Chapter 22

Athos tied the bundle to his saddle and then looked at Porthos, who, with a motion of his chin toward the Nightstar Tavern, raised an eyebrow.

"It's a long ride back to the river, 'ow about gettin' some food first?" Porthos looked over the seat of his saddle. "You didn't eat any of that stew last night. An' what about this mornin'?" He cocked an eyebrow. "The rewarmed stew was good — did you 'ave any?"

Athos looked toward the tavern. He was hungry, and as though on cue his stomach grumbled. The building was simple with several windows on the second floor. Two were open, and the shutters tapped the shingled siding. Smoke filtered from the main chimney and his stomach growled again when he caught the scent of baking bread. He watched a man tumble out the front door, catch himself on the banister railing before pushing himself upright. He took a deep breath, exhaled through puffed cheeks, and started his drunken walk home.

"Bread and ale, Porthos. We need to get back on the road," Athos said and ran his hand along the length of Roger's neck.

Porthos clapped his hands, secured his horse's reins to the tie, and then followed Athos into the tavern. It was busy. A strange man stood from a table near the back and immediately exited through the side door. Two men laughed while leaning over a table talking. The man on the right was missing his left eye. He was bald and his attire was well worn and dirty. The man on the left was younger, with salt and pepper hair that fell into his eyes. A jagged scar ran along the right side of his neck. He was armed and weapons hung from a well-oiled belt that cinched tightly around his waist.

A big man, nearly as tall as Porthos but without his muscle mass, stood near the far door and belched. The sound echoed across the room and caused several others to paused in their antics and laugh. The man slapped his hand against the wall and raised his empty pewter cup. "I need some more!" He laughed and exposed rotten teeth.

An older woman with wild gray hair that strayed from the braid that ran the length of her back grabbed a pitcher and quickly refilled it. Her hips were wide, her bosoms small, and her hands were caked with dough. She rubbed the right side of her cheek on her shoulder and walked from table to table refilling glasses and making promises to deliver food.

"Take a seat where you can find one, Messieurs," the woman said and walked past them.

Athos looked at Porthos and then weaved their way across the room and found an empty table next to the stairs that led to the guest rooms. Athos looked at the wax that collected on the stem of the holder and the surface of the wood from the candle that burned and neared the end of its life. Food particles were embedded within the molten forms that continued to increase in size with each drip. Someone, at some point in time, had carved the ear of a horse into the surface. It was rough, filled with debris, food, and grease.

Two men arm-wrestled across the room. Each sat determined, their legs braced, their eyes set on each other. A woman with a long blonde hair that fell across her shoulders bit her thumbnail as she watched. The hem of her dress was torn and frayed, and a long rip ran along the right sleeve of her blouse.

The fireplace blazed, and two bread ovens on either side of its opening were in use. The woman who had told them to find a seat, opened one, and several men stood from their tables and moved away when the heat became too much to bear. With a long-handled bread paddle, she removed the rounded loaf and returned to the kitchen. One of the men, using thick batting, carefully pushed the door back into place and retook his seat.

Those in the room were familiar with the idiosyncrasies of the owners and their staff. The monotony of daily rituals had become more habitual than thoughtful. A black and white dog slept by the front door and nestled comfortably on an abandoned quilted doublet. Unlit lanterns hung from the walls between the windows and along the support beams. The stone floor shined where it had been worn and chipped, while dirt and debris gathered in areas beneath the tables, along the walls, and near the hearth of the fireplace.

With a red face and sweat that glistened off her skin, the older woman stepped to the table with a tray with two pewter mugs of ale, two bowls of chicken soup, and a fresh loaf of bread. She wiped her brow with the sleeve of her blouse and exhaled slowly. "That'll be ten sous." She placed her hands on her hips and waited.

Athos reached into his coin-purse and removed enough coinage to pay and then looked at her in question. "Are you always this busy?" He looked around the room when several more guests entered. He noticed how many of the locals stopped suddenly, looked at the men, and then continued their business.

The woman sighed, counted the change, and said, "No, but I've heard rumors that the local nobility are hirin' protection for their estates — We've had riffraff and miscreants in here for weeks." She recounted the money and then dropped it into the pocket of her stained apron.

"Are they after the gang?" Porthos asked as he grabbed a spoon and dipped it into his soup.

"Murderers," the man at the table next to them said. He turned in his seat, rested his arm over the back of the chair and said, "They killed a family last night — burned 'em out of their home when they refused to give 'em what they wanted." He pointed to each Porthos and Athos. "You best be careful out here… just because you wear that," he slapped his shoulder to emphasize the pauldrons, "don't mean you're goin' to be protected. Folks out here are done gettin' robbed and havin' their livelihoods stolen out from under 'em."

Athos frowned and watched another group of men enter the tavern; nine in all. They were well armed; took inventory of who was seated where, and then maneuvered their way toward the seating in the back.

"Have you been attacked?" Athos asked, and looked at the man who shook his head. "Not me, but my neighbor was — they stole several of his finest horses." He pointed to Athos' shoulder. "You're a King's Musketeer," The man said with a hint of frustration, "tell the king why don't you… let him know what these… these… beasts are doing to his people. All of us," he raised his hand and pointed toward several tables, "pay our taxes… Figure maybe you and those guards he keeps for himself can do some good out here where we need you."

A crash echoed across the room. Soup arched from the bowl as it was pushed from a table. It landed with a splash. The big man whose teeth were missing pointed a finger toward the second group of men who had entered and shouted, "You! I've seen your face!"

"That's them!" someone shouted. "It's them!"

Tables were suddenly overturned, a chair was slammed across another man's back, and the men who had entered the tavern last pulled their weapons and joined in the fray. Athos groaned in annoyance and watched Porthos quickly drink his soup from the lip of his bowl, and then swung it toward the man who charged him. Porthos smashed it against the man's jaw, and he fell in a boneless heap to the floor. Athos kicked a man's shin while seated and quickly stood. He shoved another man backward.

"This isn't our fight!" Athos shouted toward Porthos, who nodded.

Porthos nodded. "I'm right behind you."

They were strangers in a strange town, nobody knew them, and suddenly everyone in the room was their enemy. It was one side against the other, but Athos and Porthos didn't belong to either. They struggled to get to the door but found themselves caught within the fray of the fight.

Athos grunted when he was grabbed and shoved against the wall. Someone grabbed a fistful of his doublet and threw a punch that he managed to duck. Using his right shoulder he pushed the man backward and onto a table that collapsed beneath both their weight.

Porthos ducked, then punched a man across the jaw, and then grabbed another before he could attack. "I'm not your enemy!"

"Horseshit!" another man shouted and tried desperately to pull a knife from his belt. He gave up and swung his fist instead.

Porthos clenched his jaw, swung his arm, and caused his attacker to fall backward into a group of men who charged.

Athos groaned when someone kicked his right side. He struggled to his arms and legs and pried himself off the broken table. He quickly reached for the man's leg just as he was about to kick again and forced it upward, causing the man to fall backward with a "humph." Athos grunted when someone fell over his back and then Athos was grabbed by his collar and yanked to his feet. He faced a man with long black hair, a clean shaven face, and bright, crystal-like blue eyes.

"You must be Athos," the man said with a heavy accent and then quirked the right side of his mouth into a half smile. He ducked as a chair was swung toward him but stood suddenly when the chair shattered against the support beam.

"Who are you?" Athos asked and stepped back as two men stumbled and fell between them.

A glass was thrown and shattered against the wall.

"The Spanish," the man said, "say hello." He lunged forward grabbed Athos' by the collar and shoved him backward against the wall.

Athos kicked, struck his thigh, and listened to him yelp.

"Musketeer!" Someone shouted. "Send a message to your king!"

Porthos frowned, searched for the voice, and suddenly ducked when a man charged him using his pistol as a club. Porthos reached for a chair but roared in pain when the leg of a broken table connected with the unbendable force of his forearm. Pain shot up his arm and he pulled it to his chest to protect himself and the limb. He glanced to his right and watched in horror as Athos was suddenly hit across the head, neck, and shoulder with a stool. He grunted, fell to the floor, and then struggled to his hands and knees as blood fell from the long gash across his right temple.

"Athos!" Porthos shouted and struggled through the maze of bodies and fighting men. He shoved someone aside, grabbed someone else's collar and pushed him back.

Athos felt the sharpness of pain behind his eyes, through his head, and he struggled to his feet. Someone grabbed him by the arm of his doublet. Through blurred vision he couldn't see his face, but he felt the warmth of the man's breath against his ear as he whispered, "Enjoy the ride, Musketeer."

Athos turned toward the person and felt a sharp pain to his neck and he stumbled forward once again. The stranger spun around and fled through the back of the building.

"Athos!" Porthos shouted. He adjusted his hold on the back of Athos' doublet and yanked him upward and then together they struggled toward the door. More bodies fell before them, chairs were tossed, and someone was thrown out the large window that overlooked the street. Porthos kicked opened the door, and dragged a stumbling Athos with him toward the horses.

Athos fell against Roger and the big black sidestepped, raised his head, and flickered his ears. Several men tumbled through the door and crawled out the shattered window. Athos untied his mount, grabbed the cantle of his saddle and struggled to mount.

Porthos, with his arm still held tightly against his chest, mounted, and spun his horse around as the men chased after them.

"They're getting away!" came a shout from the tavern.

"Athos!" Porthos watched Athos awkwardly mount and turn his horse toward the road. "We've got to go!"

Athos kicked Roger's sides and followed Porthos at a gallop out of town.

The crazed men from the tavern ran for their horses: locals, hired guards, strangers, and those seeking employment. It was chaos, total confusion, and an emotional cluster of anger, frustration, betrayal, and fear. Men climbed into their wagons, mounted their horses, and chased after them. Guilt or innocence meant nothing. The moment the accusations had been shouted, guilt had been applied, and revenge was next on the menu. The men who had entered last, collected themselves with amused smiles, tactless grins, and acted as though they would join, but instead they quickly veered off and galloped their horses in the opposite direction. A handful of five men stayed behind. They dusted their doublets, mounted their horses, and departed though the trees.

Roger extended his gallop, stretched his head and neck, and felt his rider lean forward. The wind caused his mane to fly and flutter around his neck and head. The hollow clip-clops of hooves struck the hardened ground and both animals relied on their hearts and lungs as the distance from town increased. Athos pressed the heel of his hand to his temple, closed his eyes, and felt the pain radiate behind them. He could feel blood run along the side of his face, into his beard and collect in his hair. The light of the sun grew intense and he squinted against it. Athos felt Roger slow his gait to a canter and then finally a trot. Both horses were breathing hard. Roger snorted and white foam fell from his lips and lather collected along his breast-collar and cinch.

Athos leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes against the brightness of the day and like the brim of his hat, he used his hand to cover his eyes. He felt sick, and while he hadn't eaten, his stomach protested to the movement of his horses steps. His heart slammed against his chest and the pain in his head intensified. He suddenly leaned to his left and retched. His hands shook, and he gripped Roger's mane. Images blurred, and he felt his knuckles tighten for fear of falling.

Porthos pulled his horse to a stop when he realized Athos was no longer following. He spun the animal around and looked at Athos, who wiped at his nose and mouth, and pressed the heel of his right hand against his temple. Athos squinted, hitched his breath, and then blinked several times. Again he leaned to his right and coughed several times. Bloody spittle covered his lips, and he wiped a finger beneath his nose.

"Athos," Porthos said, "we need to keep movin'." He rode his horse closer. "We can't stay 'ere, those people are just lookin' to blame someone." He frowned when he noticed blood dripping from Athos nose and then falling onto his doublet and his saddle. "Athos?" he rode closer.

Athos closed his eyes again, pressed his thumb and finger against them and rubbed. He then wiped his nose. He could hear Porthos' voice, knew what he was asking, but Athos couldn't answer. The bright lights were gone, his vision blurred and he squinted as he tried to focus on his hand, his horse, and Porthos. Panic was a curse all her own, and Athos opened his eyes wide, blinked slowly several times and then swallowed. He felt his heart slam against his chest, and his lungs struggled to expand. The pounding in his ears grew too intense.

"Athos?"

Athos hitched his breath and turned his head in Porthos' direction. "I…" he rubbed his eyes again, and smeared more blood across his eyelids and the bridge of his nose. His nosebleed continued. "I can't see."