Chapter 2

Porthos POV

Another seven men. Still no insurmountable odds and certainly not the worst they had ever faced and yet, Porthos was nervous; a feeling he was not accustomed to and certainly didn't care for.

He was worried about Aramis.

His friend was unsteady on his feet and far too pale. His hat had fallen off when he was grazed by the musket ball, but Porthos was certain the loss had gone unnoticed.

Fresh blood still seeped from the wide gash on Aramis's temple, painting a grotesque picture on white canvas.

Porthos knew his friend would keep fighting for as long as he had to. Or until he was unable to fight any longer. He vowed to move heaven and earth to be there should that moment come.

With a last brief glance in Aramis's direction he was reassured to witness his friend raising his pistol to take aim; a fiery gleam shone in his eyes despite his ghastly appearance.

Porthos stepped forward with enthusiasm, raising his shianova overhead to deflect a blow swung at him from above. At the same time he bent his left leg to kick the man low in the stomach with brute strength, driving him back.

He didn't give his attacker time to recover.

Stepping up in front him, Porthos grabbed a fist full of the man's hair and shoved him head first into the next tree. He listened to the sickening crack with satisfaction, watching as the man crumbled at his feet.

Out of the corner of his eye, Porthos saw the glint of a dagger, raised to plunge into his neck from the side. He quickly dropped his broadsword in favor of raising his hand to seize the man's wrist. He was about to shove this fellow into the same tree as he had his associate when he heard Athos shout from a distance.

"Porthos, behind you!"

With movements faster than anyone ever thought him capable of, he twisted his assailants arm around the man's neck and spun them both around. Pinning the man to his chest and holding him in place, Porthos had created an effective shield for himself.

Three yards away he could see the threat Athos had warned him of.

The last man of this blasted group had somehow managed to circle around him with the intent to shoot him in the back.

When the pistol fired, however, Porthos's enemy only managed to fell his comrade. The man Porthos was holding on to sagged in his arms like a puppet with severed strings when the ball pierced his chest. Porthos dropped him to the ground unceremoniously.

He was extremely ready to be done with this lot.

Reaching behind him, he wound his fingers tightly around the hilt of his main gauche. Accompanied by a deep growl of annoyance Porthos hurled the weapon with fierce strength, hitting home in the center of the man's chest who had just tried to shoot him.

Realizing he was now in the clear, Porthos quickly surveyed his surroundings, taking stock.

All four horses had fled.

Several yards in front of him, on the other side of the road, he watched Athos smash the hilt of his rapier into his opponents face to drive him back. Twisting his weapon back around with an elegant flip of his wrist, his friend moved in for the killing blow.

Porthos counted two dead bodies at Athos's feet. Good.

D'Artagnan was also engaged with his last attacker. Porthos could tell that the youngest member of their group had handled himself well. Not that he had expected any less. What d'Artagnan lacked in experience, he more than made up for in fierce determination and ferocity.

One of the bodies at his young friend's feet sported a hole in the middle of his forehead; the other still had d'Artagnan's main gauche protruding from his throat.

Just now the young Gascon let out a fierce yell, lunging forward to pierce his attacker's chest without hesitation.

Porthos nodded once in satisfaction at the fact that his friends had things well in hand on their end.

He finally turned to look for Aramis. When he spotted his friend several yards to his right, his blood ran cold.

Aramis was prone on his back, eyes closed and his face deathly pale. From the distance, Porthos couldn't make out whether or not he was still breathing. The large man standing over his friend had his pistol raised, finger already tightening on the trigger.

Porthos spurred into action at the horrific scene before him. While reaching to draw his own pistol he thought to distract the burly man to buy himself enough time to complete his movement.

"Hey there, over here!"

The sudden yell was enough for the other man to ease up on the trigger for a second and half turn to investigate its source.

Porthos held his breath and fired.

Unfortunately, his angle was less than favorable, and the ball hit high in the assailant's right shoulder.

He didn't go down.

The man only staggered back a step, but soon regained his balance and turned his attention back to Aramis with a determined scowl on his face and murderous intent in his dark eyes.

A jolt of adrenalin spiked Porthos's system at the sight. He started moving with fast, long strides, flipping his pistol in his hand, fully prepared to use it as a club.

Even though he was only several yards short of his intended target, he blanched at the realization that he wasn't going to make it in time.

The man's finger already tightened on the trigger again.

No.

His eyes instinctively moved to settle on Aramis. To his surprise his friend was now up on his left elbow, reaching for his dagger with his right, face scrunched up in pain. His fingers had only just tightened around the blade when Aramis drew his arm back as far as he could manage and hurled the weapon through the air in a last-ditch effort to save his life.

The main gauche dug itself into its targets left shoulder.

The fire of a pistol echoed through the forest at the same time.

Porthos stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide, only one thought managing to penetrate the panic that was coursing through his system. "Aramis!"

Only after the initial shock had passed, he realized that his friend was not dead. Staring back at him instead, Aramis was still propped up on his elbow, eyes wide in his pale face.

"Surprisingly, I am still here."

The shock on Aramis's face no doubt mirrored his own.

They both looked over to see Aramis's attacker had gone still, his eyes tightly shut and his pistol no longer aiming at the man on the ground, but hanging limply at his side.

From his position, Porthos could now see a gaping hole in the man's back. And yet, somehow he remained on his feet.

Another shot quickly followed the first and this time the assailant finally crumbled in front of Aramis's feet, dead eyes staring into oblivion.

Porthos exhaled in relief and looked to see Athos and d'Artagnan several yards to his left, both still holding on to their pistols.

Athos spoke first, "I apologize for my tardiness; the last man I fought refused to die quickly."

"Unfortunately I had a similar problem," d'Artagnan added sullenly, rubbing at a tender spot on his forehead where an ugly bruise started to form. "Although I am fairly certain, that I could have been significantly faster if I wasn't so hungry."

The young man's attempt to lighten the mood had Athos raise an eyebrow in response.

Porthos huffed out a humorless laugh; the adrenaline still coursing through his system refusing to let him settle down quite yet. He turned back to Aramis and quickly closed the distance between him and his friend.

Staring hollow-eyed at the large dead man who had been so determined to end is life, Aramis looked visibly shaken.

Porthos stepped into his friend's line of sight, and when that failed to draw Aramis's attention, he crouched down next to him, resting a hand on the side of his neck.

"Hey there brother, you alright?" Porthos almost didn't recognize his voice when it sounded low and hoarse.

With no reply immediately forthcoming, he surreptitiously began to check his friend for injuries.

The nasty graze running along the left side of Aramis's head still sluggishly seeped blood and was certainly deep enough to require stitches.

Aramis had yet to move, and his right arm was drawn protectively around his midsection, his breathing coming harsh and shallow.

His ribs. Porthos filed the thought away for later.

Turning his head to lock eyes with Porthos, Aramis's face scrunched up in pain and his breath came in short bursts when he finally answered. "I have to admit. I did not expect. to be alive. but it almost looks. like I am. so yes, I will be fine. my friend."

"Steady now. Try and slow your breathin'," Porthos cautioned. "In.. and out. There that's better" – Porthos gently squeezed his shoulder in support – "You had me worried."

"Me too. That was an extremely dramatic performance." D'Artagnan added. "Next time try calling for assistance."

"Like a damsel in distress? No, thank you, I would rather take my chances." Porthos scowled at his friend's attempt at levity, noticing that Athos and d'Artagnan wore similar expressions.

Having the good sense to realize that no one was amused, Aramis continued more seriously. "I do apologize, however, if I caused you grief. That was certainly not my intention." Briefly locking eyes with each of them, he added, "Luckily I have three friends I can count on."

When Athos spoke, his voice was devoid of his typical sarcasm. "It's nothing you haven't done before; for any of us."

Acknowledging the sentiment with a nod of his head, Aramis's gesture was slightly ruined when he squeezed his eyes shut.

Porthos reached to gently grasp Aramis's left elbow as he said, "let's get you up an' take a good look at the damage that's been done."

Carefully hauling Aramis to his feet, he watched in concern as his friend paled even further at the change in elevation.

As his knees threatened to buckle underneath him, Porthos took on most of the other man's weight and put a steadying hand on his chest. "Easy now. Worst part's over."

He wasn't entirely certain if he sought to reassure Aramis or himself.

"Let's have a seat over there." He had noticed a fallen log a few paces to the right and gently eased Aramis down.

"How bad is the damage?" Athos inquired when he and d'Artagnan came to stand next to them.

Porthos bent forward, gently starting to prod the wound on the side of Aramis's head. His friend stayed quiet during his administrations, but couldn't quite hide his grimace.

Porthos winced in sympathy. "This bloody mess 'ere requires a few stitches; it hasn't stopped bleedin'."

Reaching inside his doublet, he produced a handkerchief and handed it to Aramis. "Here, hold this in place for now. We need the medical supplies; then we can patch you up in no time."

His friend took the piece of cloth offered to him, pressing it against the side of his head.

"The medical supplies are in Aramis's saddle bag," d'Artagnan stated.

Athos turned to the young Gascon. "You and I will go round up the horses then; they shouldn't have gone too far." With a regretful look in Aramis's direction he added, "We can't remain here for long; we will need to make haste to reach Paris before nightfall."

Aramis lifted his bloody and weary head and met Athos's eyes; his surprisingly steady voice was a stark contrast to his battered appearance. "I will be ready."

Nodding in acknowledgment, Athos turned to leave with d'Artagnan.

"Athos." Aramis waited until their lieutenants' eyes were on him once more. "We don't yet know the reason for this assault. Be vigilant. There might be more of them out there."

"Agreed."

After watching his two friends leave to retrieve the horses, Porthos turned back to Aramis. Crossing his arms in front of his chest, he shot his friend a stern look. "Alright, now. Let's see 'em."

"See what?"

"Your ribs. I know there's somethin' wrong."

Aramis looked back at him and for a moment Porthos thought his stubborn friend might try to argue the point. In the face of Porthos's determined stare, however, Aramis sighed heavily and conceded quickly.

"Very well. I do admit; some blunt force may have been used in an attempt to push me to the ground and convince me to stay there."

After Aramis lowered the bloody handkerchief to rest on the log next to him, he first removed his weapons belt and sash and then started to unbutton his doublet. He couldn't hide the cringe as the action seemed to jar his injuries.

Porthos watched as his friend awkwardly fumbled with his leathers, his movements slow and stilted. The rush of battle had abated by now, and Aramis looked beyond tired and weary.

The dark blood almost completely covering the left side of his head was a constant reminder of how close his friend had come to dying today.

As the last button came undone, Porthos moved closer. "Here, let me." He assisted Aramis to carefully maneuver his arms out of the leather and placed the coat on the log.

"Hold up your shirt for me so that I can take a look." Aramis did as he was told, revealing a colorful array of mottled bruising down the right side of his torso. Porthos whistled in response.

"That looks like it's gonna sting for a while. Let's just make sure none of them ribs are shifting about and able to pierce a lung."

Crouching down, he started to prod at Aramis's ribs as gently as he was able. As he came to the third rib, he felt it shift underneath his searching fingers and looked up at his friend when he heard Aramis's hiss of pain. His breathing came in shallower gasps than before.

"Deep breaths brother, nice and easy."

Porthos quickly finished his administrations and then put a steadying hand on Aramis's shoulder. "One of them is certainly broken, and at least one more is cracked. We'll bind them for the return trip to Paris. Riding a horse right now is not gonna be enjoyable either way, but it might give you some support."

Porthos was surprised when Aramis suddenly huffed out a laugh and seemed to have trouble to contain his amusement. Of course, the action jarred his ribs again, and he tried hard not to grimace in pain. "Don't make me laugh," he pleaded, as he kept trying to get his breathing under control.

"Wasn't tryin' to. What's funny?" Porthos's voice betrayed his confusion.

"Your instructions, my friend. I remember distinctly giving you all the same advice, last time your ribs were injured."

Porthos grinned widely. "Yeah, well. Gotta get my medical knowledge from somewhere, don't I? At least you know it's been tested and proven."

"Indeed. We do seem to get injured on a regular basis," Aramis mused as he reached to his right and handed Porthos the blue sash he had removed from his waist earlier. "Here, use this."

Porthos took the blue piece of cloth from his friend and when Aramis lifted his shirt again, wound it tightly around his midsection. He was trying not to cause any more discomfort, but when he finished Aramis's eyes were tightly closed in his pale face, and his breathing was rapid once more.

Releasing the white-knuckled grip he had on his shirt, Aramis let the material fall to cover the makeshift bandage. He placed his hands on the log on either side of himself and tried to steady his breathing by taking slow and measured breaths.

Porthos moved to sit down on the log next to his friend, shoulders touching in silent support.

As he watched Aramis trying to regain his composure, a thought struck him.

"These men, whoever they were, seemed to be extremely determined to see you dead."

Aramis's brow furrowed in response, and his voice was laced with sarcasm. "Yes thank you. That almost escaped my attention."

"No, I'm serious. Take this burly fellow over there. Even after I shot at him, he trained his pistol back on you. The smart play would have been to shoot me first. I was the bigger threat to his life."

"He must have seen me reach for my main gauche." Aramis reasoned.

Porthos conceded, tilting his head to the side. "I suppose 'at's possible."

Aramis must have heard the doubt in his voice. "But you don't believe that's the reason," he correctly surmised.

Porthos slowly shook his head. "Dunno. I just get the distinct feeling, that that man over there"- he pointed at the corpse of Aramis's last adversary-"wanted to see you dead. You in particular. I don't think this was a random attack and these folk were not regular bandits."

Porthos fixed his eyes on Aramis. "Does he look familiar at all?"

Aramis looked over to where the large man still lay in the dirt, his eyes staring unseeingly into the distance. "I can't say that he does." He tilted his head to the side in contemplation and Porthos waited until his friend was ready to share his thoughts.

"But you may be right in your assumptions nonetheless. When I was on the ground, and he was about to take my life, there was a moment when I thought I saw something in his eyes. It didn't make any sense to me, but…" – he turned his head away from the corpse to lock eyes with Porthos – "I saw the kind of hatred and loathing on this man's face that most certainly requires a personal reason."

Aramis shook his head slowly in honest confusion. "But I truthfully have no idea what that reason could be; I am certain I have never seen this man before in my life."

Porthos shuddered inwardly at the thought. People with a personal vendetta usually proofed to be extremely determined. "We had better find out then who this fellow was and most importantly; if there's anyone else involved."

Nodding his head slowly, Aramis then indicated the direction of the corpse and said, "Maybe we should see what the dead man can tell us about his purpose."

Porthos grunted in agreement and gave Aramis's leg a brief squeeze as he rose from his position on the log and advised, "Stay here."

He crouched down next to the dead body and started searching the inside pockets of his doublet. Not finding anything of interest, Porthos was about to get up, when he thought of something.

Swiftly pulling off the man's leather gloves, he uncovered a silver ring on his left hand. Porthos pulled the ring off the man's finger and was about to show Aramis his discovery when he saw Athos and d'Artagnan approach from the path, all four horses in tow.

"Find anything of interest?" Athos asked.

Porthos nodded his head, closely inspecting the ring in his hand. "It's a silver ring braided in wire. The letter V is engraved on the inside." He held it out for Aramis to see.

His friend shook his head. "It does not look familiar."

At Athos's questioning glance Porthos explained, "We believe this man may have had… ill feelings of a more personal nature towards Aramis. Maybe this ring can help us identify who he was." Pocketing the ring, he looked up at his friends and witnessed a concerned look pass between Athos and d'Artagnan.

"What is it?" Porthos asked with apprehension.

Tying the reins of the horses to the next tree, Athos answered, "We found something as well."

"Some answers; raising more questions," d'Artagnan added, his eyes moving to rest on Aramis. "It's not good."

Without saying anything else, D'Artagnan opened Aramis's saddle bag to retrieve the leather pouch containing needle, thread, and some linen. He also snatched one of the water skins before closing the distance between him and his friend.

Wordlessly holding up the supplies he carried for Aramis to see, d'Artagnan waited for the other man to nod his consent. Putting the leather pouch on the log, their young friend doused one of the linens with water and set about to diligently clean the deep graze on the side of Aramis's head.

Remaining silent, Athos and Porthos watched them for a moment. The large gash had almost stopped bleeding at this point but was encrusted in dried blood and dirt. When d'Artagnan carefully started to cleanse the wound, it started seeping once more.

"What did you find out?" Aramis asked the question with trepidation in his voice, looking at Athos expectantly.

Moving closer, Athos started his report. "We found two of the horses standing on the path, not far from here. The other two had wandered into the woods. As we followed their trail, it led us to a clearing where we caught up with them. That clearing must have also been the place where these dead gentlemen" – he pointed to one of the corpses on the ground – "made camp."

Athos produced a small but heavy pouch from the inside of his doublet. "They all had one of these stashed in their saddle bags. All but one that is." He threw the pouch at Porthos, who caught it easily.

Porthos opened the pouch and peered inside, already knowing what he would find. "They're mercenaries," he all but growled, his voice dark and dangerous. "This is payment."

Athos nodded in agreement. "And if you are correct about the man with the ring, he may be the one who hired them."

Just then, d'Artagnan finished cleaning Aramis's wound, setting the now dirty and bloody cloth aside. He pulled a folded piece of parchment out of his doublet. "We also found this," he said, as he handed the piece of paper to Aramis.

Porthos watched as his friend unfolded the parchment and started to read. Eying Aramis carefully, he didn't miss the furrowed brow and look of bewilderment.

"What is it?" Porthos asked impatiently. Dread was spreading through his system like a wildfire.

He had known that something was off. Had felt that there was more to this whole damn mess than met the eye. Now he wasn't so sure that he wanted to hear the rest of the truth.

Aramis still stared at the parchment in disbelief. His voice, although serious, also held a modicum of surprise when he answered. "It is a directive; to kill me."

Lifting his head slowly, he met Porthos's eyes. "These men were paid to see me dead. This paper contains a very detailed description of my person, right down to the blue sash I wear around my waist."

"It also contains details about our mission to Rouen," Athos elaborated. "They knew when we left the garrison, when we were likely to return and what route we would take. There is but one logical explanation," –

"Somebody else must be involved. Even if the man with the ring had a personal vendetta; the information on this parchment obviously came from someone else," Porthos finished his friend's sentence. "Someone who either knew about the mission or had access to Treville's office."

Athos nodded in agreement. "We need to return to Paris as quickly as possible and report to Treville. Then we need to get an investigation underway and find out who's behind this" – His gaze traveled to where d'Artagnan just finished his fourth stitch in Aramis's temple – "preferably before they try again."

"Amen brother," Porthos agreed with steel in his voice.

Closing the distance, he came to stand next to his other two friends. D'Artagnan now straddled the log to Aramis's left to gain better access to the wound. Inserting the curved needle into the tender flesh for a fifth stitch, the young musketeer pulled it through on the other side.

"How's it going over here?" Porthos asked.

The bitterness coloring Aramis's next words surprised him.

"As much as I do enjoy getting shot at and as much as I truly cherish the sensation of a needle in my head, I would greatly prefer it if we were well on our way back to Paris by now."

Aramis had barely finished his sentence when a growl emanated from deep within his throat, a response to the needle entering his skin yet again.

Narrowing his eyes, Porthos looked at his friend closely.

Aramis seemed suddenly anxious, his fingers drumming on the log next to him. Even though his face was still pale and his breathing still slightly hitched, Porthos knew it wasn't physical pain that had his friend on edge.

He had noticed a shift in Aramis's demeanor since he had read the parchment.

Porthos was also aware that Aramis wasn't one to fear for his life. A death threat, however serious, wouldn't rattle him this way.

After all, his friend had been in hell before and fought his way through to the other side. Aramis was a fighter, and he would never shy from battle.

There was only one thing Porthos could think of that would unsettle his friend to this degree.

"There, done." D'Artagnan interrupted his musings, tying off the last stitch. "Nine stitches, nice and neat. Once this heals up, I don't think the ladies will be any the wiser."

Aramis managed a genuine smile at d'Artagnan's gentle teasing. "Thank you, my friend. Your skillful needlework is very much appreciated." Turning his head, he grinned at Porthos. "I think the ladies will be grateful that it wasn't Porthos who did the stitching."

"That's cause I don't stitch. I'm not a damn handmaiden," he grumbled in return, more than willing to join in the banter and distract his friend from any dark thoughts.

As Aramis turned back to d'Artagnan his smile faltered. He seemed to realize for the first time that their young friend sported a decent sized bruise on his forehead, half wrapping itself around his right eye. "What happened here?"

"I caught the hilt of a rapier with my face when the third fellow didn't want to wait his turn." D'Artagnan touched his fingers to the ugly looking bruise, prodding it gently. "It didn't break the skin, so it should heal just fine," he added with a shrug.

Aramis nodded his head slowly in agreement, but Porthos detected an odd look in the man's eyes. Guilt. He recognized it instantly. Aramis felt guilty that they had almost become collateral damage because someone was after him. That was the reason he was on edge.

His friend didn't fear for his life; he feared for theirs.

Bloody idiot. Porthos would have to keep an eye on him and talk some sense into him, if necessary.

"Are you ladies ready to move out?" Athos asked as he returned to the group. "I've retrieved the last of our weapons" – he returned Aramis's and Porthos's main gauche to their rightful owners – "and reloaded all of our firearms. And I also found this." Holding out Aramis's slightly crumpled hat, Athos managed to evoke a rueful smile from the marksman as he took it.

"If we make haste, we might still return to Paris before dark," Athos continued.

Nodding his agreement, d'Artagnan returned the supplies to Aramis's saddlebag before mounting his horse.

Athos followed suit.

Aramis carefully shrugged into his doublet and fastened his weapons belt before attempting to gain his feet.

Swaying for a moment, he closed his eyes briefly to regain his equilibrium. Porthos kept close but refrained from reaching out, choosing to let his friend work through it.

Only when Aramis appeared steady enough, did Porthos turn to mount his horse.

With movements too stiff and slow to remind of his usual graceful gait, Aramis swung himself into his saddle with obvious effort and a grunt of pain.

Porthos winced in sympathy.

Once mounted, his friend recovered quickly, however. With a brief nod to his three waiting companions, Aramis signaled that he was ready to leave.

Turning back onto the path together, they followed the Seine to Paris.

TBC

Thank you all for reading. Reviews are most welcome :)