CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
A/N: This is one long chapter! But I didn't want to break it up. There is blood.
Three abreast, they move forward.
Porthos clutches the sword at his side, his other hand opening and closing as nervous energy floods through him. His thoughts flash briefly back to the brutality of the ambush that had cost them six Musketeers. He regulates his breathing, aware that an adrenaline rush is always followed by a crash, and he will need all his energy for this fight.
His eyes flick to his brothers, also preparing themselves for what lay ahead. Somewhere ahead Aubin will also be readying himself.
oOo
On the edge of their camp, the English find the red twine. Looking around, there are more pieces, prolifically tied to many branches on both sides of the forest track. Confused, as Aubin intended, by so many red ties blowing in the breeze around them, they move forward, unsure of the direction of the gunshot but drawn by the red twine.
They are being drawn forward into a distant clearing, on a collision course, within a small confine and for a deadly purpose.
oOo
Athos closes the gap between the three of them so they are almost shoulder to shoulder. He is not pleased by the sound of gunfire, but things were afoot now, and so they continue to move forward to await events.
Porthos ploughs on. He has kept his brothers in his line of sight but the gunshot moves them further into the forest now and they must follow; he must find Aubin. This must end. And he will have his revenge.
They come upon the body of a Spaniard, pinned to a tree by his own sword, and wonder at whose hand this one had met his death. Then Porthos sees it is Aubin's sword protruding from the man's chest, and he smiles.
Ahead, he sees something in the branches; another piece of red twine.
And suddenly, the air feels as if it has been sucked from around them.
The birds fall silent.
They take cover.
They are no longer alone.
The Spanish come.
The English come.
oOo
It is a sight to see as both assassin groups come together.
Both groups are caught by surprise as they meet in the clearing that Aubin's last red token had pointed them to.
Confused by the group of English assassins drawn to them by Aubin, instead of the handful of Musketeers they expected, the Spaniards charge, and both groups are drawn into battle.
They were now engaged in a battle of swords and pistols.
The Spanish Tercios had come from the woods and slammed into the English. It was brutal, and the English were no match, caught off guard and ignorant of this group's purpose. However, they were equally capable of killing and maiming and they fought back ferociously.
The clash of steel rang through the woods now.
The crack of pistol fire sent what birds were left soaring in panic into the skies; but served as an indication of where the fight was raging.
oOo
From their vantage point, Athos, Porthos and Aramis watched, swords and pistols drawn.
Suddenly, to the left of them, there is a noise and Aramis whirled; his arm extended, deadly finger on the trigger.
Stepping through the trees, still carrying both cloaks, Aubin gasped as he came face to face with Aramis, who levelled his pistol at him; until Porthos's large hand pushed the barrel down. Aramis sighed, realising who it was.
Athos signalled them all back, the melee of fighting in front of them giving them cover.
The Musketeers and Aubin Fabron waited.
But the fight was coming toward them on a wave of brutality.
Athos, Aramis and Porthos began to circle the edge of the fight, ready to engage those who survived their individual battles.
They were drawing the attention of both groups now.
Aubin, his sword drawn, was now fighting for all he was worth, as they closed ranks, fighting close together.
The Spaniards fought against the English; Musketeers against both.
The birds had gone now; the forest was silent, save for the sound of clashing steel and crack of pistols.
The skies were dark, as befitted what was playing out beneath.
Athos was fighting fiercely, taking his own revenge, but he was tiring; Aramis keeping him within his view. They had each saved each other during this fight.
They could hear Porthos bellowing on the outskirts of the clearing, his eyes straying to Aubin, fighting near Athos. He could fight, this son of a blacksmith. For all his size, Porthos lacked the Red Guard's speed and the lad did have a vicious right hook.
Aubin felt as if his blood was on fire.
He had never seen anything like it.
Porthos had told him that Athos was the finest swordsman in France, but to see him in action was the best experience he had ever had. Even injured, he fought with a finesse Aubin had never seen, and he was elated.
He was fighting with Musketeers! It was all he had ever dreamed of.
The years he had honed his skills with a sword in his father's smithy had served him well. He may not have learned how to track like Porthos, but he had learned how to balance a sword in his hand, and to thrust and parry. The straw sacks he had hung up in the field at the back of the house were soon in tatters as he attacked them with vigour.
It was this skill that had led to his commission in the Red Guard. He had shown his worth.
Porthos had not seen his skill but now he saw as Aubin flowed around the clearing cutting down those who came close to him.
Athos had given him an approving nod after one manoeuvre and Aubin had felt such a feeling swell in his chest. This is what he wanted; all his life to be master of the swords his father made.
He would never be as fine a swordsman as Athos, but oh, how he dreamed in that clearing, fighting for all he was worth.
The fight rolled away from them, further into the forest.
Now, though, Athos was visibly swaying; Aramis moved over and pulled him toward a large tree, pushing him against it for support.
Placing both hands on his shoulders, their faces only inches away from each other, both breathing hard, Aramis pinned Athos with a look that Athos began to challenge almost as soon as his back felt the bark behind him.
But Aramis held his ground. Athos gave him a slight tilt of his head in acquiescence.
He would stay and catch his breath.
He watched as Aramis moved off, following the fight.
He had not said for how long he would stay though.
oOo
Further into the woods, those left were engaged in a fierce battle.
The air was full of gunsmoke, it was impossible now to tell who was who.
The Spanish were formidable; dodging, swiping, stabbing, slashing.
The English were determined, but were no match.
The air was rent with Spanish battle cries.
There was no time to reload and pistols were tossed aside, or used as clubs.
The Musketeers had intended to stay on the periphery of the clearing but it was not to be. The Spanish, in particular, sought them out, but each time, they pushed them back toward the English so that each group was once more engaged with each other.
Once guns were fired and discarded, it was the sword that became the main weapon of choice.
Blood ran down Aramis's face from a cut above his eye.
Aramis met the blade of one of them head on, which came out of nowhere. They could not tell who was who, but they were coming on strong now. Seeing a movement in his peripheral vision, he whirled, though not in time to stop a blade descending toward him.
But Athos did see it; neatly parrying it away and thrusting his blade into the man's throat.
Aramis looked at him before holding both arms out; a weapon in both hands, and turning an exasperated expression to his brother.
"I did not say how long I would stay," Athos shrugged, before moving past him.
"Come," he added over his shoulder, "the main skirmish is ahead."
"Skirmish?!" Aramis cried, before moving after him.
oOo
In the clearing, Porthos landed heavily from a body slam by two Spaniards. He came up bellowing, and found himself facing one of the English. They fought fiercely until both were on the edge of exhaustion, and a mistake by the Englishman saw him despatched, and clobbered across the head for good measure.
The weariness was palpable with all those fighting.
The action appeared to slow, only to speed up as the forest blurred around them.
It was frantic now, punches and kicks being thrown. Aubin was throwing anything that came to hand. No-one was fighting fair.
A blade clashed off the basket hilt of Aramis's sword, the sound lost amongst the scrape and screech of steel on steel.
Athos could feel his own sword vibrating in his hand as he lunged against the last two Spaniards, killing one with a single thrust to the heart.
The English were no match for the Spanish; most were now dead.
But the Spanish had underestimated the Musketeers.
The battle seemed to reach a crescendo, steel on steel, screams rending the air.
Porthos killed the last Englishman with a bellow wrought from vengeance.
Then, it was just Athos and the last Spaniard.
Both were exhausted, their movements slowing after every clash. It was a fight to the death. The Spaniard's hate filled eyes boring into Athos as they circled each other in a macabre dance. He had seen how Athos had begun to favour his left leg, how he had stumbled twice after lunging. So he made him lunge; again and again, the Spaniard stepped back just out of reach of the blade. Each time, Athos extended to meet him, putting extra strain on his hip.
As they watched, his brothers realised he was pushing the Spaniard toward the edge of the clearing. Then, they realised why. The cloaks that Aubin had discarded were in a heap on the ground, and Athos was driving the Spaniard toward them. At the last moment, he raised his sword and, as the Spaniard raised his to meet the onslaught, he stepped back, into the mess of material, and over balanced. Turning his head, he met Aramis's cold gaze;
"Estas Muerto." ("You're dead.") the marksman said in low deadly voice, just as Athos thrust his sword into the man's throat. The man's surprised look at the familiar language froze on his face before he fell dead at Athos's feet.
Athos lowered his sword and bent over, pulling air into his battered lungs. Straightening, he stabbed the blade into the ground and leaned heavily on it, taking the pressure off his leg.
And then, gradually, the silence returned. Smoke slowly dissipated.
They looked around, out of breath, exhausted, aching, bleeding.
Bodies were scattered around them. The air was heavy, as the forest slowly came back to life.
When they saw that the last assassin was cut down, they stood, legs heavy with exhaustion yet shaking with the effects of the adrenaline that had been coursing through their veins.
Eyes meeting across the clearing, they slowly moved forward to stand in a circle, hot, sweating, and breathing hard. Swords still drawn, they pulled Aubin into their circle, and then each reached out and put a hand on each other's shoulders, completing the circle.
Porthos gave Aubin a look of pride; he could see it in the big man's eyes.
These men were Porthos's brothers. How he envied him now, in that brief moment, seeing what it would be like to have such men beside him.
Brothers-in-arms.
The natural sounds of the forest gradually returned, and slowly, they began to breathe more easily, the ringing in their ears fading.
Athos sheathed his sword in a fluid motion, and at that precise moment, the hiss it made as it returned to its scabbard melded with the sound of a single shot that came from the forest behind them.
Porthos was looking at Aubin, whose eyes were shining with joy, when the sound came.
Aubin's laugh froze on his face.
Porthos frowned, uncomprehending.
Athos quickly drew his sword once more; Aramis whirled around, scanning the tree line, his pistol empty, but his own sword raised.
Aubin made a small sound, loud now in the quiet after the noise of the shot, and then took an unsteady step forward toward Porthos, his expression changing to surprise.
Porthos reached out, catching him as he fell, the lad's knees buckling, his sword falling from an open hand.
Porthos made a sound none of them had heard before as he went down with Aubin, both of them slowly crumpling to the ground.
Athos and Aramis took a step forward then, as Porthos cradled Aubin gently in his arms.
Porthos looked wildly around, his brown eyes blazing; finding Aramis above him;
"Aramis! Do Something!" he yelled.
Aramis reached up and removed his hat and looked at Porthos, before shaking his head, a small gesture, so the boy did not see. He threw his sword down, and watched as he saw realisation dawn in Porthos's face; saw him abandon his hope, take a breath and gather all that was good in him, before he looked down into Aubin's pale blue eyes.
Porthos felt the slick wetness on his hand, which was pressed against Aubin's back. The boy was tightening his hold on Porthos's jacket and beginning to panic.
"Shhhhhhh," Porthos breathed, desperately trying to quieten him. He pushed blond hair back from the lad's face, realising he needed to calm him. And so he reached into Aubin's jacket pocket with his free hand, and gently pulled out the carved horseshoe.
"Look ...Aubin... look here!" he whispered urgently, holding it up before Aubin's eyes.
The boy's unfocussed gaze fell on the small token, held between Porthos's finger and thumb, in front of him.
"Your father ..." Porthos said; ...Your father is with you..."
The boy frowned, and then his eyes grew wide and he gazed happily at it, his body relaxing in Porthos's arms.
"You did good, Aubin," Porthos whispered, his voice strong, despite his warring emotions.
And once more, he saw that smile.
"It was a fine adventure, Porthos," Aubin whispered, his eyes locked on Porthos's.
"Yeah, it was," Porthos replied quietly, his eyes shining, heart breaking.
Aubin shifted slightly, looking up at them all, standing above him.
"I would have liked to have been a Musketeer," he murmured.
Athos exchanged a look of infinite sadness with Aramis.
"You are a Musketeer," Porthos said fiercely.
Bracing him, he used his free hand and unbuckled his pauldron and gently eased it up over Aubin's sleeve. Aubin watched in awe, his eyes shining with unshed tears.
He reached up and touched the fleur de lys, etched into the leather, before turning once more and looking up at Porthos.
Porthos held him tighter, realising what was coming, as Aubin's smile froze and the light slowly faded from his eyes.
Still staring up at Porthos, his body went limp; and he was gone.
Porthos stopped breathing, staring at his face; lost in images that began to swirl unbidden through his mind.
Aubin; holding the awe-struck child up to him in the village; gazing at a stag, caught in the morning sunlight; sitting at the top of a waterfall, determined to stop his fall; appearing through the trees with a brace of pigeons and a fine crop of mushrooms.
So many images, all merging into a bright smile as he soaked up Porthos's words.
Always, a smile.
Even as he left this world; no doubt hurtling headlong into the afterlife,
All heart, and humour and fire.
The thought made him huff out a short laugh, which he quickly cut off; his eyes filling with tears.
With a sad groan of acceptance, Porthos gently pulled the dead boy into his chest and buried his head in his shoulder.
Aramis laid a gentle hand on Porthos's back, and Athos turned away to look at the trees, unable to watch further.
After a long moment, Porthos straightened and stood, Aubin's blood on his hands. Looking down at Aubin, and then at his two brothers, he roared in anger, and then for one final time, charged into the forest in pursuit of the last surviving assassin.
This time instead of charging after Aubin; leaving him behind.
oOo
Later:
He had come out of the forest with blood on his hands, pain in his heart and Aubin in his arms.
Athos and Aramis had left Aubin where he fell, closing his eyes and covering him in Porthos's blue cloak; so that Porthos would bring him back to the Lodge. He would want that.
He had carried him back and laid him carefully in an upstairs room. They would take him with them back to the Garrison in the morning, before Porthos made the short journey to his village home.
The Smithy in the woods.
"Who was he, Porthos?" Aramis asked behind him, as Porthos sat next to the bed, his head bowed.
"He was mon noble peu cher," Porthos whispered. ("My dear little nobleman.")
Aramis made the sign of a cross on Aubin's forehead and left Porthos to his thoughts.
To be continued ...