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Here is the next chapter, I hope you enjoy.

Chapter 5

D'Artagnan POV

Situated in a valley and surrounded on two sides by gentle slopes and hills, the Duval family farm had been standing vacant since a tragic fire had ravaged the main building several years prior, and Monsieur and Madame Duval had perished in the flames.

Nobody had come to claim the property, and the outlying buildings and stables had since fallen into disrepair.

Porthos and d'Artagnan had arrived at the outskirts of the Duval farm land thirty minutes past and had spent the time on a ridge bordering the south side of the property, observing the farm for any untoward activity.

The higher ground had allowed them to confirm that the farmyard was deserted; the stables were empty, and no activity could be detected behind the dirty glass windows of the remaining buildings.

Now slowly descending the gentle slope that would lead them to the entrance of the farmyard, d'Artagnan glanced at the larger musketeer riding next to him and not for the first time noted his grim expression and the tense set of his jaw.

Porthos had been on edge since they had left the garrison, leaving Aramis and Athos behind to conduct their investigation.

This mission was personal to all of them; d'Artagnan included. During the relatively short time he had been part of this brotherhood and had earned the friendship of these men who had come to mean so much to him, he had learned that a threat to one would be answered with the wrath of all.

Looking at Porthos now, there was no doubt in d'Artagnan's mind that his friend would stop at nothing to ensure Aramis's safety and may it require him to walk straight into hell and fight the devil himself.

D'Artagnan was prepared to follow.

Riding into the farmyard, d'Artagnan studied the burnt out ruins of the main building to their left, trying to imagine the fiery blaze that would have been necessary to consume a sturdy structure so completely.

The inferno at Athos's Chateau came to mind unbidden, and he briefly shuddered at the memory of pulling the older musketeer from the flames.

Quickly banishing the thought from his mind, he pried his eyes from the scarce remains of the farmhouse and settled his wandering gaze on the two remaining buildings on his right, across the yard. Just as the barn and stables in front of them, the two smaller structures to the right had been spared by the fire, albeit their poor condition spoke of years of neglect.

Pulling his reins and halting his horse in front of the barn, d'Artagnan swung his leg over the animal's rear to dismount quickly, planting both feet on the ground with a thud.

On his left Porthos followed suit before announcing, "We'll start with one of those buildings over there. See which one was the meetin' place for those blasted mercenaries and if they left anythin' for us to find."

D'Artagnan nodded his agreement, "lead the way."

The structure Porthos had set his sights on was the one closest to the stables and once upon a time, would have probably held the accommodations for stable hands and farm workers.

Remaining vigilant of his surroundings, d'Artagnan experienced an ever-growing sense of dread as they quickly closed the distance to the building. Something didn't feel quite right, although he was unable to detect any obvious reason for his unease.

There had been no signs of movement and their surroundings remained quiet.

Then his gaze settled on a disturbance on the ground.

"Porthos," his warning was hushed but urgent.

The older musketeer stopped in his tracks immediately and turned to face him with a questioning look in his eyes.

Indicating the ground before him with a tilt of his head, d'Artagnan continued in a low voice, "Bootprints. Judging by their condition, I'd say they were left no longer than a few hours ago."

Porthos's brow furrowed at the implication. "That means someone was here after we were ambushed in the forest."

D'Artagnan slowly nodded. "And the tracks don't lead anywhere; I only see two prints." – Looking up, he carefully let his gaze roam over the immediate area once more, his hand instinctively settling on the hilt of his rapier. – "which makes me think that someone attempted to cover their trail."

No sooner did he finish his sentence, did they suddenly find themselves surrounded on three sides.

Two men emerged from the building they had been heading toward, their swords drawn.

Another two appeared from inside the barn to their left.

And finally two more walked up behind them, having been concealed by the last standing wall of the burnt out farmhouse.

D'Artagnan cursed under his breath before declaring in a bitter tone, "Almost looks like someone has been waiting for us."

Porthos's answering growl emanated from deep within his throat. "Keeps on happenin', don't it?" – He slowly unsheathed his broadsword as the circle of men drew tighter around them – "we should find out why that is."

Turning to stand back to back with Porthos to provide themselves mutual cover, d'Artagnan swiftly drew his rapier with his right and gripped his parrying dagger with his left. "What's our plan?" – He briefly looked over his shoulder to where he knew Porthos to be – "I truly hope there is a plan."

"'Course there is," his friend answered easily. "We do as much damage as we can."

D'Artagnan tilted his head in contemplation. "Yeah, alright. I like it."

Widening his stance and angling his rapier in front of him to better defend his position, he waited for the inevitable attack; his body was brimming with anticipation for battle.

The six men had formed a perfect circle around them, but so far still kept a distance of a few yards. Keeping their formation tight, they evidently waited for an opening.

Behind him, he heard Porthos's growl of a challenge, "Come on then. Are you lot waitin' on a written invitation?"

The taunt had the desired effect.

The first strike came from the front, and d'Artagnan's rapier parried the broadsword easily, advancing just a step to put more force behind his answering blow.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed the glint of a second blade rapidly descending on him in a steep arch. Raising his parrying dagger to ward off the attack, he managed to catch the blade and divert the weapon's trajectory by a twist of his arm.

Refusing to be overrun, d'Artagnan drew his leg in and viciously drove his boot into the second man's stomach, forcing him back.

Judging by the rapid sounds of clashing metal behind him, Porthos was engaged in a fierce battle of his own. Awareness struck that only two men seemed to focus on him, which lead to the conclusion that Porthos more than likely had to content with four attackers at once.

There was not a moment to spare however to chance a glance at Porthos's fate as the first man drove his sword point forward quickly, forcing him to focus solely on the battle at hand.

D'Artagnan jerked to the side, avoiding the cutting edge of the weapon. The blade meant for his ribcage whizzed past in a blur of steel. He quickly spun around his opponent and connected his rapier with the man's back, slicing deeply through the leather and forcing a ragged scream from his throat.

D'Artagnan watched as his opponent drunkenly stumbled forward before collapsing in a heap on the ground. In the flurry of activity, however, he had briefly lost track of his second attacker and paid the price for his lack of awareness when a glint of metal swung past his peripheral vision.

Trying to scramble out of the way, he belatedly realized that it was too late to dodge the winding object.

He felt a jarring impact on his side as the metal chain viciously struck, the force of the blow taking his breath away. He went down hard onto one knee, barely managing to brace himself on the ground with one hand to keep from collapsing completely.

D'Artagnan looked up in time to see the chain being lifted again in an upward trajectory.

He needed to move. Now.

Attempting to disregard the stinging pain coursing through his body he drew his dagger far back and hurled the weapon in a brutal overhead throw, catching the man in the hollow of his throat.

The chain clattered to the ground as it slipped out of his opponent's hand; the action signaling that his body was about to shut down. The man stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief for a moment, before his legs crumbled underneath him.

Panting hard and grimacing at the fire running down his side, d'Artagnan pushed to his feet with effort.

He suppressed his aches and all other worries that may have crossed his mind, focusing on the one thing that mattered at this moment.

Porthos.

Turning towards the battle still raging behind him, it took d'Artagnan but a moment to assess the situation.

Two lifeless bodies on the ground.

His friend fighting a desperate battle on two fronts.

Trapped in between two skilled opponents who would not grant him a reprieve, Porthos was kept too busy parrying the endless flurry of attacks to initiate any counters of his own.

A deep and sluggishly bleeding gash marred the musketeer's shoulder, and another shallower cut was visible on his chest.

Drawing his pistol at once, d'Artagnan did not hesitate but aimed swiftly and pulled the trigger.

With the report of his weapon echoing loudly, the ball whizzed past Porthos and struck home in the center of his target's chest.

The man's arm and sword arrested in mid-air; the downward strike towards Porthos's neck destined to remain incomplete as the swordsman looked down on himself in shock to watch his lifeblood spread in an ever growing circle across his leathers. He finally collapsed in a heap.

D'Artagnan watched as Porthos advanced on the last man standing, confidence shining in his dark eyes as he twirled his shianova in a circle with a twist of his wrist. Raising his weapon, Porthos was ready to execute a final thrust with his sword…

And that's when it happened.

A pistol was fired into the air, immediately drawing their attention; but even more so did the bellowing voice that followed the weapon's report, "That's enough."

That voice. He knew that voice.

Still looking in Porthos's direction, D'Artagnan realized that his friend had halted his forward movement and lowered his sword. The last opponent retreated backward slowly, but Porthos paid him no heed as he stared past d'Artagnan at something or someone in obvious disbelief.

D'Artagnan turned around slowly, trepidation over what he would find spreading through his system.

When his eyes settled on the figure standing before him, his blood ran cold.

Ballard.

"I wondered beforehand how many men it would require exactly, to take the two of you down. Obviously I miscalculated, but it is no matter. I brought reinforcements."

The musketeer was flanked by three men to his right and another three to his left, every single one of them steadily aiming their pistols at Porthos and d'Artagnan.

"So it's you then." Porthos's voice was an angry growl and his face a mask of mad fury. "You're the one who sold us out. You're –"

"I'm the son of Nicolas Valois, yes." Ballard advanced a few steps in their direction before continuing, "And this is my attempt to achieve justice for my father."

Having recovered sufficiently from the shock of the truth playing out in front of him, d'Artagnan found his voice, "Justice? Your father was a traitor to the crown and his brothers."

Ballard's head whipped around to face him in anger. "Lies. My father was an honorable man who did what he had to do to provide for his family.

"After his death, I joined the musketeers to honor his memory. I changed my name to ensure I would be accepted into the regiment on merit alone. I wanted to do him proud.

"Now imagine my rage when I learned what truly transpired the night my father died; that the brotherhood I so desperately wanted to be a part of covered up the true circumstances of his death and that in fact he died by the hand of another musketeer."

D'Artagnan was painfully aware that Porthos was only scarcely controlling his temper at this point. Despite the pistols aimed in their direction, Porthos raised his voice and fiercely challenged Ballard's version of the truth.

"Your old man attempted to murder his comrades in their sleep! He was a traitor of the nastiest sort and deserved much worse than 'e got." Porthos's face distorted in anger and his next words were full of loathing, "As do you."

Ballard clenched and unclenched his fists several times before replying in a strangely measured tone, "It does not matter what you believe. Aramis killed my father and now he will pay the price for his actions." The treacherous musketeer advanced another few steps and seized Porthos with a crazed stare.

His next words chilled d'Artagnan to his core.

"Athos is surely dead by now, my uncle André saw to that. And when Aramis's grief lowers his guard he will inevitably come looking for you." Ballard raised his chin challengingly and his eyes held a gleam of madness. "After watching me take you and the whelp apart he will certainly wish he was dead, and I will be happy to oblige."

D'Artagnan lost control over his temper at the revelation.

So far his fury and anger at the traitor before him had quietly bubbled underneath the surface and had been controlled by the knowledge that no matter how much hatred they held for Ballard, they could not win this fight. Not right now; not with six pistols against them, ready to fire at a moment's notice.

Now however, faced with the very real possibility of Athos's death and the pure malevolence of the plan revealed, he lost his tenuous hold on his rage as true fear for his friends viciously clawed at his heart.

With a furious roar of anger, he charged at Ballard.

When he came within arm's reach, d'Artagnan seized the man's throat in a vice-like grip, squeezing tightly.

At once Porthos appeared next to him, connecting the barrel of his pistol to Ballard's forehead, a murderous gleam in his eyes.

The traitor made no move to defend himself.

Staring at them with a gaze born of pure hatred, Ballard attempted to speak around the steady pressure on his windpipe, "Go ahead. If you kill me, you'll be dead before my body even hits the ground." – As if on cue the six men surrounding them stepped closer, repositioning their aim threateningly. – "These men were handsomely paid and received very precise instructions."

Breathing harshly with the effort of restraint, it took all of d'Artagnan's self-control not to squeeze the life out of the man before him.

However, when logic and reason once again attempted to override his wrath, d'Artagnan flicked his gaze in Porthos's direction, waiting for a cue from his friend and ready to defer to his judgment on how to proceed.

Porthos's face remained frozen in anger, and the pistol attached to Ballard's forehead did not waver.

Due to the steady pressure inflicted on his throat, Ballard's voice had a tortured quality to it when next he spoke.

"You know Aramis better than anyone. You tell me. What will it do to him when he finds both of you dead?"

D'Artagnan understood the internal war he saw raging behind Porthos's dark and hate filled eyes. He understood all too well because he felt the same.

The overwhelming desire to serve justice and kill the man before them was only secondary to the need of doing right by their brothers.

If they died right now, their deaths would serve no purpose. And even though he hated to admit it; Ballard was right. Aramis would surely never be able to forgive himself.

The slight slump of Porthos's shoulders and the resigned look in his eyes told d'Artagnan the exact moment his friend reached the same conclusion.

D'Artagnan grudgingly released his tight hold on Ballard's throat.

Reluctantly lowering his pistol, Porthos's expression changed to one of indifference and he raised his chin defiantly. "Better mark my words, Ballard. Before this is all said and done, I will kill you."

Meeting Porthos's gaze unflinchingly, Ballard tilted his head to the side. "I would be disappointed if you didn't try. We shall see who prevails in the end."

Breaking eye contact with Porthos, Ballard turned to address his group of men. The words he spoke were infused with the same venom evidently residing in his heart.

"Seize them and confiscate all of their weapons."

Three of Ballard's men made to follow his order immediately. After relieving the larger musketeer of his pistol they roughly forced both Porthos's and d'Artagnan's arms behind their backs, tightly binding them with rope and effectively rendering them useless.

D'Artagnan tried hard to hide his grimace as the none too gentle treatment and the manipulation of his arms effectively reignited the flame in his side.

Seizing them with a triumphant stare Ballard spoke, "You will be tied up in the barn until Aramis arrives." – A feral grin spread across his features – "Then we shall see which one of you dies first."

When Ballard turned on his heels to walk away, Porthos and d'Artagnan watched his retreating form with equal looks of contempt and loathing.

Once again d'Artagnan had to bite down hard on the rage that threatened to resurface as the anger within coiled his insides into a painful knot.

Judging by the low growl sounding next to him, Porthos wasn't fairing any better.

"Move it, Musketeer." The terse command sounded menacing in d'Artagnan's ear and was accompanied by a vicious shove from behind, effectively breaking his focus on Ballard.

Staggering badly due to the unexpected push, he was still fighting to regain his balance when the man beside him seized his upper arm in a tight grip and led him in the direction of the stables.

As they entered the basic wooden structure, Porthos was directed to one of two structural beams located several yards apart, towards the middle of the empty barn.

D'Artagnan was escorted to the other.

The third man had apparently been instructed to oversee the proceedings as he stayed by the entry way, his watchful eyes and his aim never wandering.

While positioned to face each other, their captors briefly loosened Porthos's and d'Artagnan's bindings only to force their arms around the support beams behind their backs and secure them tightly once more.

After that, the three men left without another word.

As soon as the door latched behind them, Porthos started to struggle against his bindings. Yielding no result as the rope didn't budge, a frustrated growl escaped him.

"Damn it all to hell." Throwing his head back in frustration, it connected to the beam with an audible thud.

D'Artagnan was fighting his own, internal battle as the words Ballard had spoken earlier would still not leave him and had been playing on a frantic loop inside his mind ever since.

Feeling the overwhelming need to voice his concerns, d'Artagnan finally gave in with the irrational hope that Porthos would find a way to alleviate his worries. He only wished his voice didn't sound so terribly young.

"Do you think it could be true? Do you believe Athos might be dead?"

At his quiet inquiry Porthos leveled his head forward and locked eyes with him, his friend's penetrating gaze studying d'Artagnan intently for a moment.

"Nah." Porthos finally said, shaking his head. "Athos is a stubborn old goat. He don't die easily. Besides, Aramis was with him and the state of mind 'e was in this morning, he'd walk through fire before 'e let anything happen to Athos."

D'Artagnan pondered that statement for a moment. He hadn't missed the underlying worry coloring Porthos's words, but also realized there was little that could be done right now.

Imploring himself to stay positive, d'Artagnan nodded in agreement. "Alright. In that case, they'd better show up soon and get us out of here."

Porthos grinned at him. "I'd prefer to meet 'em half way."

"And how exactly do you propose we do that? My bindings don't even give a fraction." Just to be certain, d'Artagnan started twisting his wrists and pushing against the rope with enthusiasm. His efforts were stopped short however when the movements jarred his injured side, sending fiery daggers shooting through his ribs.

His face scrunched up in pain involuntarily.

"Ey. You al'ight?"

Opening his eyes slowly, d'Artagnan found Porthos staring at him intently, a fierce scowl darkening his friend's features.

His breath hitched. "I'm fine. It's nothing."

"That's amusing. You sound like Aramis; he says the same thing, usually right before 'e passes out."

Tilting his head, d'Artagnan shot an indignant look in Porthos's direction.

"Let me rephrase then. It's nothing that can be helped right now. Possibly a cracked rib, perhaps two. Most likely some ugly bruising. But I promise there won't be any passing out."

When Porthos narrowed his eyes at him and obviously continued to question his sincerity, d'Artagnan asked casually, "Would you care to discuss the rather deep gash on your upper arm or can we just get on with it, and you tell me how you intended to meet Athos and Aramis half way?"

Tilting his head, Porthos seemed to reconsider quickly. "Good point. Why don't I show ya?"

D'Artagnan wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but it certainly wasn't the audible pop following a jerky movement of Porthos's upper body.

D'Artagnan watched in confusion as his friend seemingly worked his bindings again, twisting his hands behind the beam. After a moment, Porthos's head fell to his chest, his face having paled considerably.

"Porthos? What…?

Another few seconds later, Porthos pulled his hands from behind him, the ropes falling loosely to the ground.

"How on earth…?"

D'Artagnan's unfinished question was answered a moment later when Porthos gripped his right thumb tightly and maneuvered it back into its socket, accompanied by another sickening crack and a grimace distorting his features.

"You dislocated your thumb?" The disbelief in his voice was slowly overridden by the appreciation he felt at Porthos's persistence. "That is insane and yet… Quite brilliant."

Quickly closing the distance between him and d'Artagnan, Porthos only grinned at him. "Worked, didn't it? If you want, I can show ya how to do it."

Frowning deeply and pondering the disturbing thought for only a moment, he replied, "Thank you, but I think I'll pass."

"Suit yourself." Porthos chuckled lightly as he made his way around the beam, squeezing d'Artagnan's shoulder briefly as he walked past.

When he started to loosen the bindings, Porthos's voice sounded lost in concentration. "Alright then. Let's see if we can get you out of there without dislocatin' any digits."

After a moment, d'Artagnan felt the ropes slip off his wrists and fall to the floor behind him. Pulling his hands forward, he briefly rubbed at the chafing left behind by the coarse material.

Looking around the empty structure, he weighed their options. "It sure would have been nice of Ballard if he had brought our horses and weapons."

"I'll be sure to put in a request for next time," Porthos deadpanned.

"I don't think that will be necessary." – d'Artagnan's voice took on an edge of steel – "Not after he gets what he deserves."

Turning his head towards d'Artagnan, Porthos's hardened gaze met his. "Amen, brother."

After a moment, d'Artagnan broke eye contact, indicating the small gate opposite the doorway they had used to enter the structure. "That might work. An exit away from prying eyes."

Their earlier surveillance of the property had told them that the back of the barn was connected to a pasture.

With any luck, they might be able to circle around the building and reach their horses without anyone the wiser.

Porthos had already reached their designated exit and rested his hand on the latch, waiting for d'Artagnan to join him. When he came to stand next to his friend, Porthos slowly pulled the gate toward himself.

"Did you honestly believe me foolish enough to let you escape so easily?"

D'Artagnan's eyes closed of their own accord and he exhaled slowly in resignation as he registered the voice behind him.

Recovering quickly, he turned to face Ballard and his men, once again finding several pistols aimed in their direction. This was getting old, fast.

"One can always hope," he answered Ballard's question casually, hoping he had succeeded in lending his voice an air of indifference.

"You seem to have forgotten that I know exactly how resourceful Musketeers are trained to be." Leaning forward slightly, Ballard lowered his voice as if he was sharing a secret. "After all, I am one."

The extent of Porthos's fury was visible only in his dark eyes as he seized Ballard with a menacing stare and spoke in a blood-chilling tone of voice.

"You are no Musketeer. You're a disgrace to anyone who has ever worn the uniform with honor."

Ballard's response came from an unexpected direction as a nod of his head signaled someone behind them to deliver a brutal blow to the back of Porthos's head.

D'Artagnan had a split second to register what was happening as Porthos sank to the ground next to him. Turning just in time to glimpse at the butt of a pistol coming his way with concerning velocity, he realized the only thing left to do was to resign himself to his fate.

He neither felt the blunt object connect with his temple nor noticed his legs fold underneath him when he fell into darkness next to his friend.

TBC