A bit later than I expected, but I had to re-organise this and the next chapter when I realised my original draft focussed entirely on Porthos and left Athos & d'Artagnan in freefall, so to speak. Thought I might not be too popular if I posted it like that! So there is at least a hint now of their fate. And I promise I will post the next one super quick before you all explode. So don't yell at me, ok? :-)

Chapter 16: Hope is so much stronger than fear.

Porthos was halfway up the steps to the central courtyard when he heard the explosion. His team had just broached one of the wooden doors protecting the lower courtyard of the fortress when the explosion erupted from the south, far too loud for a simple cannon shot. Everyone ducked around him as burning metal splattered around them. He hit the deck, hands protecting his head, hearing the roar of battle subsiding momentarily as men turned to stare at the smoke billowing from the southern platform.

His soldier's brain knew immediately what it was, and his heart lurched as he thought of the men who may have been caught up in it. He'd seen the first group of musketeers reach the platform before he'd been engulfed in the fight for the steps. But he knew d'Artagnan and Athos were safe; he'd caught glimpses of both of them amongst those protecting the foot of the crag, well back from the explosion. So, thanking whichever god was looking after them today, he forged on up the steps, a wild-haired arrow-head for the French infantry who followed his lead.

Once in the courtyard the fighting was so intense that he could barely find time to breathe. Most of the Spanish generals were here, and though not all fought well, enough of their men flocked to defend their commanders to make it a fierce confrontation, and as the minutes wore on the French found themselves being pushed back towards the steps again.

Sensing they were losing the advantage Porthos took a step back and stole a minute to assess the situation. Off to his left, he could see the rubble and chaos leading up to the platform on which the cannon had stood, still wreathed in swirling smoke. For a moment he squinted, seeing a figure up there which looked startlingly like Athos, but then the dust shifted and the figure was gone. Shaking his head and wiping the stinging sweat from his eyes, he checked behind him, seeing a smattering of pitched battles surging around the base of the steps, but no surge of French reinforcements. From his right a cry of pain forced his hand as another Frenchman fell; gathering his wits he yelled to the remaining men to retreat back down the steps. They were outnumbered up here, but they would regroup below and try again, or tempt the remaining Spanish to follow them out to the valley floor where, he was confident, the French would prevail.

He was right, but it was another hour before they could attempt the steps again, this time in greater numbers. With their gates breached, the Spanish had attempted to erect a barricade but this was easily torn down when the French had re-organised themselves, and once up on the courtyard in large numbers, they were able to attack the platform where the northern cannon was housed. It had finally been brought into action, but those operating it couldn't bring it to bear on the French troops who were by then too close to the fort to be hit by the cannon fire, and most of the balls fell uselessly further up the valley. Once the French reached the platform in force, fighting their way up the steps from the courtyard, they were finally able to silence the cannon, which seemed to stun the remains of the Spanish forces into surrendering.

It was a massive victory for the French, and the commanding officers were jubilant, one after the other coming to Porthos and those who'd spearheaded the attack with him, clapping them on the shoulder and congratulating them on this epic battle. Porthos treated the praise the same way he treated abuse and prejudice – with good-humoured indifference. That wasn't why he fought: he fought to keep his brothers safe, and their safety was reward enough for him.

Athos barely had time to feel a moment of sickening weightlessness before the cliff punched him cruelly in the back, knocking all breath from his lungs. His upper body started to tip forwards and he had a glimpse of solid granite rushing past his face. He twisted desperately, trying to keep his own body between the cliff and d'Artagnan's limp weight, and was rewarded by another impact as his hip and shoulder grazed the rock, slowing their descent as it tore into his leathers. The clawing of the cliff's fingers slowed his body but as he bounced into another spur of rock d'Artagnan's body, still unimpeded by impact with the ground, was ripped from his grasp. Athos lunged desperately and just managed to grab a flailing arm as the two continued their precipitous, tumbling descent.

Slowly the mountain's fingers overcame gravity's pull and they skidded to a halt, rocks, pebbles and gravel still raining down past them. Athos felt a jolt in his free arm as he tried to protect d'Artagnan from the final impact, but paid no heed as he frantically lurched to hands and knees. searching for a pulse, waiting for agonizing seconds until his fumbling fingers found it, fast and frantic but definitely there.

Letting out a sob with the breath he didn't know he'd been holding, Athos rested a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder and shut his eyes for a moment, trying to drag air into his battered lungs, letting his brain catch up with his body. His head was pounding, and he could feel blood trickling down his cheek where the mountain had clawed him. His left arm began to throb, joining the burning in his right forearm from ... something. A sword-cut; a piece of shrapnel... he couldn't remember any more. The last few minutes had been so intense and shattering that now his tattered mind struggled to connect with his surroundings.

A dozen imperatives were shooting through his mind – things he needed to help d'Artagnan survive, like bandages and water and blankets and a safe path down and someone to help him – but just for a moment he slumped back onto his heels and simply breathed in the knowledge that they were both, somehow, still alive.

A slight movement under his palm alerted him and he snapped open his eyes to find d'Artagnan's deep brown eyes looking up at him. Relief flooded his body and he started to ask how he was feeling, but he stopped as he saw d'Artagnan's gaze widen with alarm at something over Athos' shoulder. Twisting quickly, his hands reaching fruitlessly for his missing sword, pistol or anything with which to defend them, he saw what d'Artagnan must have seen: heads peering over the edge of the rock face forty or fifty feet above them, hands pointing. Then the barrel of an arquebus swung over the edge and came to bear directly on where the two musketeers lay, helplessly vulnerable on the bare rock of the mountain slope.

Without hesitation Athos flung himself over d'Artagnan's torso in a desperate attempt to protect his injured friend. There was a moment of infinity in which green eyes met brown, a moment when Athos looked deep into d'Artagnan's soul and was humbled by the love and trust he saw there. Then there was no more time: there was only shock, and pain. His body lurched at the impact of the ball as it punched its way through him and a line of fire lanced through his chest in its wake. Athos dimly registered the sound of the shot echoing around the ravine, and then d'Artagnan faded from his sight as darkness engulfed him.

Tasked with overseeing the surrender, it was several hours before Porthos could finally make his way back to where the rest of the Musketeers had regrouped. So it was with weary anticipation that he trudged into the circle of musketeers who were gathered around one of many camp fires in the lower end of valley, away from the worst of the battle-stench, tending each others' wounds and sharing what rations they had left. All looked weary beyond measure but there was something else, an undercurrent, that Porthos detected as soon as he'd found them.

Looking around speculatively he felt his heart-rate increasing as he found the gathered men evading his gaze, and no Athos, or d'Artagnan. Guérin was also missing, and Metier, and Fouchard, and Morel, and... How many more? Where were they?

Clearing his throat against a sudden huskiness which had nothing to do with the tang of gunpowder still drifting in the air, he came to a halt by Marron, a veteran he'd known since he first joined the Musketeers, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Tell me," he demanded, in the tone of voice that brooked no argument.

Marron took a moment to reply, first looking around the other men as if gathering courage from them. Just as Porthos was contemplating grabbing him around the collar and shaking him, he took a breath and said quietly: "We lost at least eight men, and twice that number injured. We've taken them back to Etienne and most aren't too serious but Fouchard's bad, I mean really bad, and –"

He didn't have time to say more before Porthos had interrupted. "Who did we lose?"

Marron sighed and stood, wearily, turning to face Porthos before listing the names of their men – their friends; some they'd helped to train, some who were old enough to have trained them when they first joined. They'd shared countless jests and adventures, meals and campfires, and now they were gone.

Porthos listened patiently, with a set face, only his rapid breathing giving away the turmoil of his feelings. When Marron had finished listing the injured, Porthos squeezed his arm in thanks, or perhaps for support as he finally found the courage to ask. "And Athos? d'Artagnan? Where are they?"

There was a long silence around the fire which sent Porthos' anxiety level sky-high even before Marron spoke reluctantly. "Athos sent d'Artagnan to lead Guérin's men after Guérin was injured. The first unit had been overwhelmed on the platform. We saw d'Artagnan make it to the top, with some of the others – Fouchard, Metier, Morel, Cholet, Laurent. Then Athos started yelling at everyone to pull back from the cliff, just before the cannon exploded. We don't know – he must have seen something, or suspected something... After the explosion, Santerre took some men up and they found Athos up there. He sent them back down with Fouchard but didn't follow them. Jumot's talking to the other commanders now about sending out search parties for Athos, but –"

Porthos let out what could only be described as a growl, turning on his heel and forging out of the circle of men. "Bugger that, we'll just get out there an' find 'im. Come on!"

"Porthos, wait!" Marron called out, a note of desperation in his voice.

Porthos slowed, but didn't turn. "What?"

"You should... Santerre said..." Marron stopped again, looking around desperately.

"What?" Porthos snapped, turning now and striding back towards Marron, stopping so close that Marron took a step backwards.

"It's d'Artagnan. Santerre said..." Marron ground to a halt again.

Porthos stepped deliberately forward into the man's personal space and positively growled at him. "Tell me."

"He's dead. There were no other survivors." The blunt declaration came from Jumot, coming up quietly behind Porthos and placing a consoling hand on his fellow lieutenant's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Porthos but there's no doubt. Santerre saw d'Artagnan's body. Fouchard was underneath him; apparently that's the only reason he survived."

Porthos shut his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he fought to get his emotions under control. Then he shook Jumot's hand off. "No... no, no, that's not righ'. If... no, if that's true then where is 'e? Where's 'is body then eh, tell me that? An' Athos, where is 'e? Athos wouldn't 'ave left 'im if 'e'd found 'im..."

Jumot's expression was gentle as he took Porthos by the arm, turning him slightly away from the listening men. "There's no doubt," he said again.

"Bugger that!" Porthos shook Jumot's hand off and pushed past him without another word, heading determinedly for the path leading up the centre of the valley again. There was no doubting his intention to search the platform. Behind him those men who'd been up there during the afternoon, and seen the carnage for themselves, exchanged glances. Jumot sighed, and set off after Porthos, calling to a couple of others to accompany him.

Porthos retraced the path he'd trodden all morning in record time, taking the steps to the fort's central courtyard at a run, in spite of his exhaustion. The rubble-strewn slope leading up to the cannon platform barely slowed him down and by the time Jumot caught up he was standing in the centre, staring silently around at the bloodied stones and twisted metal.

The clean-up crews had been up here, and the remains gathered and moved as reverently as possible under the circumstances, but evidence of the bloodshed was still clear to be seen on the stained rubble and twisted metal. Porthos looked as shaken as Jumot had ever seen him, and even as he reached him, Porthos' face twisted and an inarticulate sound of grief escaped him before he clapped a hand over his mouth as if to physically keep his feelings inside.

Jumot shut his eyes in a sympathy that was rooted deep in his stomach, and reached out a hand to Porthos. For a moment Porthos sagged and Jumot virtually held him up, one hand on each shoulder, patting him and utterly unable to speak. They'd both lost friends up here.

Then Porthos hissed through his teeth, jaw clamped tight on his emotions, and pulled away from Jumot. With an air of desperate determination, he started searching the platform in earnest, stooping to shove the rubble aside, handling the massive chunks of rock as if they were weightless.

"Sir?" Marron was standing behind Jumot, watching. He looked shaken, and worried.

Jumot sighed. "He's checking for ... evidence ... that they were here."

"But Santerre saw them both."

"I know. He just needs to believe it for himself."

Porthos suddenly stiffened and stilled his manic efforts, staring at something on the ground near the back of the platform. They watched as he stooped and picked up a sword, running his fingers reverently over the hilt. Pushing it through his belt he turned and started back towards Jumot but then stopped again and gathered up a second sword. His jaw worked constantly as he struggled to contain his emotions, and Jumot went to meet him, feeling totally inadequate. He couldn't imagine Porthos without either Athos or d'Artagnan at his side. He tried to think of words that might comfort Porthos but the big man gave him no time to speak. "I need to see 'em. Where are they?"

"We haven't found their bodies, but..."

"Then they're not dead." Porthos virtually shouted the words, his voice thick with raw emotion.

"Porthos, we'll look for them – "

"If Santerre saw them up here, an' you've collected the bodies of the others, then where are they?"

It was a good question, and Jumot didn't have an answer.

"Athos might have fought his way down, but that doesn't explain where he is now..." Santerre had quietly joined them on the platform, unsure of his welcome amongst the grieving Musketeers. But he'd seen Porthos storm back up here, and couldn't stop himself from following. In the aftermath of battle, regimental divisions were forgotten and Porthos simply turned to him and demanded to know what he'd seen.

Santerre filled him in quickly and Porthos seemed to crumple at the realisation that Athos had sent Santerre back down with Fouchard and stayed with d'Artagnan. Porthos knew that if d'Artagnan had been alive Athos would have insisted on Santerre's men helping to rescue him. He sank to the ground and dropped his head into his hands, rubbing at his temples then covering his eyes with one massive hand as he slowly dragged in a deep breath.

Then he lurched to his feet again, looking around with fire in his eyes. "We find 'em." Hands on hips, chin jutting forward aggressively, he fixed each man with a look of pure determination. "They're still out there somewhere, and we're not leavin' 'em behind."

As simple as that, he turned and strode back down the slope to the central courtyard. And as simple as that the others, pushing aside their own injuries and weariness, turned to follow him.

They searched the whole fortress inch by inch. They searched the valley as it was slowly emptied of bodies and the detritus of battle, men from both sides gathering their own. They searched the medical tents and the temporary mortuary where the bodies of a hundred Frenchmen were laid out awaiting burial. They searched the pathways between the battle-site and their camp several miles away. They questioned the Spanish prisoners, and checked their wounded and dead. Half-a-dozen musketeers, plus Santerre, became a dozen, then twenty, then thirty searchers as word spread that the much-respected Musketeer captain, and the popular young Gascon, were missing.

By midnight the valley was virtually deserted and those still searching had gathered back at the campfires near the valley mouth. All were shattered, their bodies pushed beyond their limits for far too long. They huddled close around the fire, aching limbs struggling to find rest on the cold, stony ground. Only Porthos was still on his feet, pacing restlessly as he waited for the last of the searchers to return from their latest endeavours. Everyone knew it was hopeless but there was an unspoken agreement amongst those still left that they would not abandon the search until Porthos gave up.

Suddenly there was a shout from the darkness beyond the flames of their fire and the sound of men's feet running towards them. As they approached, the weary watchers saw it was Santerre, and behind him – of all people – Colombe, both men sweating even in the chill night air.

"Porthos! We found someone who saw them!" called Santerre as he clattered into the circle of light.

"Them?" Porthos seized on the word. Did this mean they were both still alive?

"Amongst the prisoners..." Santerre stopped to grab a breath, leaning over with his hands on his knees.

"We found someone who saw Athos move d'Artagnan's body." Behind him Colombe stepped forward and spoke tentatively but with quiet dignity.

Colombe knew he was unwelcome in the musketeer camp so it was all the more astounding that he had joined the searchers, but Porthos could spare no energy to wonder about this when every fibre of his being ached for news, one way or the other, to end his torment. He'd registered the word 'body' but dismissed it instantly. Athos was still with him so he must be alive. "Where?" he demanded.

"Athos took him over the side of the platform."

"Over the ... What d'you mean?"

Santerre took over, explaining that they'd spoken to one of the Spaniards who'd been up to the platform after the explosion. They said there'd been a French soldier there who'd killed several of their men. Their commanders had then sent a larger number to cut him down, but he'd dragged one of the bodies with him over the side furthest from the fortress.

"Not over the front, where they'd climbed up?" Porthos' brow furrowed, trying to remember the layout. He'd looked over the side when searching the platform again, and had seen only an un-climbable jumble of rocks dropping down the side of the mountain.

Santerre and Colombe were both clear about what they'd been told, but unsure where this left them. None of the searchers had seen any evidence of bodies down there and it was now pitch dark so there was no point in searching until morning.

Porthos, of course, had other ideas. "Righ', we need torches. Can't get down there from the top in the dark, so we'll head up from the bottom." Matching words to action, and oblivious to the looks being exchanged amongst the others, he started searching through the woodpile for suitable wood to use as torches. Sighing, some of the men struggled to their feet and fetched cloth and pitch to help him.

Porthos lit the first torch from the fire then peered around at the rest of the men. "Anyone not got the energy to search, head back to camp," he instructed them softly, seeing the weariness on every face. Without waiting to see who, if anyone, would follow, he picked up an unlit torch and shoved it in his belt as a spare, clearly intending to be out all night if necessary. As he set off, he heard a murmur of movement and soon half a dozen flickering flames were shadowing him as he headed for the mass of granite which rose to encircle the valley they'd fought so hard for that morning.

Somehow he would find a route up to the ravine he'd seen. Somehow he would find them, because nothing would stop his belief that they were still alive. They'd nearly lost d'Artagnan before, and Athos would not leave him while there was hope, so Porthos would not give up on either of them until he held their bodies in his arms.