knew the wound wasn't deep. Raising his left arm to his chest to put some pressure on the wound, the Gascon resumed his defensive stance, searching for an opening to end this battle. He carefully stepped backwards, causing his foe's swings to grow ever wilder and more desperate until finally, his inertia carried him too far. The follow through of his strike had left him off balance; D'Artagnan pounced on this opportunity and the bandit moved no more.
While the others were finishing their own battles in an attempt to reach him, Porthos and the large bandit remained locked in combat. Blood was freely streaming from the wound in Porthos' arm. The other man made to capitalize on what he presumed to now be Porthos' weakness. Porthos dropped his shoulder under the force of the other man. The two were locked together like two bears battling for supremacy, eyes black with battle. Porthos roared under the strain and the pain in his arm and with extreme effort, he pushed the man back slightly. Without their arms breaking contact, Porthos used that momentum to drive his knee up and into his foe's ribs. An audible crack was heard as the man exhaled suddenly. He faltered, and Porthos unleashed a torrent of blows equivalent to canon fire, driving the man backwards. One final blow sent the man sailing backwards, his head making contact with the courtyard's cobblestones with a resounding thud.
"Porthos!" shouted Aramis, skidding to a stop at his side.
The brawler was breathing heavily. He was covered in blood, though he couldn't be sure how much belonged to him and how much to his enemies.
"'m fine," he grumbled, straightening up and lowering his fists from their pugilist's position.
Aramis grabbed the scarf from the man's head and pressed it into the wound to stem the bleeding. "Athos? D'Artagnan?" he called over his shoulder.
"We're fine," panted D'Artagnan as he made his way to the marksman. The medic's eyes narrowed as he saw the gash on the young man's chest that he continued to put pressure on with his left arm.
"That will require cleaning and maybe stitches," he warned.
"It's not deep," grumbled the Gascon.
"But it was close," retorted Athos, concern evident as he surveyed his wounded comrades. "Any survivors?" he asked.
Porthos nodded. "Squirrelly looking one. Over that way. Just knocked him out," he grunted, the adrenaline fading making the blood loss and the stabbing known to the man, and the marksman who began to lead him towards the monastery doors. Athos nodded.
"Me as well, though I don't think I was as kind to his face..." he said.