I gave you a cliff-hanger (almost literally) but now a quick update, so I hope I'm forgiven (for a few minutes at least). This one's a short chapter by my standards but the next one is nearly ready and will hopefully be up on Tuesday. The next one probably won't be up until the weekend I'm still tying up loose ends. Speaking of which, HelenSG - yes, I'm sure Santerre gets some leave to visit Elodie when they head north. I'm telling you here because you'll just have to imagine that bit or this story will go on forever as we're rather focussed on d'Artagnan and Athos now. And I totally hadn't forgotten that he needs to see Elodie for her to be pregnant two years later in Fool's Gold. Absolutely not. Duh. (Who needs a beta when I have helpful readers like you guys LOL!)
This covers the aftermath of an explosion and there is gore; I don't think it's too graphic but I apologise if anyone finds it upsetting.
Chapter 15: Warriors 2
Athos clings to the cliff face, head ducked into his shoulder, hearing the hiss of molten metal hitting his leathers and sizzling in his hair. He can't remember when he lost his hat, and rues its loss as he feels the burn of singed skin and hair all over his head. Then he's climbing again, ignoring the sting in one thigh which suggests there's a piece of hot metal searing through his leathers. He can't spare a hand to brush it away so he just keeps climbing.
It's obvious the cannon exploded. He doesn't know why, but it doesn't matter. He's level with the central courtyard to his right and he can see the chunks of fallen stone and smouldering metal, and hear the cries of men who were hit by the shower of projectiles.
So he should be prepared for what he sees as he scrambles untidily over the last ledge and onto the platform. But he's not. He wasn't expecting to see so much blood, for one thing. And he knows he will never forget the acrid stench of smoke, tainted with something horribly like cooked meat, which assails his nostrils and clogs his throat.
There's not much left of the cannon. The wooden stand and wheels are now a hundred burning embers. Of the gun itself, only the central part of the bore remains, smoke still belching from the torn metal at both ends. The base of the breech, behind where the gunpowder sits in the chamber, has blown off backwards and embedded itself in the rock wall that rises to encircle the stone platform. The neck of the muzzle and most of the upper bore are nowhere to be seen, presumably now scattered in the form of chunks of burning metal which have dropped down all over the battle field below.
At first he doesn't see his men, because his eyes are looking for bodies. Smoke and dust swirl around the platform and it takes a while to realise that the rust-tinged rock and metal debris near his feet might be all that's left of one of his musketeers. It's not until he sees a familiar object, and stoops to drag a ragged leather pauldron from under a lump of shattered rock, that he realises just how devastating this explosion has been. Slowly he traces the pattern with his fingers and recognises it as belonging to Morel.
His whole body is trembling now, flooded with adrenaline and dread. He doesn't want to look, doesn't want to see any more. He already knows this nightmare scene will haunt him for years. But d'Artagnan was up here, and Metier, Fouchard, Laurent... he doesn't want to name them in his mind, but he has to know. Slowly he picks out each misshapen, broken body, including those in the first unit who had been overwhelmed by the Spanish defenders.
He heads on numb legs for the edge of the platform near the courtyard steps, where he saw d'Artagnan before the explosion, refusing to accept what his eyes are telling him. He finds nothing. He can't even work out where the steps were; now there's only a jumble of broken stone, a boulder-strewn slope. The devastating truth is staring him in the face but he can't take it in. He knows he's fooling himself but until he sees d'Artagnan's body he can't believe it. Won't believe it.
There's a flurry of movement from the central courtyard as a few Spanish soldiers start scrambling up the debris towards the platform, and he turns gladly to meet them, his body responding automatically to the cut and thrust of the sword even as his mind scrambles to catch up. He kills the first three men without pause, almost without noticing. One man gets past him but he doesn't bother to pursue him; he knows there's no one behind him to protect, because there's no one else alive on this platform.
He almost gags as the truth starts to hit him, then gasps as his lapse of concentration gives an opening to the last man, a brash young Spaniard who nicks him across the forearm. He kicks out in anger, sending the youngster tumbling back down the slope and making another couple of men think again about climbing up. Further away he catches sight of the top of Porthos' head as he erupts from a stone staircase onto the central platform, bringing with him a flood of Frenchmen driving the Spanish relentlessly before them. They're doing well, he has time to think, and wonders if any of the Generals has launched an attack on the northern cannon yet, now the plan has failed on this side. Then a nagging feeling makes itself known, and he remembers the man who got past him, and he whirls, half expecting to find a blade descending towards him.
But he's been lucky. The Spaniard is ignoring him, standing right at the back of the platform, the other side of the cannon placement. He's looking down at something on the ground, and Athos wonders if he's looking for a particular fallen comrade, just as Athos is trying – and failing – to do.
Then Athos sees the man's sword start to come up, swinging high above his head, and he hears the man chuckle, and he knows – somehow he knows – that the man has found d'Artagnan.
He doesn't question his instinct. In a white hot fury Athos launches himself, sure only of one thing: that he will not allow the remains of the hot-headed, loyal, recklessly courageous Gascon to be desecrated by some bastard stranger. He will die before he lets that happen, no matter how stupid that would be.
Somehow he gets there, body-charging the man on his blind side. He has time to see a hook nose and a livid scar on the man's cheek as they both crash to the ground. Athos rolls quickly, and finds his feet a second before the other, adrenaline and fury overtaking the exhaustion and grief lurking deep in his body. d'Artagnan might be dead but right now there's still something Athos can do for him, and he launches into his role with frightening intensity. He brings his sword up so quickly that the Spaniard barely has time to scramble backwards. Athos lunges forward with a remise, a series of rapid attacks which the man can only parry frantically. Athos feels calm now: in control. This, he can do. His opponent fights with skill but Athos' white-hot fury lends a fearsome power to his strokes. The Spaniard stumbles on some debris and recovers his balance but Athos seizes on the split-second lapse, threading his sword inexorably through the gap in his defences and impaling him in the stomach. The Spaniard folds slowly forwards over the blade, a look of utter surprise on his face, then crumples to the ground with a soft sigh.
Athos extracts his blade with difficulty, wipes it on the man's sleeve, then turns with more reluctance than he's ever felt before, to see what the man was looking at before he raised his blade.
These bodies are intact. The main force of the explosion must have gone the other way. Perhaps there was a weakness in the wall of the barrel on that side. He doesn't know much about cannon and can't imagine what caused it to explode. The Spaniard he'd spotted giving the alarm knew, though. Maybe they'd stuffed extra gunpowder down the barrel as they saw the French gaining the upper hand on the platform in the hope of achieving exactly this level of carnage.
He's standing over the two bodies now, and his mind slows from the distracting analysis of what might have caused the explosion, and everything stops, battle noise forgotten, as he looks on d'Artagnan's face.
The young Musketeer appears to be sleeping, not dead, though Athos knows it's not possible. There's far too much blood, for one thing: coating the side of his face, darkening the leather encasing his chest and pooling around his body. For another, his body looks mangled, his uniform shredded by the pieces of metal that pepper his body all down that side. He's lying on his back, legs sprawled carelessly towards the central courtyard, and the relentlessly analytical part of Athos' brain remembers seeing him turn towards the cannon just before the world exploded. Athos thinks it's a long way from the wall above the courtyard, and wonders how d'Artagnan ended up here, so close to the source of the explosion, but pictures him diving towards the man he's lying half across. His heart lurches as he realises this means d'Artagnan must have known something was wrong. He'd tried to protect one of the others: he knew what was coming.
This thought nearly kills Athos.
He's not aware of sinking to his knees but it seems he has, so when the body underneath d'Artagnan stirs he sees, as soon as the dark head turns, that it is Fouchard whom d'Artagnan died protecting. Of course. The two had formed a strong friendship and d'Artagnan looked after Fouchard even though there were only months separating the two in age: of course the reckless idiot would head towards the danger, not away, if Fouchard was involved.
Once again Athos' mind has skittered away from the implications of the scene in front of his eyes and it is several seconds more before he reminds himself: Fouchard moved.
The young musketeer is lying face down, half covered by d'Artagnan's body. They are both lying almost behind the cannon, near the back of the platform. d'Artagnan must have hit him at full stretch and bowled them both to the ground just as the cannon exploded, trying to shield the youngster with his body.
Athos frowns, watching Fouchard's bloodied fingers twitching and reaching out automatically to clasp his hand reassuringly with his own. There's a shout from behind him and he looks around, wondering vaguely where his sword is and thinking that perhaps he won't bother standing and fighting again. He can't quite see the point.
The shout comes again and a face looms through the dust cloud still settling after the explosion: Santerre. Athos doesn't know why the Picardy man is here on this platform, but he's turning to beckon at other men behind him, and Athos realises there are three Frenchmen now, shouting at him, asking if he's hurt and if anyone is alive.
Athos rises with difficulty, because his legs don't feel like they belong to him, and jerks his head at Fouchard, whose hand he was still holding. He doesn't know how badly the lad is hurt but he's definitely still alive: he screams as they pick him up and manoeuvre him over the smoking rubble towards the edge of the platform. Athos wonders how they are going to get him down, but then he sees they've brought a rope with them. He watches them as they tie it around one man's waist and start to lower him as he holds Fouchard carefully in his arms. Santerre comes back and tries to steer Athos towards the edge of the crag but Athos simply shakes his head and waves Santerre to go ahead. He seems to have lost the power of speech.
Left alone on the platform, he turns slowly around and registers the chaotic battle going on in the central courtyard. He can't see Porthos but he knows the big man will be in there somewhere, and part of his heart seems to shrivel at the thought of telling Porthos that their youngest is dead.
He's not sure why he's still here, except that he knows he can't leave d'Artagnan. He'd promised to protect him, and although he's failed in the most devastating way, he can still keep d'Artagnan's body safe. It's all he can do for him, now.
He should have told Santerre to stay. Asked for the rope to be brought back up. He can't carry d'Artagnan down in his arms.
He looks again at the courtyard and realises the tide is turning again; the French are being driven back, and some of the Spanish are once again looking up at the cannon platform where he must be clearly visible. He sees someone point, and several men break away to head towards him.
Most of him doesn't care, but the thought of them looting d'Artagnan's body if he's not here to protect him drives him into action. He looks around for his sword, sees it close to d'Artagnan's body, steps over the rubble to reach it, and then it hits him; that nagging thought returns complete, this time: why is d'Artagnan lying face up, when he was diving through the air to protect Fouchard as the cannon exploded, and should have landed face down?
He reaches down for his sword, brain lurching from one thought to the next. Maybe Fouchard had pushed d'Artagnan's body off him before Athos got here, turning him onto his back. Maybe that bastard Spaniard had turned him to see his face before raising a blade to him.
He's picked up his sword now and starts turning to face those approaching him, before he wonders why the last Spanish soldier had gone to strike someone so clearly dead. And it's then, only then, that he sees the dark eyes are open. And they are tracking Athos' movement as he stands.
The shouts behind him increase in volume and without conscious thought Athos turns and engages the first man. He fights automatically, his body responding to the threat as he has done so many times before, and it's not long before two more are despatched with ruthless efficiency. In the courtyard below he can see others move his way, and knows he will soon be joined by too many for him to fight. Blinking sweat out of his eyes, he turns back to d'Artagnan, dreading the moment when he realises he'd imagined that spark of life.
The eyes are shut.
Had it been wishful thinking, or had he really seen d'Artagnan watching him?
He stoops, reaching a trembling hand to the beloved face, trying not to look at the tattered skin and mangled, blood-stained leathers, but as his fingers brush the Gascon's cheek, his eyes open again, impossibly bright jewels in the dark planes of his bloodied face. He falters, feeling warm, sticky blood on his fingertips, watching with detached disbelief as the Gascon pulls a ragged breath into his ruined chest.
How is he alive?
How can he keep him alive?
Athos looks over his shoulder and sees the first heads rise into view as a swarm of Spanish soldiers reach the platform. He has seconds before they reach him. With chilling certainty he knows there are too many to fight on his own.
With no time to think, he simply acts. He drops his sword, steps over d'Artagnan, grabs him under his arms and heaves him around the smoking remains of the cannon towards the cliff edge. He ignores the gurgling gasp of pain as he stumbles backwards, dragging the Gascon's body roughly over the rubble.
But as he nears the edge, panting with effort, there's a shout from behind him and in his peripheral vision he sees that an eager Spanish soldier has raced around to cut off his path to the platform's edge.
He's out of time.
Even if he could defeat this man before the others reach them, and get to the edge, he won't have time to lift d'Artagnan into his arms, and he's pretty sure he won't be able to climb down without dropping him; they'll both fall.
He glances to his left and notices a cleft in the ridge of rock encircling the platform. They're a step away from it and, without knowing what is there, and with no time to look, he switches direction and drags d'Artagnan's limp body to the gap. There's a soldier three paces from them as he hefts d'Artagnan, swinging his legs over the rim and into space. Grunting with effort he thrusts the deadweight forward, and pushes off himself as if he's jumping into a river, only he's jumping into space.
Behind him a blade swishes through the air where his body had been a second earlier, and he hears a cry of rage. But it's lost behind him – above him – as they both plummet through the air, Athos' hands desperately clinging to the tattered remains of d'Artagnan's doublet as they fall. He's not letting go of him now.
You won't believe me but I've only just realised I've delivered you another cliffie. Oops.