Without warning, the hallway exploded with a surge of gunfire coming from the staircase; more soldiers appeared down the hall as soldiers poured onto the second floor. The four Musketeers sprang into action, shooting soldiers if they charged into the room. Doctor Molyneux worked feverishly to keep the assembly line of empty to loaded muskets moving quickly.
Doctor Molyneux shot a soldier dead as he aimed his weapon at Athos from behind; as another Spaniard trained his weapon on the doctor, a second shot rang out. The startled physician turned to find Doctor Berteau lowering his pistol, his face marked with horror and relief.
"Porthos!" Aramis struggled for control of a musket clutched tightly in the hands of a soldier, the two men locked in a tug-of-war. Suddenly, the Spaniard gained the upper hand by smacking the medic on the forehead with the butt of his musket; the Musketeer fell to the floor dazed and bleeding.
As the Spanish soldier lowered the musket to shoot Aramis, Porthos grabbed the weapon by its barrel and shoved it upward, just as the soldier pulled the trigger. The ball blew a hole in the ceiling, spraying the men with pieces of plaster.
The large Musketeer easily wrestled the musket free from the hands of the enemy soldier. With both hands wrapped firmly around the barrel, Porthos swung the weapon like an ax; he hit the soldier with the stock of the firearm hard against the side of his head with a crunch. "Go to hell," he growled.
Porthos knelt beside Aramis and gently rolled him onto his back. "Bloody hell, 'Mis," he cursed as blood poured down the medic's face. The larger man took out a handkerchief and pressed it to the wound to stop the bleeding. "Keep pressure on 'at," he ordered. "Looks like you're goin' to 'av another scar on 'at pretty forehead of yours."
"Mmm," Aramis groaned, still half-dazed.
D'Artagnan was caught in his own desperate struggle as a soldier had his musket firmly pressed against the Gascon's throat, strangling him. Athos shoved his main gauche into the man's back, sending him face-first to the floor with the dagger jutting out.
"We can't hold them anymore!" D'Artagnan croaked to Athos, having recovered well enough to shoot a soldier in the hallway. "There are too many of them… and they keep coming," he yelled. The Gascon soon became engaged in yet another heated hand-to-hand struggle. With renewed strength, the Gascon whipped his pistol across the Spaniard's forehead, knocking him to the floor. He shot the man dead, then kicked the musket into the room to be added to their growing cache of weapons.
Just then, Athos was overcome with a fit of coughing that had him doubled over, attempting to catch his breath; he never saw the Spanish soldier approaching from behind. The Spaniard grabbed the Musketeer's main gauche from his dead comrade's body and put it to the lieutenant's neck, taking him by surprise.
The soldier backed down the hallway with his hostage in tow. The Musketeer tried to struggle, but the hacking coughs had sapped his strength and had left him too weak to fight back.
"Whoa, you don't want to do 'at," Porthos warned the soldier with a threatening growl. "He's got the plague; 'at's why he's coughin' so much." The large Musketeer fibbed in attempt to save his brother.
The Spanish soldier's forehead furrowed with confusion, not comprehending what Porthos said. Aramis gave his friend a nod, indicating that he had an idea; a glint of mischief glowed in his eyes.
"La plaga," Aramis translated to the Spaniard. The soldier's face paled as he understood what was said of the sick man in his arms. With disgust, he dropped Athos, deliberately allowing the Musketeer's neck to slide along the dagger's sharp edge as he fell to the floor.
Captain Tréville and his group of six Musketeers arrived at the Château de Blois to find soldiers running through the courtyard with muskets; the sound of gunfire echoed from inside the château. "What the hell is going on there?" the captain yelled. The group of Musketeers jumped from their horses and ran toward the melee with pistols in hand.
Tréville shot a soldier coming through the front doors carrying a small bust of the king; the figure shattered into pieces when it fell from the dead man's hands. The other six Musketeers spread out around the side of the château, taking cover behind the stone pillars of the arched breezeway, as they picked off Spaniards running by.
Three of the Musketeers chased after a group of soldiers running across the courtyard to the château's spiral staircase. They gave chase up the stairs with one Musketeer following a soldier to the second floor; one to the third floor; and one to the fourth.
Tréville and the remaining men ran to the front of the château, staying close to the pillars for cover; they continued through the grand entrance, into the grand foyer. The men spotted soldiers running through the hallways to the rooms, pillaging and ransacking whatever their hearts desired. No one was around to stop them.
The Captain of the Musketeers focused on the furious sound of gunfire coming from the second floor. He instantly recognized the familiar sound of the Musketeer wheellock pistols returning fire and grew increasingly alarmed. "Dammit, we need to get upstairs!" he whispered harshly to his men. He ran toward the staircase, knowing not of the chaos or mayhem he would find his four best Musketeers embroiled in.
Tréville and his men hid on both sides of the sweeping staircase, behind large marble pedestals topped with ornate statues of golden angels. The men waited until the Spaniards were occupied with their looting; then they opened fire, surprising the enemy soldiers and taking them out of the fight.
The four men skipped up the stairs to just outside the bedchamber where the incapacitated Musketeers were caught in a desperate fight for their lives. The rescuers quickly reloaded their pistols and drew their swords; they charged into the room, ready to shoot enemy soldiers dead or run them through with the sword.
"Captain!" the men cried out in unison, overcome with relief. Aramis took advantage of the lull to pull himself across the floor until he was next to Athos' bleeding form; his shaking fingers zeroed in on the neck, checking the severity of the damage done.
"My God, what the hell happened to him?" Captain Tréville shouted. "Was he shot?"
"No, he wasn't shot," Aramis promptly replied. "He was cut with a blade; it looks like his stitches were sliced through."
"Let me take a look at him." Doctor Molyneux dropped down beside the medic and began examining the neck wound. "Take your handkerchief and apply heavy pressure," he instructed Aramis. "We need to stop the bleeding before we can do anything else."
"I cannot believe this!" Aramis yelled in frustration, at wit's end with the additional wounds this new attack has caused each of them. "Athos was just beginning to heal, dammit!" the medic cursed as he applied pressure to his friend's neck. He ducked suddenly as another shot rang out from the hallway, hitting the doorframe and sending wooden splinters flying.
Porthos ran to the doorway and readied his pistol. He waited for the soldier to come closer before drawing down on him; he killed the Spaniard with a shot to the chest. "Captain, there's more soldiers comin'!"
"Aramis, are you well enough to help?" the captain yelled as he shot a soldier, coming down the hall.
"Go on Aramis, I can take care of Athos," Doctor Molyneux nodded. "I'll keep pressure on his neck until the bleeding slows, but right now your captain needs you."
D'Artagnan and Steward Fontaine stood on each side of the doorway as Porthos stepped back into the room to reload. The two men aimed their pistols then shot two soldiers; they watched as the men fell backwards and tumbled down the steps. Before the Gascon could withdraw his pistol, a ball hit the weapon and sent it flying from the Musketeer's hand.
"Dammit," he yelled as the weapon skidded to a stop several feet down the hall.
"Let me in there, brother." Porthos pushed d'Artagnan out of the way to stand flush with the wall. The Musketeer carefully peeked around the corner but a soldier was ready; he shot as soon as he saw the curly-haired man's head.
Porthos quickly threw himself back against the wall as he heard the shot ring out but not before the ball creased his skin, just above his right eyebrow. "Ah, bloody hell," the large Musketeer cursed as he wiped away the blood flowing into his eyes.
D'Artagnan's eyes widened at the sight of his friend's bleeding head. "Porthos, are you alright?" The Gascon noticed movement on the staircase and turned to shoot a soldier just as he was about to charge into the room. The young Musketeer fell against the wall and let out a sigh; the relief was short-lived as he frowned at his wounded friend. "Let me take a look at it."
"I'm fine," Porthos growled. "The ball just grazed me; I could hear it buzzin' as it flew by me like a damn bee."
"My friend, think of it this way." Aramis creased his brow, studying the wound. "Now you'll have a scar above your right eye to match the one above your left," he chuckled.
Porthos glared at the medic. "That's rubbish," he growled. "I don't need no more scars"
"The scars impress the ladies," d'Artagnan chimed in. "They'll really be impressed with this story—if we ever get out of here to tell it."
Just then, there was the sound of a wheellock pistol firing at the end of the hallway in the left wing; the shot was soon followed by another and then another before it was finally quiet.
The Musketeers in the room exchanged confused glances before turning to Captain Tréville, who wore a relieved smile. "Ah, those are your other three comrades; the men were eliminating Spaniards on other floors of the château."
"Captain, what the hell is going on here?" D'Artagnan voiced harshly, having gone beyond losing his patience with the Spanish soldiers. "How many more soldiers are there?"
"I can only conjecture. . . based on the events over the last few days…" the captain paused. How do I tell the men about Gaston, the Queen, the conspiracy—everything that's happened?
"Cap'n, you're not makin' sense." Porthos shook his head.
"I'll have to sit down and tell you everything, but now is not the time," the captain replied tersely. "We need to secure the château against further attack."
At that moment, they heard the sound of scattered gunshots in the courtyard, soon followed by the yelled of orders to form company. "Un, deux…"
"What the…?" Aramis exchanged puzzled glances with his brothers and Captain Tréville.
D'Artagnan and Captain Tréville rushed to the windows to look and see what was going on in the courtyard. The Gascon emitted a whoop of celebration at the scene before his eyes.
The rest of the Musketeers rushed to the windows and soon joined in with the cheering. Down in the château courtyard, the men viewed French Army troops falling into formation in disciplined rows, perfectly uniform and dressed right, as they faced their commander. While the main company of soldiers stood in formation, a squad of French soldiers patrolled the area, searching for wayward Spanish troops. Movement on the spiral staircase was detected, triggering the squad into giving chase to the Spanish soldiers.
"I need to get out there and let them know we're in here," Captain Tréville declared impatiently.
"No, Cap'n," Porthos warned. "It's not safe to go out there yet," he motioned toward the hallway.
"Captain, if you step out there, you could be shot from a soldier hiding in any of those rooms," Aramis protested. "We don't know how many are still out there, waiting for us to let our guard down."
"Steward Fontaine, do you think Duke Gaston will mind if we break one of these windows?" d'Artagnan asked as he inspected the window with a scowl on his face. "I don't see any way to open these damn windows!"
"I do not think that we have an alternative, my young Musketeer friend," the steward smiled. "Besides, a window can be replaced; a life cannot."
"Stand back." Captain Tréville cautioned the men as he readied his pistol to break a pane of glass. He looked down to the courtyard below to ensure no troops would be hurt by falling glass and then, with a swift flick of his wrist, the captain broke the glass; the broken shards spiraled downward and then shattered on the ground.
"Bonjour, I am Captain Tréville of the King's Musketeer's," the captain yelled to the alerted troops. "I am with ten of my Musketeers, as well as Eriq Fontaine, Steward of Château de Blois; we have wounded men here in the second floor bedchamber, across from the staircase. There are Spanish soldiers scattered everywhere in the château, but particularly on the second floor," he warned.
The captain watched as the French commander gave orders to the company to go in search of the Spaniards. The soldiers were ordered to clear the château of the enemy, paying special attention to the second floor. After the building was secure, he would meet with the captain of the Musketeers.
The sound of scattered gunfire thundered throughout the château, mixing with yelling and cursing in Spanish and in French. Steward Fontaine, Captain Tréville and the unwounded Musketeers ran to the doorway of their room with pistols loaded, each ready to shoot Spaniards attempting to escape.
Aramis jumped into action as he saw a Spaniard rush from across the hall toward their room. The medic shot the soldier, hitting the man in the abdomen, but still the soldier charged forward. "Damn" the marksman cursed. "Porthos…"
The large Musketeer shot the Spaniard, felling the soldier with a ball to the chest. The captain and the steward shot at soldiers emerging from the room diagonally across the hall just as a squad of French troops bounded up the stairs.
French soldiers poured up the staircases on both ends of the second floor, shooting Spanish soldiers as they swept from room to room.
Captain Tréville and Steward Fontaine took advantage of the many French troops milling through the château to go downstairs and meet with the French commander still waiting in the courtyard.
Aramis stepped into the hallway to assess the situation when a young Frenchman spotted the Musketeer. Thinking he was a Spanish soldier, the tense Frenchman opened fire on the medic from the stairs. The marksman fell backward from impact; he slumped against the wall, then slid to the ground as blood poured from his upper thigh.
"Why did you shoot, damn you?" d'Artagnan screamed at the soldier. "Aramis is with us! Dammit, he's a Musketeer; you just shot a Musketeer!"