Chapter 8:
Author's Note: I AM SO SORRY. This update is so beyond late… Everyone, thank you so much for your reviews, and your continued support of this story despite having to wait for the next chapter. It's more than I deserve after leaving you hanging like this! I'm hoping to get the next chapter done pretty quickly.
On another note, happy birthday Tidia! :) This is my bithday present to you ;)
Athos rides with his heart somewhere on the ground. It's probably leaving a trail of deep gouges in the soft forest soil, that's how heavy it is. Every murmur and complaint from their captive makes him want to drive his rapier through something. Every concerned look from Porthos, every thoughtful stare from Aramis only drives into his sinking heart. If they knew…
"We're near the place." The captive says and it grates on Athos' every nerve, "Let me go now!"
Athos is opening his mouth, ready to dress the man down, but Aramis beats him to it. "We will release you when we see our brothers again."
It almost surprises the comte, but then the realises that the Spaniard's worst fears have already been dismissed. Though he probably still worries for his love and his son, there is room now for him to worry about their brother. Aramis is back. That's good.
Porthos sits on his horse with the tension of a man who really wants to kill something. Athos sincerely hopes the man will not need to do so. Petit, still riding beside his friend, is looking equally tense. He's always been close to DuPont, and the fear for his life hangs in the air as heavily as the fear for d'Artagnan's. And Moreau's. And Vasser's.
But it's not them that Athos owes an apology.
"We're almost there…" the captive squeaks again, and Athos wants to punch him for speaking. "It's just around this corner."
Athos hopes the man is wrong. They have yet to catch up with their colleagues, and if they've already passed this place…
The comte grips his rapier, ready for the ambush he hopes will greet them and not his friends, around the corner. What he finds is not an ambush.
It's a field of death.
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There's a bend in the road up ahead. The path seems to be twisting upwards, over a hill and into a thickly wooded area. Up here some leaves still cling stubbornly to barren branches, casting a fiery hue over the area. It looks warm and welcoming, and the musketeers have finally managed to shake off the fearful feeling that the jaws of the woods had left them with.
D'Artagnan's riding up front with DuPont, Moreau and Vasser following them. Their laughter echoes through the forest. The mirth is broken by the crack of a musket firing.
DuPont's horse goes down like a brick, taking its rider with it. There's that's sickening sound that only a breaking bone can make as DuPont lets out a scream of agony.
Suddenly the red glow of the leaves no longer carries the warm feeling of home, instead it shows the fires of hell.
New bullets are shot and d'Artagnan drops down from his horse. He knows he should leave, make a quick getaway so he can safely deliver the letter. But he cannot in good conscience leave DuPont trapped and helpless on the ground. Also, he tries to convince himself, between the trees up ahead he can spot at least four more men, he'll be shot down right away if he goes on.
"I'm going to get DuPont somewhere safer!" d'Artagnan yells to Moreau and Vasser. They nod.
"We'll cover." Moreau replies.
D'Artagnan urges his mare to move down the road. If their assailants have any sense at all they'll refrain from wasting bullets on a rider-less horse. She'll be safe. In the meantime, d'Artagnan's ducking from bullets and trying to pull DuPont from under his horse. It's no small feat to get DuPont from under his horse. The man might be light, his horse certainly isn't. It doesn't help that every tug on d'Artagnan's part sends agony coursing through the other man's leg. In the end he has to lift the horse off of DuPont and pull his leg away harshly.
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Soon d'Artagnan's back in the fray, parrying blows and dancing around men who want to see him dead. It's going quite well, up until the moment that three men decide to fight him at once. They're skilled, and for all d'Artagnan's talent, three is a bit too much. Brought back to defence, d'Artagnan is pushed off the road and through the trees. It's an advantage for him. The thick trunks shield him from harsh blows and he finds leverage in large roots.
He's looking for one of these roots when he steps back into open air. The fall is short, and he comes down with a jarring crash. The soft roots above him seem to converge and conceal the cavern's existence. Overhead three voices call out, confused, searching.
D'Artagnan holds his breath until he thinks he hears the voices retreating.
When he's sure that there is no one out their anymore, he stands, in doing so he pushes aside the roots that hid him. They're young an almost elastic in their springiness. The cave itself is maybe a foot deep, easy to hide in, and easy to get out of.
Vaguely, the Gascon wonders if there are more caves like this. The more pressing thought is that he has to get back.
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D'Artagnan returns to a harsh battle. Moreau and Vasser are fighting back to back, surrounded by opponents. D'Artagnan circles around, attacks them in their back and fights his ways through the throng. The can see the crowd thinning near the middle, where his fellow musketeers are holding their own.
"RETREAT!" d'Artagnan yells, beckoning the two men.
They do. Falling back fighting, and moving over to where DuPont is laid up in a cave-like structure near the edge of the road, it seems like things are finally starting to look up. With DuPont leaning on d'Artagnan for support and Moreau and Vasser shielding them they make their way off the road again.
Just when something like a path has appeared, someone fires their musket.
That someone is not a musketeer.
Moreau grunts and grips his shoulder like it's on fire. Even from a distance, d'Artagnan can see blood starting to flow down the man's arm. DuPont moves away from him and leans on a tree, motioning for the Gascon to help the injured man. He's there in seconds, while Vasser holds off a couple of assailants.
"Get them out of here." Vasser growls.
"What?" d'Artagnan asks sharply, "And leave you here?"
It's not his habit to leave men to fight when he can do something to help.
"Yes. We've thinned them out." D'Artagnan opens his mouth to refute, but then Vasser turns towards him, eyes pleading. "I need him safe."
Looking down, the Gascon knows that Vasser is right. Moreau is already looking pale, slumped forwards and losing blood fast. So fast indeed, that he's not even up to mingling in their conversation.
"Fine." D'Artagnan says, pulling Moreau up. Many of their opponents have retreated, to lick their wounds or prepare another attack, d'Artagnan doesn't know. What he does know is that he has to somehow get to injured men to safety. "But I'm coming back for you. I promise."
At first he hopes that despite his blood-loss, Moreau will be able to walk. When the man slumps down, barely conscious against the Gascon's shoulder he knows he's wrong. He looks over at his two hurt comrades, calculating. One man has a useless leg, the other has a useless… everything.
Before d'Artagnan can decide on a course of action, however, DuPont moves away from the tree with a large branch under his arm that offers enough support to stand. The man stumbles along, tripping over roots, pain written all over his face. D'Artagnan really wishes that he didn't have to do this to the man but allows for d'Artagnan to carry away Moreau so the Gascon holds his tongue. Instead he drags his bleeding colleague along.
It takes a few minutes for d'Artagnan to realise that he's heading for the cave he fell into some time earlier. A few seconds later the Gascon realises the cave is the perfect place for the two men to hide. Apparently his subconscious is a better planner than he is. Huh.
A cry sounds from the direction of the road.
Moreau moans, makes to turn around. d'Artagnan stops him and gently lays him on the ground. He needs to get back to Vasser. Right now. Reluctantly, the young musketeer turns to DuPont. Somehow the man will have to drag their unconscious friend to their hiding place. With a broken leg.
Well, d'Artagnan's heard stronger stories about DuPont. According to musketeer legend, the man took down 15 men with a dagger in his thigh. Not once, but twice. d'Artagnan never believed the stories. Now, the Gascon hopes the tales are true.
"I fell into a cave just now." d'Artagnan says, breathing heavily. "It's just down there. You can step in and get out easily without being seen. You think you can manage this?"
DuPont has the pallor of the dead, but he nods, tugging at Moreau's shoulders and trying not to put any weight on his broken leg.
"Just get back to Vasser. Moreau will never forgive himself if something happens to the lad." He replies.
Just when he's about to turn, d'Artagnan hesitates. He pulls the letter from his chest, and hands it to DuPont. It's crinkled, and his hands have stained it with blood, but it is still the most important part of their mission.
"Keep this safe for me?" d'Artagnan asks.
DuPont doesn't answer, he simply takes the letter and looks the younger musketeer in the eyes. To d'Artagnan the look is so reminiscent of Athos that he has to swallow for a moment. He might never see that look on his mentor's face again.
Before he can do anything stupid or undignified like crying, d'Artagnan turns away and runs off to help Vasser.
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D'Artagnan runs back to the road to the cacophony of his fast-beating heart. His rapier is clenched in his one hand, the other keeps his balance as he practically flies over bushes and roots. Even before he stumbles onto the road, d'Artagnan knows he's too late.
It's more than just a feeling in his gut. It's the absence of fighting. It's the muffled sound of a flesh on flesh. It's the leer of the sun as it sets over a group of men without pauldrons. Without honour.
And in the middle one man with a pauldron.
One look at Vasser, semi-conscious eyes staring at him with a glazed plea, and all the excitement that has until thus far kept d'Artagnan going drains away. With it he feels small aches and pains returning, a slice down his back. Broken blisters where he held his sword. A bruise on his back where he feel earlier. The muscle that seems to be cramping all the way from his hip to his toe.
d'Artagnan's left stunned. A cold dread pools in his stomach, extinguishing the fiery storm that usually houses there. How did they get here? How did they get from riding peacefully to where they are now?
Two men down, one man on the verge of death. And then d'Artagnan. The last one standing. Why was he spared?
In the games d'Artagnan used to play being the last one standing was always a good thing. It meant that he'd won. Since then he's learned that being the last is rarely good.
The last d'Artagnan. The last owner of the family farm in Lupiac. The last believer in the love that Constance and him share. The last believer of his own talents.
The last musketeer standing.
Always the last. It never feels like winning.
And now d'Artagnan is here, drowning in self-pity while an honourable man stands cringing away from the knife at his back. Enough is enough.
"Let him go." The words come out with a calm that even d'Artagnan doesn't expect.
"If you drop your weapons and surrender," a man in the middle called, "We may consider it."
The man is short and stocky. D'Artagnan supposes his face would be handsome if it was not frozen in a permanent sneer. The Gascon immediately pegs him as the leader.
"What guarantee do I have that you won't murder him the moment I drop my rapier?" d'Artagnan asks. Though Aramis jokes may make it seem so, d'Artagnan is not in fact stupid. And this man screams traitor even more than he screams scum.
"You don't" the man smirks.
D'Artagnan does not answer. That strange calm is still blanketing him, soothing the burning desire to fight and maim. He simply looks the man in the eyes with a haughty expression. For a moment the man seems to consider him, eyes gliding over him, sticking on his rapier and the slice in his side.
"Perhaps we can be cordial," The words come out with a sickly sweetness. "Your friend here has yet to give us any useful information concerning the letter you were carrying. Now, if you give us the letter, or tell us its location, we will set your friend free."
D'Artagnan knows there is only one answer to that request. "What letter?"
Immediately the man's eyes darken, his sneer turns into a deadly grimace as he makes eye contact with one of his men.
"Very well." The leader speaks. Then he slides the knife he was holding into Vasser's back with a sickening smile. "If you want to play it that way."
Vasser falls like a puppet who's strings have been cut.
D'Artagnan sees red.
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By the time his attackers have him subdued, d'Artagnan has killed three men. Four more men have to keep him from flying at their leader. Their grips are tight and their hands steady as they push him to the ground. He's pretty sure his hand is broken from when one of the men tugged his rapier from him. That, and probably one or two ribs.
D'Artagnan is pulled up by his hair, his face pushed within inches of the leader's. He spits a glob of saliva in the man's face. The man looks unfazed.
"Where are your friends?" the stocky man asks. This time his voice is hard.
d'Artagnan sends a fearful look towards Vasser and swallows away tears. Dead and dying, that's what his friends are.
The man smirks. "Dead, huh? Looks like you're going to have all the fun."
Somehow, d'Artagnan doubts he's going to find anything the man does fun. He fights like a demon to get loose, but he's outnumbered and injured. A harsh blow to his head leaves him dizzy, and before he knows it he's being dragged away, arms behind his back.
There's a guilty feeling of relief in d'Artagnan's stomach that it's not him painting the mud red, but also a sickening feeling of terror at his friend's passing. No one should have to go that way. Or any way. Death never gets any less ugly.
Maybe Athos is right after all.
There is no diginity in death.
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When they arrive at the scene, Athos feels bile rising in his throat. Not because he's never seen corpses strewn around a battle field. No, this bile rises out of fear. Fear of searching the corpses and finding d'Artagnan among them. The sheer prospect is so terrifying that it numbs his very being.
The path is littered with the dead, their blood mingling with the dark soil.
Porthos jumps to the ground immediately, cursing like a sailor, and sets out to find survivors. His moves are panicky as he searches for his brothers, but is main gauche is out held steady in his hand. There will be no more unpleasant surprises on his watch.
To Athos' right Aramis remains frozen for only a little longer than Porthos. He's the medic, he needs to heal wounds and help people. For a moment though, he can't move. The tapestry before him is just slightly too similar to the fields of Savoy so many years ago. He reminds himself firmly that this is different. There's no snow. And these dead men are not his brothers. He simply refuses to believe that d'Artagnan is among the fallen.
It is with this litany in mind that Aramis grabs his medical supplies and slips from his horse.
Athos has yet to move.
It is only when Porthos cries out, "I've found Vasser!" that the spell is broken. If Vasser is among these men, then d'Artagnan must be too. Sliding from his horse in a daze, Athos makes his way over to Porthos. Petit, who Athos realises only now was also searching the bodies, beats everyone to Vasser.
It strikes Athos again that though the Inseparables may be the most tight-knit unit of musketeers, there are other units of friends that are close to each other. He forgets sometimes that his small group of friends is only one of many. The look of utter devastation on Petit's face only drives that home stronger.
Vasser lies beside his enemy in a pool of blood. His eyes are closed, his face is pale, and Athos has no hope for the young man's life. Still, Aramis desperately feels for a pulse in Vasser's neck. It takes a second or two for the Spaniards face to transform into a look of surprise.
"He's alive." The whisper was barely above the volume of a breath, but it was enough to get Petit moving. The large man leans over Vasser, shakes him, calls his name. Anything to get the man to wake.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Vasser's eyes flutter open. They stare for a moment, unseeing, at the treetops. Then they widen, a large gasp of air bursting from his lungs.
"I can't move." Vasser's voice is stoic, but his eyes are terrified. Petit shushes the younger man.
"Don't worry, Aramis will fix you up." Porthos breathes, still stuck in his moment of surprise.
After stopping the man's blood from seeping away, Aramis finds a greenish paste at the edge of the wound. He recognises it as Carolina Jasmine a poisonous herb that can cause paralysis. This paste is so diluted that it cannot kill, but it can immobilise a man for days. It's a stupid mistake to make, Aramis reflects, to dilute the herb so much that it loses its toxic potency. Still, it's a mistake that saved Vasser's life, so he's not going to complain.
It's only after they've established that, and taken care of the man's wound that Porthos asks the important question. "What happened?"
Vasser tells the whole story. Athos heart just drops further and further. At Vasser's final words, spoken in a voice that promises death to their attackers, Athos heart just drops away.
"They took d'Artagnan."
And whoops. There goes Athos' heart.
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Aramis and Petit follow the path of blood, dark stains and lighter drops leading their way. Then the blood suddenly stops. Petit looks around, searches for his friends. There are no footsteps leading from this place, no broken twigs but the ones he's already passed. In a moment of insanity he allows himself to look up. Maybe DuPont and Moreau are not injured as badly as Vasser thinks they are, maybe they've managed to climb up and hide in a tree. Maybe their attackers have taken them away…
"DUPONT!" Petit yells desperately, "MOREAU!"
Suddenly DuPont's head pops out of the ground, a bloody hand batting away the roots that just concealed him.
"Petit…" There's so much relief in the man's breathy statement that Petit almost feels his own knees buckling with it.
"Moreau?" Petit asks, "Is he-?"
"He's alive. I've slowed the bleeding." DuPont whispers as he beckons Petit down. The large man steps into the small underground cavern, as DuPont tries his hardest not to stand on his broken leg. Aramis is standing above ground, grabbing hold of Moreau when Petit levers him out of the cave. It's only once Aramis has bandaged Moreau's shoulder and splinted DuPont's leg that DuPont asks the question that Petit does not want to answer.
"How are Vasser and d'Artagnan?"
Petit just shakes his head.
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"They left the road, and went east." Vasser mumbles, still unable to move anything but his face.
The captive, not entirely the smartest of men, opens his mouth as soon as it's said, "That's where Chassroi's chateau is!"
Seconds after the triumphant explanation, his face falls, realising too late that he is not going to be let free until he's brought the musketeers to the chateau. Aramis and Porthos exchange a smirk.
It is decided that the three Inseparables will be led to the chateau by their prisoner. Petit will continue the journey with the three injured men. At first, this seems rather dangerous, but when Athos dryly suggests that maybe it would be safer if someone were to accompany Petit the replies are so vehement that the matter is dropped.
Porthos, in particular is angry at Athos' suggestion. He feels it is directed at him.
"If you think for one second that I am not following d'Artagnan, then you do not know me at all." He spits.
That closes the discussion, and soon everyone is astride their horse. Before they leave a pale DuPont looks Athos in the eyes. DuPont is sitting straight, a boneless Vasser in his arms, leg splinted to the best of Aramis' abilities.
"He is one of the bravest men I have ever met. Handing me the letter, despite the honour he felt at receiving it… That is a bravery that many a musketeer still needs to learn." DuPont whispers. There's a hint of accusation in his voice when the adds, "Whatever quarrel you have with him, you must know that."
It's not something any of the musketeers need to hear. After all, they've known for a while. Since before the Gascon even truly was a musketeer.
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It is a testimony of the fear and anger that clouds the musketeers' minds that they do not question why Vasser is alive.
They're grateful for it of course, but had they been in top shape, they might have wondered if maybe Vasser had been left alive purposefully. It might then have occurred to them that Vasser was meant to see and tell them the direction d'Artagnan was dragged away to. It may have struck them that they were walking right into a trap.
After all, one good look at the dead men around them and they would see a familiar face, one that attacked them on the other road. One of the men who got away.
But blinded as they are by their emotions they do not see any of this. Instead they mount their horses, and go in the direction that Vasser points them. Petit follows the road, accompanied by three injured musketeers and a captive who will not shut up.
Three musketeers have been injured and their youngest friend has been kidnapped.
One way or another, someone is going to pay.
Okay, so some of this might be slightly unrealistic, but I just couldn't bring myself to kill off Vasser… Anyway, let me know what you think!