Thanks for all your warm words recently, and I'm sorry I haven't managed to reply to some of you. FF will only let me into the last page of reviews at the moment and frequently tells me there's no server so I can't post an answer. But I've read and appreciated them all hugely; there's a buzz in posting a chapter and waiting to see whether it has worked for the reader that is addictive! To those who want to know what Athos and the General were talking about, remind me in a couple of chapters - I had forgotten to write that bit in! First though, they have a small battle to get through...

Chapter 14: Warriors 1

Candanchú

d'Artagnan broke his fast with Guérin the next morning. After demolishing their porridge with more gusto than it deserved, they sat by the campfire, both sipping at cups of steaming spiced tea as they waited for the sun to come up and start warming their bones.

"I'm glad you're back," said Guérin suddenly, unwittingly echoing Porthos' thoughts of the night before.

d'Artagnan looked at him. "Back from where?"

"From wherever you've been, since you were captured."

"Paris?"

"No, you daft bugger! You've been... distant. Struggling. It's been hard to watch. But the last few days, you've seemed more like your old self. The way you dealt with the cleanup in Aribe, for example."

d'Artagnan grimaced at the memory. "I won't ever forget that." There was a silence before he added: "It reminded me of why we're here. What we're fighting for. I don't want to see any more of our villages silent like that, or the children... I grew up near a village not much bigger than that and it was just wrong. It should be bursting with life, you know? Hope, and happiness, and... and love. I want to see that again!"

"There you go! There's that Gascon passion I'm talking about!"

d'Artagnan huffed, feeling embarrassed. "I don't know – it was just good to feel useful again."

Guérin nodded, then cast him a sly look. "I reckon sorting Colombe out has a lot to do with it too."

"I had nothing to do with" –

"Oh, please! We all know you were involved somehow."

d'Artagnan scowled but didn't deny it, instead staring into the flames and prodding a log further into the centre with a toe.

"Have I said the wrong thing?" Guérin sounded anxious now.

"No – sorry. I was just thinking about what you said. You're right. It's – I've felt so weak" –

"You're not weak! Anything but weak, everything you've gone through in the last few months!" protested Guérin.

d'Artagnan shook his head slowly. "Maybe that explains it but it doesn't change how I've felt. It's been almost the worst part. Trying to feel normal again but feeling like everyone was looking at me, or looking out for me, all the time. I couldn't do anything to help – Athos was keeping me safe so I just felt useless..."

He stopped as Guérin snorted.

"No, really: keeping me back from the action, giving me easy missions..."

"Flogging you." Guérin's bluntness took d'Artagnan by surprise.

He squinted sideways at his friend. He sounded – was he angry with Athos?

"He had no choice – I gave him no choice."

"Doesn't make it right."

Yes, definitely angry. d'Artagnan felt a sudden glow as he realised the strength of the bond Guérin had developed for him. "My friend, we've discussed this" –

"No: I have. You haven't. Not with me, and not with anyone as far as I can tell."

"There is nothing to discuss." Ignoring Guérin's impatient 'tsk', he repeated firmly. "I gave him no choice. I broke the rules, and didn't explain why; his hands were tied. I've apologised to him for putting him in that position and it's all dealt with" –

"Has he apologised to you?"

The question stopped d'Artagnan in his tracks for a moment, then he rallied. "No, of course not! He has nothing to apologise for!"

"Are you sure about that? I don't mean for your sake – I mean for his. Any fool can see how close you three were and now you're all tiptoeing around each other. You need to sort it out" –

"It is sorted!"

"Maybe for you, but what about Athos? Maybe he needs to apologise to you, and maybe you should give him the chance!"

"I – what?" d'Artagnan was floundering. "If he wants to say something he's had plenty of opportunities..."

"What if he's worried about bringing it up? You won't talk about anything to do with your captivity, so unless you give him a hint that you're okay with talking about the flogging, he's not going to broach it, is he?"

d'Artagnan was stunned, both because he hadn't thought of it from Athos' point of view, and by the fact that Guérin was brave enough to voice it. There was a long silence in which he could sense Guérin sneaking sideways glances at him. Eventually he said, rather weakly: "You might be right. But he's got so much to worry about and I didn't want him to think it was still bothering me. If I mention it –"

"You've got to. He's not going to, for fear of upsetting you."

"Yes but there's never a good time. He's always busy" –

"How about now? I've got time before muster."

Both men jumped at the sound of Athos' voice coming from right behind them.

"Merde! I mean, sorry Captain, we didn't hear you..." Guérin spluttered, as both men scrambled to their feet.

"Clearly." Athos looked amused at their consternation as they both tried to remember what they'd said and how much he might have overheard. To his credit, d'Artagnan was bold enough to ask.

"Enough to know that you and I need to have a talk. Now."

Casting him a look that struggled to mix "This is all your fault" with "Help!" d'Artagnan handed his empty cup to Guérin and meekly followed Athos towards his tent.

Before they got there, however, there was a shout from the gate as a pair of scouts raced through, heading for the centre of camp. Athos exchanged a glance with d'Artagnan as they stopped to watch. As the riders neared, they recognised both scouts as Musketeers, so Athos walked over to meet them as the pair slowed to a halt and leapt off their mounts, looking relieved to see him.

"Came across a Spanish unit – fifty or more, Sir," reported Marron, breathlessly. "We kept out of sight but overheard them talking about being on their way to join their Captain, someone called Ortega, at the Spanish hill fort at Candanchú, ready for a surprise attack on our camp. They've got men coming from all over apparently, and it sounds like the attack is imminent!" Marron was clearly trying to keep his voice calm but his words were tumbling over themselves with urgency.

"Right. Find General Faucille and report to him – I'll be right there. Leave your mounts, we'll see to them." The scouts nodded and raced off again as Athos yelled for Fouchard to take the horses. "d'Artagnan, alert the other regiments – take Guérin. I'll get Porthos and Jumot." He turned briskly towards his tent to collect his doublet and weapons, but stopped when he realised d'Artagnan hadn't moved. "d'Artagnan?"

d'Artagnan turned his head slowly and Athos saw he looked ashen, his fists tightening convulsively. Athos took a step back towards him. "What is it? d'Artagnan?" He reached out tentatively to grip the young Musketeer's shoulder and saw him startle, as if he'd been miles away.

"Sorry?"

"What's wrong?" Athos' thoughts were racing at the implications of the news from the scouts but d'Artagnan was plainly badly shaken by something that had been said. He thought back quickly. The hill camp at Candanchú was one they'd been scouting regularly for weeks so it couldn't be that, and the only other thing the scouts had mentioned was... "Ortega. Do you recognise that name?"

If anything, d'Artagnan looked even paler as Athos spoke the name. Still with his hand on the Gascon's shoulder, Athos was shocked to realise d'Artagnan was trembling slightly as he nodded, jerkily.

"Who is he?" Athos kept his voice low and matter-of-fact. Over d'Artagnan's shoulder he was aware of men emerging from their tents, alerted by the racing hoof-beats as the scouts had passed through, and he could see Guérin standing nearby, watching closely. With his free hand he beckoned to Guérin while stepping closer to d'Artagnan to ask, softly: "Was he involved in your capture?"

d'Artagnan could barely hear him past the blood roaring in his ears. He had put everything behind him and to hear that name, out of the blue, on a morning when he'd been feeling so good about everything, had shaken him to the core. Desperately trying to pull himself together he fastened his eyes on Athos and managed to nod again, more firmly.

"Right. Merde." Athos was completely thrown, not knowing what to do to help d'Artagnan.

It was with relief that he saw Guérin reach them. "Sir?"

"Rouse Porthos and Jumot, send them over to General Faucille's for an urgent briefing."

Guérin hesitated, looking at d'Artagnan.

Athos sighed. "He's had a shock but he'll be alright. If we're not back in time for muster, the daily orders are in my tent; can you see to it?"

Guérin nodded then shot off, looking worried.

"Right. With me, d'Artagnan." Athos led d'Artagnan firmly towards his tent and, once inside, poured him a cup of wine, steering him to the chair.

"Drink." He waited until d'Artagnan had taken a sip, then another. "I need to join the others. Will you be okay?"

He watched as d'Artagnan squared his shoulders before raising his head and nodding, his dark eyes full of pain.

"Is there anything useful you can tell me about this man? He's only a Captain and will be one of many, but anything you know might help." For a moment he thought d'Artagnan would not answer, but then he took a breath and said very quietly:

"He's – intelligent. And ruthless. Completely ruthless. His men... his lieutenant... he k-killed for p-p-pleasure."

So few words. So much pain behind them.

"And it was his men who captured you?" Athos checked again. At d'Artagnan's answering nod, he shut his eyes for a moment, wishing with a burning intensity that he had time to stop and listen to d'Artagnan, to reassure him that it would all be okay. But what he had to do first was get to the General and help plan their response to the news of the impending attack. Contenting himself with a pat on the shoulder, and hating it, he told him: "I'll be back. Wait here – don't worry about muster. Drink. Get yourself together. Agreed?"

It wasn't quite an order, to which d'Artagnan didn't quite manage a nod.

The three senior musketeer officers returned from the planning meeting still fleshing out their plans. General Faucille hadn't hesitated to order a pre-emptive attack, hoping the musketeer scouts' intelligence would enable them to surprise the Spanish before they could launch their own assault on the French camp. He'd given each regiment specific roles but it was down to the commanding officers to work out the detailed battle plans for their men.

They found their camp a hive of activity, as musketeers bustled here, there and everywhere. Fouchard saw them coming and ran up immediately. "We've been preparing in case we need to move, Sir."

Porthos grinned and clapped him on the back. "Good man. Call everyone to muster, will you?"

"Fouchard, wait. Where's d'Artagnan?" Athos breathed a sigh of relief when Fouchard answered his question by pointing to where d'Artagnan was working his way along the horse lines, checking their legs and feet to identify any who might be unfit to travel.

Porthos was looking at him. "What's up?"

Athos hadn't had time to brief him before the meeting with the generals, so he quickly filled him in now, seeing Porthos' brow crease in concern as he listened. The big musketeer looked over at d'Artagnan, commenting that he looked calm enough at the moment.

"You didn't see his face when he heard that name," Athos told him. "There's no way I'm putting him on the front line. I'll keep him back with me."

"He won't thank you for it," Porthos warned.

Sure enough when Athos had told his men of the plan to march on the Spanish encampment overnight, ready to launch a surprise attack at dawn the following morning, and went on to detail the starting positions of each man, d'Artagnan looked ready to explode when his name was not listed amongst those to start the attack, and he shot over to Athos as soon as they were dismissed.

"Athos, you" –

"I haven't forgotten you." Athos turned so d'Artagnan had to follow him, away from any listening ears. Porthos stood watching them for a moment, his face creased with concern and his arms folded across his chest, before heading off to organise the loading of equipment onto wagons.

"d'Artagnan, I'm not putting you into the front line. If you did run across him, it would be incredibly distracting for you – which means me, since I'm not letting you out of my sight tomorrow." Athos' voice was quiet but implacable.

d'Artagnan had already opened his mouth to argue, but as Athos' words sank in, he closed it slowly. He was aware of bristling at the implication that he needed looking after, but another part of him felt incredibly comforted by the thought of Athos watching over him.

He stopped to consider how he might react if he did see Ortega – or even worse, Bautista – tomorrow. He had no trouble whatsoever in recalling their faces, since both had appeared in his dreams almost every night since he was captured. But as for turning around in battle and seeing one of them advancing on him... His heart began to race at the thought. Would he freeze? Or would it be an overwhelming relief to be facing them with a weapon in his hand and friends at his side? Able to hit back, at last, after everything they had done to him, to Patrice, and to little Felipe... He shook his head to clear it, already swamped in emotions at just the thought of facing any of his tormentors, and realised Athos was right. Of course. Wasn't he always?

Athos had been watching the thoughts flitting across d'Artagnan's face and was puzzled by the slight smile that ended up on his lips. "Aren't you going to argue?"

His expression turned serious again. "No. I think you're right: I'm not sure how I would react."

"Hmph." It felt like a while since anyone had told Athos he was right.

"Where do you want me then? Please don't tell me I'm going to be your messenger again." d'Artagnan suddenly looked horrified, and it was Athos' turn to smile.

"No. I want you running a team of four, ready to pile in wherever you're needed. But behind the front line. And, d'Artagnan? I want you to be very clear about this. If you see Ortega – or anyone else you recognise – do not engage them. Just tell me: I will be right beside you. Is that clear?"

d'Artagnan nodded, then frowned. "What would you do if I did point one of them out?"

Athos scrutinised him closely. "What would you want me to do?"

All the breath disappeared from d'Artagnan's lungs as if he'd been punched in the solar plexus. The very idea of having a choice was literally breath-taking.

He stood motionless for a long moment, wondering if he would want to kill either of them himself, or let Athos do it, or whether it would be better to try to capture them and bring them to justice... Somehow he couldn't picture any scenario other than seeing their faces and freezing, as he did in his dreams. Aware of Athos still waiting for an answer, amidst the organised chaos around them as the regiment prepared themselves to march, he eventually had to admit that he didn't know.

Athos waited a moment longer, then patted him on the shoulder. "Tell me if you decide. Otherwise I'll just have to make a decision depending on the circumstances."

He turned to go to his tent, but d'Artagnan stopped him. "No. It would be stupid to make any kind of plan." Trying to honour a pledge to capture or kill a particular opponent could prove fatal in the fluid turmoil of battle. "In fact, it's better if I don't tell you at all. Anyway it's probably not him, or if it is" – he faltered for just a moment then lifted his chin in a familiar gesture – "the chances of me seeing him are remote amongst so many men. We should just fight like we would any other time."

"Is that really what you want?"

"What I want is that we don't lose any Musketeers tomorrow. Regardless of who we're facing." His voice was low and intense as he looked deep into Athos' eyes, seeing his mentor nod, slowly.

It always astonished d'Artagnan how quickly a camp occupied by several thousand men for weeks could be dismantled and on the move. Within a couple of hours only the tents remained, looking tiny from the top of the ridge, and a dust trail following them as they headed south into the mountains.

It was a very risky plan. The scouts had reported that the French army was outnumbered roughly two to one by the Spanish force who were encamped on the floor of a narrow rocky valley. At the head of the valley was perched one of their ancient hill forts, its stone walls and terraces blending with the pink granite walls of the valley. Twin cannon mounted on stone platforms either side of the fort guarded the troops massed on the valley floor. The only advantage for the French would be surprise, and that they would be pinning the massive Spanish army into a tiny space which would restrict the impact of their superior numbers and hopefully prevent them utilising their experienced, well-drilled tercios in the way that had seen the French defeated far too many times in this war.

General Faucille had sent numerous scouts ahead of the French army with orders to kill any Spanish patrols they saw. At all costs they must make sure word that they were on the move did not get back to the fortress. The Spanish commanders might be suspicious if the day's patrols did not return that evening, but they would not expect the French to be audacious enough to attack them in their mountain stronghold. Hopefully.

The Musketeers left their horses enroute, corralled in some abandoned farm buildings. There would be no place for them in the narrow valley during the battle, but they would be needed afterwards by scouts and messengers if things went to plan in the morning. If not... d'Artagnan shook his head to dispel the thought that Nuit or any of the other beautiful, intelligent horses might end up in the hands of the Spanish army.

Marching as silently as several thousand men could, and using every scrap of woodland cover to mask their dust clouds, the men were soon strung out along a narrow trail and d'Artagnan found himself walking with men from other regiments, among them Santerre, the Picardy soldier who had argued against killing their Lieutenant the night before. While breaking camp earlier, Santerre had sought him out to apologise to d'Artagnan for dragging him into Picardy business. d'Artagnan could see the sincerity in the man's eyes and had no hesitation in accepting his apology.

It was a strange feeling, walking with thousands of men in almost total silence through the starlit landscape. Santerre seemed to feel it too, and began quietly questioning d'Artagnan about life in Paris before the war. When he heard that d'Artagnan was married, Santerre confessed that he was worried about his own wife Elodie, as it was almost a year since he'd left their home near Éparcy.

d'Artagnan sympathised, recognising the name of the village close to the north-eastern front near the area where, they had heard, the fighting was intensifying.

"Still, if we succeed in the morning, maybe we'll finally get to go home and I can visit her. The Comte de Beauvais is keen to take our regiment back to the north so we can protect our homelands." Santerre's optimistic words were at odds with his apprehensive tone, and both men fell silent, thinking about the people they loved.

d'Artagnan was nearer his childhood home here than most of the musketeers, many of whom were Parisians, and had been glad to smell the familiar southern air when they were sent to protect the border with Spain. But his farm had long since gone, and his relations seemed safe enough at present. His heart belonged to Paris now, and the woman who waited there for him.

His heart constricted at the thought of Constance. More than ever he wished he'd been able to talk to her when he'd been in Paris a couple of months ago. She wrote often – cheerful letters, full of anecdotes about life in the Garrison and at court, but he found it harder and harder to write back to her. What could he say? "Had a great morning fighting today, only lost three men... Oh, and Athos flogged me but it's nothing to worry about..." How could he ever explain to her the things that had happened: the alienation from Athos; seeing Porthos disintegrate; all the troubles with Colombe; the massacre at Aribe?

Even the small things were hard to write about now. At the beginning of the war he'd written about every detail of the men he served with and the novelty of living at the front, but daily camp life was no longer glamorous. He couldn't write to her of the cold, the exhaustion, the scarce supplies, the blistered feet. And too many of the men he served with, and had called friend, were now just memories.

Still, in the quiet times – the tedious nights on watch, the long hard marches like today - the thought of returning to her was often the only thing that kept him going. In battle it was different. Then the only thing in his head was staying on his feet and looking out for his brothers. But now, on this night march, picking their way silently through the shadowy hills, he longed to see her again. He resolved to write to her at the first opportunity, even if all he could think to say was that he loved her and cherished the memory of every single moment they had spent together. Even the disagreements.

He chuckled quietly to himself before realising Santerre was looking at him oddly. "Just remembering how much I miss arguing with my wife," he explained.

Santerre nodded. "As long as they're safe, nothing else matters."

There was a sudden change of pace in the men around them and they both looked ahead to where the column of men had come to a stop. d'Artagnan clapped Santerre on the shoulder and moved off to find the rest of his regiment, calling a "be safe" softly over his shoulder.

They'd arrived in the adjoining valley, not daring to approach nearer for fear of alerting the Spanish. More scouts were immediately sent out and both Athos and Porthos went with them to get a feel for the task ahead. Their men settled in small groups, eating cold rations and trying to find comfortable resting spots on the bare, stony ground.

Someone sat by d'Artagnan's side with a thump, handing him a fresh water bottle and a hunk of bread. d'Artagnan took both with a smile of thanks for Guérin's thoughtfulness, but sat playing with the bread. His stomach was in knots and he didn't think he could swallow anything. After a moment Guérin nudged him. "You okay?"

"Mm. Yes, just thinking about tomorrow." That wasn't a lie and he was no different from anyone else in that respect: looking around he could see the same set expression and muted tension on everyone's faces.

"Me too."

There was something odd in Guérin's voice which d'Artagnan couldn't pinpoint. "Have you heard the plans?"

"Yes."

"Where will you be positioned?"

"I'm protecting the unit attacking the southern cannon, with Fouchard. You?"

"Backing you up." d'Artagnan couldn't keep a note of bitterness out of his voice. His assigned role for the start of the battle would put him two layers behind the action. The Musketeers, well used to operating in small groups independent of their officers, had been given the task of sending a small unit up to the south cannon, on the left of the valley. Their orders were to overcome the team manning the cannon and turn it to fire on the northern cannon to disable it. Without the threat of cannon fire to disrupt their advance, the rest of the army would be able to push forward and drive the Spanish into the head of the valley. Porthos would be in the centre of the action, along with most of the combined regiments' elite fighters, hoping to distract the Spanish from the attack on the cannon. If the Musketeers failed in the south, another unit would attempt the same on the northern cannon but the climb to that one was steeper and would be much harder. If both teams failed, it was very likely the whole attack would fail as the French army would be torn apart by continued cannon fire.

"Hey, don't knock it. For once I wouldn't mind being further back."

d'Artagnan looked at Guérin. It wasn't like him to shy away from a fight. "What's up?"

"Oh... I've just got a bad feeling about it all."

d'Artagnan grimaced. To put your body on the line, literally, pitting yourself against steel and musket fire, let alone cannon fire, took a certain type of madness that could only be sustained by a kind of arrogance that nothing would touch you. Most soldiers would agree that they were not courageous so much as crazy. As soon as you started thinking about the consequences, fear would creep in and that could prove fatal. It was as if the danger was powerless so long as you ignored it. Once you acknowledged it, most soldiers felt you were as good as dead. If Guérin had a foreboding about tomorrow, he would be vulnerable – but wasn't d'Artagnan in just the same situation? No wonder Athos had pulled him back to a reserve position.

He realised he'd been silent for a long time. "I know what you mean, but we've all had those feelings before, and we're still here, aren't we?" He nudged Guérin with his shoulder. "I've got your back, mon ami, I promise you."

Guérin raised a smile for his friend. "Thanks. Appreciate it."

Quiet steps drew their attention and they saw Athos, returned from scouting, walking amongst his men, pausing to talk to those still awake. He looked over to the pair of them and frowned when he saw them sitting chatting, making no attempt to sleep. d'Artagnan grinned. "Come on, let's get our heads down before he tells us off for talking after lights out."

It was a long, chilly and uncomfortable night and few men slept much, although d'Artagnan did hear Porthos' unmistakeable snores several times – usually cut short with a snort when someone toed him in the ribs to shut him up. Athos himself didn't even lie down, as far as d'Artagnan could tell. Every time he shifted position he could see Athos walking silently around the men, or standing, one hand resting on his sword hilt, staring off at the deep shadows separating them from the next valley. Oddly comforted by the sight, d'Artagnan eventually drifted into a short but thankfully dreamless sleep.

They were woken up two hours before dawn by officers moving quietly amongst them, nudging feet and touching shoulders to rouse them. Moving stiffly in the cold night air, men stretched and wrapped arms around their bodies to warm up, before relieving themselves, filling water bottles and checking weapons one last time. Within ten minutes they were ready to go, moving silently through the ghostly landscape, spreading out in their assigned units well before they reached the next valley.

d'Artagnan was aware of his heart rate speeding up as he got his first glimpse of the fortress floating high above the misty valley below. He'd expected the Spanish encampment to be swathed in darkness but in fact it was hidden beneath a shroud of glowing yellow mist, lit from below by the light of hundreds of campfires. The only indication of the lurking danger came from an almost imperceptible sound which, after a moment, he realised was the hum of five thousand sleeping Spanish soldiers breathing in the still night air.

The French forces spread out across the mouth of the valley, moving slowly and silently in a relentless wave, until the foremost men were within a hundred feet of the Spanish army. There was an agonising pause while the last men moved into position behind them, and then, finally, a silent signal was given: General Faucille's arm was raised above his head then his fist drove forward. Other officers echoed the gesture, sending it rippling through the army in a silent wave to "advance!" and almost as one, the French soldiers rose and began to race towards the enemy.

It was the strangest start to any battle d'Artagnan had ever seen, as the ranks of men ran forward in a soundless but deadly attack. All he could hear was the muffled thudding of feet and the rasping of heavy breathing all around him, until ahead he heard clearly the first exclamations of surprise from the sleeping Spaniards, the first clang of metal on metal as blades met, and the gurgle as the first Spaniard died.

Things quickly became more chaotic, and with it, more normal. The familiar sounds of battle rose to drown out their footsteps and breathing and d'Artagnan once again became bodiless, just a part of the whole corps, part of the fighting machine of his army. It was an odd sensation that he could never get used to – his mind taking everything in, but his body seeming to operate without conscious thought, simply fighting: driving forwards, slashing, hacking, his own defiant roar as he lunged and thrust and elbowed his way forwards, ever forwards, tracking his comrades and always staying within sword's reach of their advance.

Occasionally the swell of men ahead of him separated for a second and he would have two strides' breathing space to look over to his left, where he knew the Musketeer unit would be heading for the climb up to the cannon. Once or twice he thought he saw movement on the rock face but then another Spaniard would be in front of him, or two, or three, and he could think of nothing else until the next lull.

He'd almost forgotten about looking for Ortega, but occasionally he heard Athos' voice close behind him, yelling instructions to watch the flank, press forward or regroup, and he knew Athos was keeping good his promise to stay close.

In turn he kept Guérin in his sights as much as possible, seeing him and the other Musketeers so well known to him working their way steadily forwards. He saw Duval take a vicious hit to the chest, and stumble backwards, but Laurent was there instantly, standing over him to fend off his attacker, giving Fouchard time to haul him to his feet and put his sword back in his hand. d'Artagnan worked his way towards them and together they formed a solid line on the southern wing, driving the Spanish away from the base of the fifty foot crag on which the cannon was perched.

Porthos was in the thick of battle in the centre of the valley, his dark curls flying as he swept his sword before him, clearing a space for others to advance towards the gates of the stone fortress. He'd deliberately kept away from d'Artagnan since Athos' revelation that one of the lad's captors could be in the army they were facing today, because he knew he would find it hard not to demand details that he suspected d'Artagnan wouldn't want to give, this close to battle. He'd found it tough enough refraining from questioning him when the Gascon returned from recuperating in Paris, but he'd accepted it, seeing that d'Artagnan was trying so hard to put everything behind him. Now he was wishing he'd pushed more, knowing this battle was likely to be the toughest one they'd faced, and wondering if it might be the last battle for one of them.

This was a mad scheme, and a mad battle, fought in the chaotic grey pre-dawn light, and he'd never been this far from his brothers in battle before. He'd never been in this scale of battle, come to that – few of them had; and although he was surrounded by superb fighters, men who he respected and had fought alongside many times, none of them were the ones he most longed to protect.

Athos was on the ground for this battle, revelling in the opportunity to be in the thick of the fight for once, instead of holding back to be visible to his men on horseback, constrained to guiding and directing. Today he could unleash every pent-up frustration of the last two and a half years, and he felt unstoppable.

There was another lull in the fighting on the southern flank, and Athos had time to check around him again. In the centre he could still see Porthos, now well forward of where Athos was fighting, steadily driving the Spanish forces back towards the walls of the fortress at the top of the valley. It was odd to be so distant, to be able to see Porthos' schiavona sweeping all before him, to see his face as he roared encouragement to those around him, yet to be so far that he couldn't distinguish Porthos' voice above the battle roar. He dragged his eyes back to the left where he had d'Artagnan within his sights, working hard to keep the press of the fighting away from the team making their way up the crag.

There was a sudden change in the volume of the battle roar around him and he looked for the source. Atop the crag, the attack team had reached the platform and was now fighting hand to hand with the soldiers manning the cannon. It had not yet been fired, perhaps because it had been too dark until now to see accurately where to aim it without hitting their own forces, but now it was lighter he could see there were a dozen Spaniards up there and more were moving across the upper courtyard of the fortress, high above the battle, ready to help the defence.

Seeing this, Porthos and those around him redoubled their efforts, and soon reached the walls of the fortress where they quickly launched an attack on the huge wooden doors. Spotting the danger, the Spanish redirected their efforts to the walls around the doors, which took some of the pressure off the French team attacking the cannon, but even so they were struggling to get a firm foothold. Athos made a snap decision and yelled to Guérin, holding the line close by, to get his men up there to help.

d'Artagnan and those around him rushed to fill the gaps and protect Guérin and his men as they headed for the foot of the crag, but within seconds d'Artagnan saw his friend's blonde hair flail as he took a huge hit to the head. "Guérin!" d'Artagnan raced to his side, whipping his blade up to block the follow-up killer blow from the man attacking him, deftly finding a weakness and lunging forwards to drive his blade through the man's torso. Impatiently yanking it free without a thought for his foe, d'Artagnan turned to see Guérin's men hesitating at the foot of the crag, unsure whether to continue. One look at Guérin as he stood weaving on his feet, blood pouring from the gash across his forehead, told d'Artagnan he was unfit to fight, and he quickly steered the shaken man into the willing hands of those behind who would take him to the medics.

d'Artagnan looked to the top of the crag – where the attack force had disappeared from view as a swarm of Spanish uniforms flooded the platform – to the back-up force stranded at the base without Guérin, then swung back to hunt for Athos in the mêlée behind him. "Athos!" he bellowed, trying to make himself heard over the battle roar. Amidst the dust and swirl he saw Athos' grimy face turn his way. "Athos!" he yelled again, pointing to the crag then looking back, his meaning clear. He saw Athos hesitate, glancing quickly around, weighing up his options – then he nodded, reluctance written all over his face.

d'Artagnan didn't hesitate. With a yell he shouldered his way through the running battles and ploughed his way to the base of the crag. Reaching the dregs of Guérin's unit at the base of the cliff he had half a dozen with him as they began to climb rapidly and fluently.

He'd always been a good climber, spending hours scaling trees on his father's farm as a child or leading his friends in their impromptu races around the ruined walls surrounding the market place in Lupiac, and he made quick work of the climb. The battle sounds receded as he scrambled up, hands and feet finding holds easily in the craggy rock face. The sun was up now, and as he reached the top he could see the Spanish gunners working frantically around the gun, pulling it around to face the centre of the valley where the bulk of the French troops fought.

He hitched a leg over the edge of the platform and rolled to his feet, drawing his rapier in the same movement and killing one gunner before they even realised they were under attack again. d'Artagnan had barely time to spot the bodies of the first team lying where they'd fallen on the blood-spattered cobble-stones before the rest of Guérin's team reached the top and the nearby Spanish soldiers raced to defend their gunners.

They lost Cholet early on, but the others fought side by side with him, slowly gaining control of the platform until they had formed a line across the inner wall of the platform overlooking the main courtyard below. So far no new forces seemed to be heading their way but he knew it wouldn't be long, so d'Artagnan shouted at the rest of the team to finish the gunners while he and Fouchard held the perimeter. Once this was accomplished, their orders were to fire the cannon at the opposite platform, so Morel and Laurent started turning it back while Metier and Fouchard hurried to load a cannon ball into the muzzle after finding that the bag of powder was already loaded.

Fifty feet below, Athos could just make out d'Artagnan standing on the low wall, ready to repel any attempt to rush the platform by soldiers heading for the steps from the central courtyard. He could see the tip of the cannon turning, coming to bear on the northern cannon on the far side of the fortress.

d'Artagnan was looking over his shoulder at those struggling to reposition the cannon, so he missed seeing a Spanish soldier wriggling over the wall from the back of the gun platform where he'd been lying low. The man dropped down into the central courtyard and starting waving his arms frantically, shooing those on the steps back down, away from the gun platform.

Athos was keeping a close eye on the top of the crag and watched, mystified, as the flood of soldiers on the steps milled then turned, men now running away from the platform. A ball of dread settled into the pit of his stomach as he suddenly realised the implications. Had they sabotaged the cannon somehow? Why else would the Spaniards be frantically scrambling away from the fight to control the cannon?

Seconds later Athos was racing towards the crag, screaming at the men nearest the foot to fall back, to get away, to run. As they began to respond, looking startled, his only thought was to warn d'Artagnan and the team on the platform before it was too late. But he'd only made it a dozen feet up the cliff before there was an almighty roar from overhead, and pieces of rock and metal shrapnel began to rain down around him.

I know, I know... it really is just the best place to split this chapter. Honest! I will try to get the next part up this weekend x