Hello! Thank you to everyone who likes this so far- I hope you like this chapter!
Onwards….
Aramis groaned slightly as the blade dug into his skin; he flicked his eyes around again as an evening fog began to filter its way through the trees and undergrowth of the forest; they fell on the place he had last seen Porthos and Athos, sheltering under the trees from the rain. They weren't there now- he hoped they hadn't been cornered too.
The man who currently had a blade at his neck caught his movements and took them as a challenge; he roughly put a callused hand across his chest from behind and pulled him back. 'I wouldn't try anything stupid if I were you!' He grunted, moving the blade on his skin again.
'Noted,' Aramis deadpanned in a strained voice. Both arms were now pinioned to his sides.
'Oy...' The man holding d'artagnan suddenly piped up; Aramis managed to turn enough to see him nod his head at their clothing. Moreover, their royal insignia and cloaks. They looked like all their Christmases had come at once.
'Musketeers?' The one holding Aramis spat, voice now at a different, hopeful sounding pitch. Suddenly, the two musketeers in question were roughly pulled up and out of the shade and protection of the trees, and were dragged out into a different, open part of the forest, unprotected from the still-lashing rain that was hammering down.
D'Artagnan almost yelled out in panic as his boot slipped; he didn't fancy being accidentally skewered by a dirty great blade if he could help it. The man clenched his fist around his cloak and twisted it around, pushing him roughly while keeping him close and upright.
The younger man took a look at Aramis as they were pulled round so they were facing each other a little as they were frogmarched along. The older man looked stoic, calm and collected, but the Gascon could see by the way his eyes were sweeping around that he was thinking rapidly on the spot.
Their eyes finally met as they were pushed further along a gravel path now swimming in rainwater. With a swift, small nod of his head, Aramis hoped he had conveyed to the youngest that he needn't worry, that everything was under control. He hoped it would be enough for him until he thought of a real plan.
Suddenly the men stopped by a large oak tree; in two swift, seemingly well practised movements, the blades were removed from their necks and they were pushed roughly into the tree. As the two musketeers turned they saw that the blades had now been replaced by guns. Perfect.
'We don't want no trouble now!' One man warned, eyes flashing.
'Bit late for that...' D'Artagnan muttered darkly.
'What d'you say?!' The other man spat, taking a step towards the youngest with a fist raised- Aramis quickly ducked in front of the Gascon- 'Touch him and you'll regret it!' He warned, his own eyes dark as the man stopped. He looked across to the other man, who Aramis now took to be the leader. With one look from him, the man lowered his fist and raised his weapon again as he stepped back.
Aramis took a long breath out and stepped back beside D'Artagnan, but not before flashing the younger man a look that plainly said "don't do that again!"
'If you're nice to us, we'll be nice to you. How's that?' The leader muttered, eyebrows raised in a show of confidence.
'What do you want?' Aramis growled, in no mood for folly games.
'What are musketeers doing in these parts?' The other man jumped in, voice still laced with a violent hue.
'Travelling. Back to the city.' Aramis spoke in clipped tones. 'Going home.'
'I bet the King would pay a pretty penny to see you come to no harm...'
'There's plenty of us- he wouldn't miss us,' Aramis shrugged. 'We're not worth much.'
'No,' the man mused, before clicking the safety from his gun. 'But those cloaks are!' He added, raising his gun and pointing it at Aramis' head.
'Athos, over here!' Porthos whispered, wiping his wet face with his hand as the other man quickly came and crouched next to him. They exchanged dark looks as Athos looked across the foggy undergrowth and trees; his eyes finally fell on four, slightly blurred figures.
'Bastards...' The larger man muttered. Athos nodded his sentiment, reaching for his musket. He didn't know whether he'd get a clear shot without mistaking a figure for one of his friends. He saw, roughly, a man raise his arm at the figure, and could only surmise it was a weapon wielded by one of the robbers; if it was Aramis or D'Artagnan they would have shot already.
He was glad they had split up to find shelter from the rain, otherwise all four of them would be now staring down the barrel of a madman's gun.
Porthos had caught the exchange from where they had sheltered as Aramis and D'Artagnan had had the blades at their throats, but again they didn't have a good enough shot to be able to rescue their friends; it was one of the banes of being in deep forest.
He looked up suddenly as a crack of thunder broke in the sky; he felt Porthos jump slightly beside him.
The larger man's hands were numb with cold. 'Got a clear shot yet?' He whispered, knowing Athos' eyesight was bettered only by Aramis when it came to sharp shooting.
'I can't...' Athos whispered, thinking out loud as he tried to take aim, 'I can't tell the difference between three of the figures...' He thought he could positively identify D'Artagnan, as he was the smaller of the three. Even with the blue cloaks being a giveaway in daylight, the night was now creeping in, and coupled with the fog now enveloping the forest floor, he just couldn't be sure.
'Damn...' Porthos whispered, a flair of panic now seeping into his veins. 'What if we get closer?'
'And risk being exposed?' Athos sighed deeply, worry spearing his chest. 'We wait till I get a better shot.'
Porthos withheld a groan, and nodded his agreement. He just hoped it wouldn't be too long until a better shot was found.
A rumble of thunder, loud and intrusive, made him wince. 'Come on, move into range...' He whispered, more to himself than Athos. Just one or two steps to the left, and he'd nab one.
Seconds ticked by, each one making Porthos more and more worried. The two men holding Aramis and D'Artagnan sure were doing a lot of talking, he mused.
He was just about to turn and ask Athos if he thought the view was good when he saw him inexplicably lower his weapon. 'Athos, wha-' he turned properly as he saw Athos move both arms slowly upwards and above his head; he saw a dark, hooded figure standing behind his friend; moreover, he saw the barrel of a gun placed firmly behind him, pressing on the back of his head. The other man's eyes were wide, but not with worry; he looked livid as another gun was jabbed into Porthos' back.
'You too, big'un,' a dark voice muttered. With his mouth curled into an angry snarl, he complied, before growling as he and Athos were roughly pulled to their feet.
Athos turned round, looking the other man up and down. He was tall, with blond hair and brown eyes; he looked like a farmer, had it not been for the expensive-looking red coat he was wearing. It made him look like a poor prince, he thought. The other man wore ripped breeches and a dirty white shirt; peasant garb.
'Well now,' the man in the red coat chuckled, finger on the trigger of his gun. 'And what do we have here?'
'We are King's Musketeers,' Athos began his practised threat. It worked quite well in making sure no one messed with them whilst on the road. 'If you harm us it will amount to treason.'
'Really?' The man seemed unmoved.
'The penalty for treason is death.' Athos finished. Somewhere in his mind it dawned on him that they weren't dealing with a common-garden thief as the man chuckled again.
'We don't want to harm them, do we?' He asked the man next to him.
'No..' His eyes flashed as he gave Athos a smile. Suddenly, without warning, the two men jumped forwards, coshing both musketeers in the temples with the stocks of their guns. Like two branches, cut expertly from a tree, each man slumped to the sodden ground.
Athos groaned as he felt blood trickle down his face; his eyes flickered from the unconscious Porthos at his side to the two men now towering above them.
The man in the red coat knelt beside him, looking down at him as if he were a child.
'We just want to play with them.' He finished, chuckling darkly as Athos could do no more than finally let the darkness take him.
'You don't want to do that,' D'Artagnan muttered, yet Aramis did not flinch. He was used to threats and demands. It came with the job, really.
'Touch me and the wrath of the King will be on your heads.' He said calmly. 'Do you want that?'
The two men exchanged glances, but the leader was soon facing the musketeers again. 'Not if he can't find you!'
'What, will he think that we got lost?' Aramis retorted. 'Here?' His voice turned dark with warning. 'By nightfall this forest will be swarming with soldiers. Let us go and we'll stay silent.'
'Yeah, like we'd fall for that!' The leader muttered sardonically. He motioned with the gun. 'I've had enough of this. You two can't be no trouble if you're dead. Turn around.' He ordered.
D'Artagnan looked horrified as the two men now pointing their guns at their chest. 'Turn around!' The other man yelled.
'You'll regret this,' Aramis growled. D'Artagnan, however, who had now been in the company of this man long enough to hear and understand the slight changes to his tone of voice, detected fear now in his tone. He looked around desperately; his eyes sought figures in the foggy dusk, but all he could see was sweeping rain and encasing mist.
'I said turn around now!' The man shouted, shoving Aramis in the chest. They could now do no more than comply.
The two men turned, putting their arms above their heads. D'Artagnan heard Aramis spew out curses out the corner of his mouth, his musket hanging uselessly at his belt. Any movement they made now had to be careful calculated.
Now facing the oak tree, each man felt the weighted seconds tick by. Still no shot came. Aramis sighed as he heard the two men jabbering at each other in quick fire sentences, arguing about something or other. A slow torture, he mused to himself.
'No!' The leader finally shouted, and Aramis finally tensed. This was it. 'We do it my way!'
Suddenly, two loud, dull thuds made both musketeers jump. D'Artagnan turned with wide eyes as these two dull thuds were followed swiftly by two groans of pain and the sound of two men slumping to the wet ground. Silence followed.
The two musketeers turned, with Aramis' hand now gripping his musket tightly, eyes now narrowed and alert.
Two men now stood above the innate bodies of the men who had captured them- one was dressed in a fine red coat, although it was slightly frayed and dirty. The other was dressed in loose fitting clothes more akin to a labourer or servant. Both stood easily in front of them; the one in the red coat gave a tut and a wry smile as he looked down at the men on the ground.
'I...believe thanks are in order?' Aramis began without lowering his weapon. Instinct had yet again kicked in.
'Thank you,' D'Artagnan added, rubbing at his neck a little. His eyes furrowed as the men seemed to be ignoring them.
'Can we have your names at least?' Aramis said, now wary at the lack of communication. The man in the red coat finally looked up, as if seeing them for the first time.
'Are you hurt?' He asked, eyes creased in concern.
'No, thanks to you,' Aramis replied.
'Hmm...' The man muttered, before he looked down at the unconscious man sprawled at his feet; using his boot he moved his head to the side, before giving a sigh.
'We'd really just like to go now...' D'Artagnan muttered, but the man stood upright suddenly, seemingly oblivious that he had even spoken.
'That's the trouble with thieves and highwaymen,' he began, before lifting a gun of his own at the two men. 'You just can't get the staff these days, can you?' He finished with a sinister laugh.
'What th-' Aramis growled, feeling something heavy drop into his stomach. Before either of them could even react, a blast rang out, coupling immediately with a cry of pain from D'Artagnan.
Aramis yelled out, horrified, and sprang to his side, catching the Gascon as he stumbled backwards, clutching at a smoking wound in his shoulder.
He yelled out as the man in the red coat did no more than laugh- seconds later, before Aramis could even raise his musket to aim it, the man was at his side- all it took was one strong punch and he was down, seeing stars in his vision as his head erupted in pain. As he sat, dazed, a kick in the chest sent him careening to the sodden floor; a boot to the temple finished him, and blackness took him before he even had time to squeeze the trigger.
D'Artagnan, temporarily blindsided by the immense pain erupting in his shoulder, threw himself over to Aramis' side as the man sank into unconsciousness. 'Who are you?' He growled through clenched teeth, lacing his fingers into Aramis' sleeve so he wouldn't be dragged from him. 'What do you want?'
'What do we want?' The man in the red coat sing-songed, a horrible smile still plastered on his face. He came close to the Gascon, who did not shy away from him, despite the fear he felt. The two men held each other's gazes until suddenly the man in the red coat drew his head back- before D'Artagnan could even flinch he brought his head forwards again with such force it connected with D'Artagnan's forehead with a sickening thud. The Gascon slumped instantly sideways, onto Aramis' back. There was silence for a few seconds, permeated only by rain hitting the leathers of the musketeers coats and the occasional hoot of an owl as nightfall truly set in.
'What do we want?' The man repeated in a low voice at D'Artagnan's earlier question as he rubbed the bruise now blooming on his own forehead, inwardly cursing his technique but not wanting to show it. He pushed the thought away, instead grinning down at the two musketeers at his feet, ready to join the other two already tied and gagged in his cart.
'We just want some fun!'
Lots more to come for these poor old musketeers! ^^
Thanks for reading, please review!
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