Chapter Fourteen – Scenery of War Pt. 3
At the first crack of a musket, Porthos was running, dashing into the underbrush and stopping short behind a tree for cover. He crouched down and quieted his breathing as he pulled free his short musket from his belt. It was dark, but by the grace of God there was a full moon. The breeze picked up again and suddenly, Porthos saw several tense figures in the dark foliage. Behind another tree, a man was reloading a musket. Porthos catalogued the weaponry he could see.
Several muskets.
Several rapiers.
A few short muskets.
A couple of concealed daggers.
And that was only what he could see.
Someone was hissing orders in Spanish. A second later there was a scuffle as someone with a very familiar scar took hold of a musket, aimed and fired another shot. Porthos took aim himself, smirking in the darkness as their Spanish friend watched with a smile on his face. Then, Porthos heard a scream. His head turned to the dunes and the sea, his heart frozen for a few precious seconds. Porthos stood again and squinted his eyes to one of the jetties.
He saw Athos lying on one of them, waves crashing over him.
And what he was hearing was D'Artagnan's screams, for Athos.
His brother.
Both of his brothers.
Porthos roared like a wild beast, took aim, and shot the nearest Spaniard dead. Then, he hid behind his tree as return fire from at least six muskets shot into and past his tree. He knew he only had seconds, seconds that wouldn't allow him a chance to reload, but he didn't care. He pulled out his rapier and charged.
He heard more muskets, but they weren't from the Spanish. They came from behind them, and that's when Porthos knew the upper hand would be theirs. He disarmed a couple of men who rushed him and killed a third who came after. One, who was a fairly good swordsman, engaged Porthos while their Musketeer regiment took to taking care of the rest.
Porthos' opponent got in a good swipe at his arm that drew blood. All it did was enrage Porthos more, into raining down vicious blows that had the man backpedaling faster than his initial approach. And just as he was about to deliver a killing blow, he felt and heard another man fall behind his back. He chanced a look and saw a boy with a dagger in his throat and one clenched in his hand.
At the sight, Porthos' opponent got a second wind and started striking out in blind anger. But Porthos anticipated the blows, sidestepped a swipe that sent the man off balance, and knocked him out cold. Porthos then turned to Aramis who was finishing reloading his short musket. Without a word, the former priest took aim around Porthos' back and shot another who meant to charge them both.
As he clipped the weapon to his belt, he turned to Porthos with a cool fury of battle. "You couldn't wait?!"
"You couldn't have got here any faster," Porthos shot back.
"We ran the horses ragged."
"Then there's no chance of escape."
"With this lot, I doubt any will leave that choice to us."
"Their blood won't give me sleepless nights."
"Nor I," Aramis agreed, spotting the two masterminds, Lucio and Mateo Iglesias, trying to steal a horse, one cutting down a young musketeer. "Let's get reacquainted," he said as he threw a dagger.
It stuck in Lucio's leg and he cried out, turning to Aramis and Porthos in rage. Aramis unsheathed his rapier and charged. Before he could land a blow on Lucio, Mateo intercepted him and forced him away, but that didn't stop Porthos from sidestepping them both. Lucio cursed Porthos in Spanish, yanking the dagger out and clenching it in his fist. Porthos simply raised his sword and waited for the Spaniard to engage.
"Less talking, more dancing," Porthos goaded with a wicked gleam in his eyes before he got impatient and made the first thrust.
The Spanish hadn't left D'Artagnan to drown alone. They were waiting for them in the dunes and the trees. They had chained him here on purpose. He heard more musket-fire, and his heart seized again for Athos, who was finally groaning and dragging himself across the wet rocks towards him. D'Artagnan tried calling out to Athos, but a wave slammed into the side of his face unexpectedly. Somehow, he kept his painful grip on the rocks behind him and below his shackled feet. He coughed and blinked furiously to clear his sight.
"Athos, stop," D'Artagnan shouted. "Go back!"
Athos' progress was agonizingly slow. Another musket shot broke the air above the sound of the waves and fear gave D'Artagnan more energy to scream a warning.
"They'll kill you! Go back! Please!"
But Athos was undeterred. If anything, D'Artagnan's warnings gave him what he needed to close the gap between them. D'Artagnan slipped as another wave crashed across his back, but this time, Athos hauled him up.
"It is high time I repay you for saving my life," Athos said to him.
Part of D'Artagnan was afraid for Athos, but the other part was so happy to have him near that he couldn't say anything. But judging from the look Athos was giving him, there was no need. Immediately after, Athos had his hands on the chains behind D'Artagnan's back. He tried hauling the boy up out of the relentless water, but it pulled against D'Artagnan's chest and ribs when he was pulled taut with the restraints on his ankles.
"My legs," D'Artagnan gasped. "Athos, they're chained under."
"Are you hurt?"
He shook his head, eager to be free. "Just nearly drowned. Exhausted."
Athos narrowed his eyes at him. "You're not lying to me are you?"
D'Artagnan gave him an exasperated glare. "You're the one who's been shot!"
"Alright-enough! Give me your hands. High up as you can manage."
"Just pull them-I can't…"
It hurt like hell, but Athos pulled D'Artagnan's arms up so he could work on the shackles. D'Artagnan prepared himself to be stuck in that position for a while, but it took Athos surprisingly little time to break the shackles open. The relief in his shoulders brought a lot of pain, but Athos held him up, even as another wave crashed over them both.
"How did you do that," D'Artagnan asked,
"Spanish pins are always weak," Athos said, tossing them into the ocean. "They break if you apply the right amount of force and pressure. And before you ask-" Athos groaned in pain as he readjusted. "Aramis is the expert."
"I wish I'd known that an hour ago-"
Athos splashed in next to him, sinking almost immediately with a cringe and hiss, which told D'Artagnan that it had been Athos' leg that had been shot. The older musketeer started making his way down the rocks towards D'Artagnan's feet, but he managed to grab the man by the sleeve before he got too far.
"No, Athos, your leg-"
"The salt water will help," he said, trying to shrug the boy's grip off. "Do your best to stay above the water-"
"You can't possibly break them under there. You'll get swept away. Just help me pull. The loop was rusted towards the bottom weld, I think."
Athos tried to steady himself in the water with his injured leg, but it was taking a long time, and he was quickly losing his patience with the rough surf. Instead he simply instructed the boy to pull with the next wave and dove under the water. D'Artagnan called after him in fear, but felt a strong grip on his leg in response. As the next wave came in, D'Artagnan pulled his legs as hard as he could. He could feel Athos pulling at the chains with him, but they didn't come free. They tried again with the next wave. And the wave after that. Even with his hands free to better brace himself, he realized that they would both likely drown here with the ocean still coming in so strongly. It would only be a matter of time before the waves overwhelmed them both.
Aramis shoved Mateo away from him again and tried pushing him toward the dunes with little success. The Spaniard kept driving him deeper and deeper into the trees, away from the beach. Aramis was the better swordsman, but what Mateo's speed matched his, which made for a furious battle of wits. Where Aramis was well trained in discipline, Mateo was unorthodox and creative, much like their own little Gascon that Aramis could not afford to currently think about.
Mateo thrust towards Aramis' legs, but Aramis anticipated the move and sidestepped, knocking Mateo off balance.
"Si te rindes," Aramis proposed. "Y puedo dejarte vivir para hacer frente a sus crímenes." (If you surrender, and I may let you live to face your crimes.)
Mateo swiped and tried to push Aramis toward a thick patch of underbrush. "No hay honor en rendirse. (There is no honor in surrendering.)
In counter, Aramis gave Mateo ground, and tried to lead him to a set of trees where he could corner him. "Pero hay honor en el suministro de nuestros enemigos? ¿Tuyo y mio? Usted es un católico. Tú y yo somos lo mismo. Usted está apoyando una causa morir." (But there is honor in supplying our enemies? Yours and mine? You are a catholic. You and I are the same. You are supporting a dying cause.)
Mateo stopped, panting and with blood trailing down the side of his face. "El hecho de que creemos en el mismo Dios no nos hace lo mismo. Los protestantes no son gente sin Dios. Ellos no son el verdadero enemigo. Su país es el sangrado de adentro hacia afuera y no lo saben." (Just because we believe in the same God does not make us the same. Protestants are not godless people. They are not the real enemy. Your country is bleeding from the inside out and you do not know it.)
Aramis frowned. "Entonces, ¿qué quieres decir?" (What then do you mean?)
"Paz hace ver débil!" (Peace makes you look weak!)
Mateo's mistake was the same mistake Aramis had drilled D'Artagnan over countless times. The Spaniard used the strength of his emotions to drive the strength of his sword. And it was a mistake that proved fatal for the Spaniard. Aramis let the blow drive him backward into the trunk of a tree, but diverted Mateo's sword at the last minute. Instead of stabbing Aramis, Mateo's sword stuck harmlessly into the tree, while Aramis' sword ran Mateo through the chest.
"No," Aramis denied, his face inches apart from Mateo's. "Peace is strength. Peace is honor. Peace is character. None of which you have. May God grant you mercy. You will receive none from me."
Mateo choked on a word before his knees buckled and he fell. Aramis cleaned his sword, sheathed it, and crossed himself, muttering a quick prayer in Latin before standing to survey their losses. Some of the recruits from the fort had a couple of struggling prisoners, but on the whole there were only a few losses to their own ranks. What worried Aramis, however, was that Porthos wasn't in sight. Aramis called out to him but did not receive an answer. He started making his way down to the dunes, hearing a swordfight, and stopped short.
Aramis caught sight of Porthos.
He was lying on the ground.
Bleeding.
"Porthos," he shouted, sprinting despite his own exhaustion.
When Athos came up for air, D'Artagnan grabbed onto his shoulder again. "Athos, leave it," the boy rasped, struggling to keep his mouth above the water. "Go. It's no use."
Like hell he would. "Once more and you'll be free," he said before diving back under.
The next wave was a big one. It went well over both of them. He could feel the boy pull along with him, but it was clear most of D'Artagnan's strength was gone. Athos grabbed his dagger again and struck out at the last bit of rust on the metal loop as he wrenched it with his other hand. Finally, after what felt like several hours worth of work, it gave. Athos dropped his dagger and immediately slipped the chains free. The wave started to drag them both out to sea, but Athos snaked an arm around the boy's waist and grabbed onto a rock to wait out the pull.
They both broke the surface gasping for sir.
Despite his leg wound, which was burning something awful, he managed to haul them both on top of the jetty again. Utterly exhausted, the boy coughed and gasped for air as he slumped onto the rock. Athos didn't allow himself that luxury. He made quick work of the shackles around the boy's ankles, and dimly remembered to check that his sword hadn't gotten lost as well. The sheath was old, and sometimes his rapier came loose, but by some small mercy, the catch had held this time.
And by some small mercy, neither of them drowned.
Athos laid a hand on the boy's wet back, feeling the force of his coughs, but the steadiness of his breathing. He pounded on the boy's back to help. They would have to tie D'Artagnan to a chair in front of a large fire after this to ensure he didn't get sick. Though the threat of it happening was quite high, Athos couldn't help but shake his head. The boy was just like the cat he saved last winter. However many lives he had left, Athos would never know, but he was taking no more chances.
He felt a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You've used your entire allowance of dangerous stunts for the next century, boy."
D'Artagnan coughed and rolled to his side, leveling himself partly up with his arm. "Not even my fault…Athos!-"
It was the split-second look of terror in D'Artagnan's eyes that had Athos spinning and drawing his sword at the same time. His sword met Lucio's and sent a sharp flash of pain up his sore arm, but he ignored it. His fury was stronger. Crouching on his good leg, he used what strength he had left to push himself up and push Lucio off balance. The Spaniard slipped on the rocks, but regained his footing quickly, rage and murder in his eyes.
"You, monsieur," Athos growled back with his own rage that had been caged for far too long. "Are a dead man on stolen time."
Lucio merely sneered and pointedly glanced at Athos' wounded leg. Then, he took a few steps back and gestured for Athos to proceed. Athos gritted his teeth together so hard that his jaw was beginning to hurt. He'd been keeping as much weight off his injured leg as possible, but now it would be unavoidable. And, to add to his luck, it had to have struck an old injury he received almost ten years ago. It had healed well enough, but occasionally gave him trouble when the weather turned colder.
Pain he could manage.
The seven fires of hell he could manage.
But he very well might fall victim to a now-decimated weak muscle.
Blood loss certainly wasn't helping
But, he had been wanting this moment for weeks. He had been wanting this man's blood for every single awkward, insecure, sad, angry, confused, and lost moment he caused D'Artagnan, himself, and Aramis, and Porthos since that night in Paris. There was no devil nor god that would stop him from dealing the justice that begged to be served. So he gathered his wits, took a look at the wet rocks beneath him, and tested his weight on his injured leg. It threatened to give out on him, but he breathed through the pain and stayed standing by shifting his weight laterally.
D'Artagnan reached out for him. "Athos-"
But Athos took that step forward, just out of the boy's reach. Pain shot up his leg as he readjusted for the slippery uneven rocks, but as soon as he was within reach of Lucio, he struck. The Spaniard was fast, almost too fast for Athos, but somehow also not as fast as Athos expected. Lucio looked worse for wear as if he'd just finished dueling someone else, which told Athos Aramis had returned with reinforcements. Where they were at this moment, he did not know nor did he care.
He felt some satisfaction as he watched that facial scar twist and contort in concentration and anger, but he wanted so much more. Athos twisted their locked swords down and to the left so he could grab hold of Lucio's wrist with his other, pull him just off balance, and swipe out with his sword. Lucio merely grunted at the cut to his midsection and stepped forward, forcing Athos to take that dreaded step backwards onto his injured leg. It nearly buckled on him when his foot slipped, but he kept his iron grip on Lucio as they switched sides.
Lucio howled and punched Athos in the stomach, again and again to break free, but stubborn as a bull, Athos took the pain and held on. Then, from nowhere, Athos felt something cold and short stab him in the side. It shocked him more than caused pain, and that gave Lucio the chance to escape his grasp. Whatever had stabbed him had been yanked out viciously. Athos covered the injury with his free hand and kept his footing. Lucio was just out of reach, goading him with the bloody dagger in his other hand.
"Usted puede agradecer a su amigo para mí," he spat. (You can thank your friend for me.)
As Athos studied the dagger, his tired mind put together two things at once. One, that it was Aramis' dagger that Lucio had in his hand. Two, that Aramis was indeed here… but where? They hadn't been outnumbered, had they? How else was this Spaniard here, alive, with that dagger if something hadn't… Aramis wouldn't have left him alive, that was damned certain.
Two brothers, possibly three of them, victim to this sadistic bastard. It just wasn't God damned fair. And if Athos wanted to win this fight, he would have to play the only card he had left in his arsenal, his anger. It wouldn't last him long with his reserves so drained, but if he was precise, he might end this quickly.
What he did not account for, however, was the ocean spray.
Though it was a hot summer, being drenched from head to toe, in leather, which weighed him down considerably, did not help. His body was working over time to produce heat, to keep his muscles limber, and his blood flowing. So it was a surprise to his exhausted mind that when he leaped forward to engage Lucio, his muscles were stiff and slow. He got in a couple of good strikes, making the Spaniard stumble against the rocks, but all it took was one sword lock and shove for Athos to be undone.
He slipped.
On his bad leg.
It finally gave out on him and he landed hard on his knee.
Which gave under the force.
Cracked maybe-popped loose more likely.
Either way it engulfed him in searing hot pain. All he saw for a few moments was white. He might have shouted, but he couldn't be sure. He tried to recover, to gather some semblance of bodily control, but his head started to spin and he lost feeling in his limbs. The next thing he knew, D'Artagnan was standing above him with his sword in hand, pushing Lucio back.
"No," he groaned, struggling to get his arm out from under himself.
The boy was exhausted after being pounded by the surf for hours. Hell, Athos could still see him trembling. Desperately Athos felt along his belt for another weapon-anything-but found himself empty-handed and completely useless. He could do nothing but watch, as the boy held the Spaniard at bay. Lucio gave the boy little to no room to work with, but to Athos' pride, D'Artagnan kept a firm footing on the slippery rocks as the waves continued to crash around them.
But his pride soon turned to fear.
The Spaniard kicked the boy in the side, and D'Artagnan screamed, losing his footing and rolling across the slippery rocks. He curled into himself, but threw up Athos' sword to protect himself as the Spaniard swung downward. With a flick of his wrist, the Spaniard disarmed the boy and raised both arms above his head, sword clenched in fisted hands, ready to deliver a killing blow.
D'Artagnan raised a hand above his head.
Though, Athos was too far away, he'd reached out, because it was the only thing he could do. "NO!"
And then, Lucio stumbled.
He blinked, and swayed on the spot.
His sword appeared too heavy for his arm.
D'Artagnan shuffled out from underneath him with a grimace of pain.
Lucio's arm fell to his side. He took an unsteady step forwards, as if to follow, but pitched to the side and fell hard on the rocks, the ocean waves swallowing him from the chest up. He did not move again.
With a racing heart and dimming sight, Athos looked toward the end of the jetty on the beach. Marc still knelt in the sand, gripping his smoking musket. As he lowered the weapon, Athos saw stark relief on the young man's face. They locked eyes for a few seconds. Athos didn't think he had been so thankful in his whole life than he was in that moment. If tears fell from his eyes, he only knew because they felt warm. He'd been so cold for so long that the feeling of warmth was a shock.
"D'Artagnan," Aramis yelled, racing down the dunes. "Athos!"
Athos looked to D'Artagnan, who was still lying curled on his side. He coughed and turned to Athos. Part of Athos wanted so badly for the boy to look at him with memory. There were so many things he wanted to say, so many things he had gotten so close to not being able to say. He needed to say them now, but he knew it would have to wait. Aramis climbed like a cat across the jetty and knelt down by D'Artagnan to examine him. Moments later, to Athos' surprise, Marc was next to him, trying to sit him up.
"See to the boy," Athos said, waving Marc off, but the young man was having none of it.
"D'Artagnan would kill me if I did," Marc said, ripping part of his shirt and tying it around Athos' leg. "And Aramis. And Porthos. And Treville. And half the regiment. Sorry, Athos. I'm not that stupid."
Somehow, Marc took most of Athos' weight despite being half his size. It was slow work getting to the end of the jetty and back on sand, but when they did, Athos couldn't have been happier. By luck, Athos' knee had popped right back in when he was forced to steady himself so Marc wouldn't over balance the both of them. He'd shouted something colorful, and worried the young man under him. Aramis merely shook his head. Aramis had already laid D'Artagnan out and was checking him for any other injuries aside from his ribs. It was a testament to how tired the boy was that he didn't voice or show any protest.
"Aramis," Athos called weakly. "Where's Porthos?"
Aramis sighed. "Hit over the head by a rotted tree branch. He'll be lucky if he doesn't have a concussion."
"God willing it's knocked some bloody sense into him," Athos muttered.
"Sadly," Aramis said, pushing Athos' dissuading arms aside with practiced ease. "I would have to agree. He meant to charge twenty-three men on his own-"
"The boy-"
"Is not bleeding out and about to go into shock, Athos. Have a little faith in my judgment."
"Never," he snorted, on the edge of consciousness.
"Be nice… to Aramis, Athos," D'Artagnan said softly. "I think… we've frightened him badly."
"Me," Aramis jested as he worked. "Imagine the Captain when he gets wind of this. We'll have to go into hiding."
"Can use-a…holiday," Athos mumbled.
A holiday did indeed sound nice.
And so did the idea of sleep.
Aramis was being a stubborn brute about him staying awake.
But Athos simply tuned him out.
And dropped down into blissful oblivion.
A/N: One more chapter after this and this story will FINALLY be done! Took me long enough, but sometimes things like this just need some time to properly marinate. This will be my last update before Christmas. I want to try and finish this before the New Year, so we'll see if I can manage that deadline. If not, the last bit will definitely be up in January. Happy Holidays everyone!
*Little history note: The Siege of La Rochelle (which Lionheart touches on a little) took place from 1627-1628. A year later, in 1629, a peace treaty was drawn up between Richelieu and the Huguenots, where the Cardinal pretty much got exactly what he wanted from the beginning-which was a surrender of cities and fortresses that were in Huguenot control all around France. What Mateo is referring to is that murky time after the Siege was done and before the treaty was ratified by Louis XIII. It's the tail end of the French Wars of Religion, and I'm sure some people would have seen the treaty as an inevitability, but for France's enemies at the time, England, and likely Spain, I'm sure they would have looked for a different outcome.