It turns out this might be a longer story than I thought. I can't believe the number of reviews for the first chapter as well as all those who chose to follow and/or favourite it. Your support is enormously encouraging.

Phoenix Rising

Chapter Two

Athos and Porthos stood in the middle of the courtyard. Their senses were overcome by the sight of injured and dead bodies, large patches of blood and the screams and moans of the wounded. The air was full of ash and smoke, drifting down to clog noses and lungs, making breathing a trial. Debris lay everywhere, glass crunching underfoot as they methodically began conducting their search.

"Maybe he wasn't 'ere," Porthos said hopefully after they had traversed the length of the yard.

"He was here," Athos replied somberly. "Practice was scheduled to last all afternoon and I saw a couple of the recruits amongst…the dead."

"Doesn't mean he's dead," Porthos admonished.

"I know." A sick feeling coiled in the pit of Athos' stomach like a snake waiting for its prey. "There is one place we haven't looked." He pointed to a large mound of stone and wood which lay only yards away from the ruined armoury. It was several feet wide and piled high with rubble.

Porthos sucked in a shocked breath. "We'll need help to shift it."

Athos beckoned over a group of men, a mix of Musketeers and townsfolk. "We believe one of our comrades is trapped under there." He could see by their appalled looks that they didn't give much hope of finding anyone alive but they moved willingly enough to start the laborious process of clearing the area.

Porthos heaved a large chunk of stone away from the edge, placing it out of the way. They had to be careful not to impede those moving the wounded and dead however frantic they might be to tear their way through the rubble that could be separating them from their little brother. Athos lifted a substantial length of wood with no care for his own safety. A shard of glass cut through the leather of his glove as if it were butter, nicking the skin of his hand. He barely noticed as he concentrated on moving the next piece, and then the next.

TMTMTM

"Drink this." Aramis held the cup to Pascal's mouth. The young man had finally stopped screaming and now lay with his mouth slack and eyes lidded. Aramis knew that the silence meant that shock was setting in and that could be just as deadly as the burns. The leg injuries were severe and, even if Pascal survived, he would be left with extensive scarring and deformity. He might, Aramis thought fatalistically, prefer to be dead.

Pascal obediently drained the pain draught. Aramis patted him reassuringly on the shoulder and deliberately kept his tone light. "Dr. Lemay will be here soon. Be brave."

He poured another cup and moved to the next man. "Gerard, how's the arm?"

"Hurts like hell," Gerard said through gritted teeth. He was a twenty year veteran, having fought in the infantry before joining the Musketeers. He was a good soldier who was well regarded by his comrades. Now, his face was deeply lined with pain and his normally suntanned skin held an ashen hue.

Aramis nodded sympathetically and handed over the cup. Gerard's arm from shoulder to finger tips was scorched black by the fire. The smell of burnt flesh invaded Aramis' nose and he had to swallow several times to stave off a feeling of nausea.

Gerard downed the pain medication and lay back. "Reckon my days as a Musketeer are over," he said bitterly.

"You don't know that, my friend."

"I'm not a fool, Aramis." Tears of pain sprang to his eyes. "I can't see there being any way to save my arm." He closed his eyes and turned his head away.

Aramis bowed his head, accepting the assessment. It was almost inevitable that Lemay would have to amputate to prevent gangrene from setting in.

There were at least a dozen wounded, most beyond Aramis' skill to heal. He made sure they all had some medication for the pain and fretted about the delay in Dr. Lemay's arrival. He stood for a moment to survey the scene with a sense of trepidation. It was rare for him to feel so helpless and his heart ached for those in unbearable agony. Treville was moving amongst his men offering reassurance and comfort. Aramis could see that the Captain's presence was a balm that temporarily lifted the spirits of the injured. A handful of women were cleaning up the more superficial lacerations ready for stitching. And that, he thought, was something useful he could do. He caught sight of Jacques huddling miserably in a corner and walked over to see how the boy fared.

He uncorked the flask he was carrying and held it out. "This will help." He gently took hold of the boy's arm. The break was half way between the wrist and the elbow and was only marginally displaced. "I am going to straighten the bones and then splint your arm. I won't lie to you. This will be painful."

Jacques nodded hesitantly, his eyes wide with fear.

Aramis snagged the sleeve of one of the townswomen. "Can you find two straight pieces of wood the length of his arm?" he asked.

"Of course, Sir."

"Aramis," he said with a smile. "And your name?"

"Paulette."

"Well, Paulette, we are all grateful for your help."

"Least I can do for the King's Musketeers," she said. "You look after the boy and I'll be right back."

Aramis adjusted his hold on Jacques arm. "Ready?"

Jacques whimpered and bit his bottom lip. Aramis took a steadying breath before bracing one arm on Jacques' shoulder and pulling smoothly with the other. The young man's face grew even paler with a green tinge. Aramis grabbed a bowl, waiting patiently while he vomited up the contents of his stomach. The smell mingled with all the other unpleasant odours in the room making him want to retch. He swallowed convulsively to stifle the impulse, tasting bile at the back of his throat.

"There," he said soothingly, offering a cloth. "The worst is over."

Still, he knew for many of the men the worst was yet to come. His thoughts flew to his brothers, worried that he still hadn't seen d'Artagnan. How would any of them cope if their youngest had perished in the blast? It didn't bear thinking about but the more time that passed the more likely it was to prove to be the reality.

TMTMTM

The muscles in Athos' legs and arms shook with exhaustion and his back ached from bending over to pick up the rubble. Yet, his pace never slackened. He was starting to fear that if d'Artagnan was underneath the never-ending pile of debris that he would have succumbed to lack of air, assuming he had survived the initial blast.

"Faster," Porthos urged. The large man worked tirelessly, lifting blocks of stone as if they weighed nothing.

Athos moved a large piece of wood to reveal the toe of a boot. "We were right. There is someone under here." It energised him in a way that nothing else could and he turned his attention to the debris covering the man's face. "D'Artagnan," he breathed, seeing the familiar face and dark hair now liberally coated with plaster and dust. He carefully removed a large piece of glass from his brother's face, noting with relief that there were no burn marks.

"Is he still breathin'?" Porthos asked frantically.

Athos shuffled forward on his hands and knees and pressed his fingers to the pulse point on d'Artagnan's neck. He swallowed a sob and turned his eyes to Porthos, uncaring if his friend should see the moisture gathering there.

"Athos?" Porthos reached out a shaking hand. "Tell me he's alive. Athos?"

Tbc