This is a long chapter, I do hope it's not too long...

Chapter 28

Gusts of winds caused branches to whip and sway, grasses to bend and wave, and leaves and twigs and dust to swirl. Porthos' big horse lowered his head and pushed onward, even as the sounds of thunder cracked and boomed overhead. The dark clouds had rolled in and spread across the sky with a vengeance. The weeks without rain were about to change. The ground needed it, dying plants craved it, and thirsty animals pleaded for it. If they were fortunate, and the rains lasted, the rivers, creeks, and lakes would rise, if even a little.

Porthos felt Athos' shift uncomfortably, lean forward once more, and then slump back. He struggled to remain seated with uncontrollable tremors. Pain cursed through him and he hitched his breaths as lungs fought for air while his chest and stomach muscles spasmed. Athos shivered against whatever chill forced his body to react. Sweat dampened hair hung in clusters around his face. Occasionally, he would lean to the right, cough, and then groan. Porthos held steady, kept a strong arm around him, and reminded him to stay strong. Whether his voice was heard, he could not determine.

"You… should leave me," Athos said. He grasped the pommel and his knuckles turned white as fingers strained. "Find Aramis."

"I'm not leavin' you," Porthos said. He closed his eyes and winced when the rain started. It was slow at first, followed by roaring thunder and then sudden, violent flashes of lightning. "I'm lookin' for a shelter, Athos… I'm not leavin' you."

What started as a drizzle quickly turned into a downpour. The horses tucked their tails, snorted, and flickered their ears. Puddles quickly formed. Topsoil, dust, and debris ran in narrow streams along the road. Tree branches continued to bend and sway beneath the force of the weather.

Both horses jumped to the right when a roar of thunder cracked and boomed above them. Then suddenly, a strike of lightning struck a tree a few lengths ahead. Porthos' mount jumped to the right and then reared. Unable to keep to their seats, both men tumbled from the horse. Athos fell onto his left side and remained motionless. Porthos fell but held tight to his mount's reins and was on his feet fighting to keep the animal from fleeing. Roger snorted, perked his ears forward, and raised his head high with his nostrils flared. His reins landed on the ground and the big horse shied to his left and then to his right, forcing Porthos' horse to stumble and collect his feet.

Despite the rain, flames engulfed the hollowed tree. It had split down the middle. A portion fell across the road, blackened wood splintered and spiked upward, and several shards lay scattered within the weeds.

Porthos pulled on the reins and his horse backed away. The big animal snorted, jumped, and muscles quivered. He was slow to settle, but once he lowered his head, flicked his ears, and chewed on the bit, Porthos relaxed the reins and calmed him. He turned, looked toward Athos who had not moved, and then at Roger, who had backed away and stood on alert.

"Athos!" Porthos shouted. He wiped his face, led his horse toward him in a rush, and then knelt beside him. "Hey," he grasped Athos' right arm above his elbow.

Athos groaned, pressed his forehead against the wet soil, and felt the rain slap against the side of his head and neck, and soak his clothing. He couldn't go on and he knew it. He didn't have the strength. Whatever it was that ran through his body had weakened him to the point of exhaustion.

Porthos squinted and looked up the road. Then he looked across the field to his left. He rubbed his eyes, frowned, and squinted again. He saw something, a flash of light that moved but quickly disappeared. "Athos…" he squatted and grasped Athos' arm. "I think there's a buildin' across this field… maybe a farmhouse." He slipped his arms beneath Athos' shoulders and grunted as he forced him into a seated position.

Athos leaned back, took several deep breaths, and tried to force his body to cooperate. Nothing worked properly. He scraped the heel of his boot along the rocky ground and exhaled. He couldn't see. His muscles quivered and shook uncontrollably, and sharp pains continued to shoot across his back, his shoulders, and around his ribs. His left leg felt numb, and his right cramped.

Porthos took a deep breath, grunted, and hefted Athos upward. Once again, Porthos shifted him toward his horse, and with more determination than skill, he got Athos mounted. Athos leaned forward, grasped the pommel of the saddle and listened to the rain splatter against the road, the back of his doublet, land in his hair and run in rivulets down his face. He could hear the branches slap each other, the grasses sway and bend, and he could hear Porthos' horse breathe and snort.

"Athos," Porthos said, and gripped Athos' arm once more. "Can you stay seated?" He felt the tremors beneath his hand and then looked into the distance. When he didn't get a response, he sighed, grabbed Roger's reins and then led both horses from the road, onto the field, and walked toward the house in the distance.

It was dusk by the time he saw the flickering of light in a window. It offered him hope for sanctuary. A temporary place of refuge to ride out the storm and allow Athos time to rest. Porthos glanced over his shoulder at him. Athos had not moved and remained slumped over the cantle. His fingers were woven into the horse's mane. His head rested against the animal's neck. Roger followed closely behind. The rains continued. Thunder continued to roar, and lightning fishtailed across the sky. The jagged edges appeared and disappeared as quickly as they were seen and for an instant, it was daylight again. Porthos limped. When he had fallen from his horse, he had hit his hip and knee and as he continued to walk; the pain persisted. His shoulder ached and his arm continued to throb.

There was a part of him that blamed Treville, the king, and Rochefort. He blamed Paris, his horse, the weather, and he had even resorted to blaming the necklace and the fabric.

Errand boys.

Porthos huffed, cursed himself when he stumbled, and then tightened his grip on the reins. There were plenty of fine artisans in Paris. Many who were known for their gifts and talents with silk, lace, and jewels. But the king had to have what he wanted… the damn necklace crafted by a man whose daughter suffered painfully awful bouts of excess wind, and fabric trimmed and embroidered in gold lace. Porthos rubbed his face and flung the excess rain from his hand. It was supposed to be an easy job, but it was never easy, not for men who were known to be the king's finest guards.

Porthos spat, settled himself, and looked again toward Athos. Regardless of the injuries, the threats that constantly haunted them, they were no different from anyone else. The roads outside of Paris were known to be brutally troublesome, and many had lost their lives to bandits, thieves, and murderers. Paris at night could be a challenge if someone wasn't paying attention. It wasn't unusual to learn someone had been attacked, tossed into the river, beaten to death in a back ally, or raped. Crimes happened all the time, and as Porthos thought about it, he realized he had grown callus to it. At least, until it happened to him or those he loved.

Porthos paused in his steps, looked at the house, the light that flickered through the cracks in the walls, and then he cleared his throat. "Hello!" he called. "Hello in the 'ouse!" He heard a dog bark, cattle rustle, and two horses walked from beneath the lean-to against the big barn to his right. They perked their ears forward and arched their necks over the fence in curiosity. "I'm a King's Musketeer!" Porthos took a tentative step forward and then waited.

It was a simple farmhouse built from stone, daub, and rough-cut wood. The awning leaned slightly to the left but was reinforced with a board propped against the roof and support beam. Light could be seen beneath the door, and behind the shutters that covered glassless windows.

Slowly, the front door squeaked open, and a form appeared, shadowed by the light behind him. He raised his musket and pointed it toward Porthos. "I don't want no trouble from the likes of you!" He shouted with a gruff voice. He looked over his shoulder as a woman peeked behind him, and he waved her back inside. "I've heard about what you've done… I'm not letting anyone take this farm or hurt my family!"

Porthos raised his hands. "I'm a King's Musketeer," he said. "I'm seekin' assistance…" he slowly walked forward. "I'm not 'ere about your farm or your lands." The reins of the horses rested loosely in his right hand. Both mounts followed at a casual gait.

"Stay right there, Musketeer!" The man raised his weapon and looked down the barrel. He could hardly hear over the splatters of rain on the roof. The lack of lighting and the cloud covered moon prevented him from seeing clearly.

Porthos swallowed, stepped to his left to allow the light from the open door to shine upon him. "My name is Porthos du Vallon, a musketeer on a mission for the king. It is your duty to assist us!" It was at this moment he missed Athos' commanding voice when he demanded attention and expected results. Porthos flared his nostrils, clenched his jaw, and kept his hands held high.

The man shifted his stance but continued to hold up his weapon. "How do I know that? How do I know you're not one of them… one of them," he paused, "murderers ravaging the countryside?"

Porthos, with his hands still raised, turned slightly to his left to expose the pauldron on his shoulder. "Do you see this?" He pointed to the leather piece. "Do you see it?"

"Yeah, I see it!"

"It's the pauldron worn by the King's Musketeers — only — the King's Musketeers —"

"You could have stolen it!"

"Not from me!" Porthos shouted and stood tall. "I 'ave a brother who 'as been injured, 'e needs a dry place to rest. I will pay you for your assistance."

"And how was he injured?" The man tightened his hands around the barrel of his musket. He coughed once and spat to his left before looking again at Porthos.

"We were attacked while on duty for the king."

The man shifted uncomfortably, leaned to his right when his wife said something to him, and then he motioned the end of the musket toward the barn. "There's a room in the barn. My stable hand is away… you can use his quarters," he said. "I've got daughters — I'm not letting you in my house — and if you try anything, I'll shoot you and face the consequences from the king after."

Porthos slowly lowered his hands and nodded. "Thank you." He pointed to the barn. "We won't be any trouble." He led the horses across the clearing. He looked over his shoulder and watched the man lower his musket but continued to watch from beneath the awning.

The high peeked barn was as wide as it was long. The doorless opening allowed for minimal light, and Porthos squinted in the darkness as he led the horses inside. Exposed rafters and support beams on either side of the entry provided stability for several boxed stalls for animals. A milking cow swallowed her cud and stood to peek at the strangers. Several goats, sheep, and a large draft mare that was days from giving birth were in the stalls to the right. Porthos caught a faint reflection of light and recognized the lantern that hung from a hook on the beam near the door. He immediately reached for his flint and steel and the fuse was quick to ignite. The glass chimney smoked, and Porthos hooked it back into place as he looked at Athos who had not moved, nor made any attempt to question his whereabouts.

To the left of the doors was a room built from hand-scraped wooden boards with gaps filled with mud and daub. The door was nothing more than an oilskin cloth that covered the opening. Porthos pushed it back, peeked inside and found a narrow cot against the far wall, a small open-stone fireplace with a chimney made from clay and stones. The firedog was empty, fireplace tools sat untouched near the hearth, and a bucket filled with ash sat to the left of the opening. A stool doubled as a small table near the cot, and several blankets lay folded with a single pillow atop the straw-stuffed mattress.

It wasn't much, but it was dry. Porthos turned, released the reins of the horses, and placed a hand on Athos' left shoulder, and another on his back.

"Athos," Porthos said and then tried to slowly pull him from the saddle.

Athos tightened his thighs, his calves, and his fingers within the mane. The change of his position caused instincts to override common sense, and he gasped when he felt the big horse move to accommodate the shifting of his weight.

"Athos," Porthos said again. "I need to get you off this 'orse, dry, an' warm?"

Athos raised his head and looked in Porthos' direction. He swallowed, nodded, and then allowed himself to be pulled from the saddle. Weakened muscles quivered and threatened to buckle as he leaned against Porthos, who slipped his arm around Athos' back and shuffled him to the room.

"It's not much, but it's better than bein' out in the weather," Porthos said. He guided Athos to the cot and helped him get seated.

Athos shivered. He closed his eyes and listened to the shuffling of feet, fabrics, and then felt a reassuring grip on his arm.

Porthos rubbed his face and then grabbed the stool and sat in front of Athos. "Let's get you out of your doublet, that weapons belt, an' you can rest for a while."

Athos fumbled with the buckle of weapons belt and was relieved the moment it released. He leaned forward, groaned, and hitched his breath as the pains once again ravaged through him. He felt Porthos shift against him, hold him up, and just be still. "This…" Athos said in a tone barely above a whisper, "feels… like death."

Porthos waited until the tremors passed and then helped Athos out of his doublet. "Lay back, Athos," he said, shifted the pillow beneath his head and then draped a blanket over him.

Athos lay slightly on his left side, tucked his arms close to his chest as he battled the chills. "Why…" He frowned and then asked in confusion, "Why is it so cold?"

"It's not, brother," Porthos said and rubbed his face again. He stood, grabbed the lantern and left the room. He heard the oilskin cloth fall closed behind him and he took a shuddered breath. Porthos pressed his hand against the doorframe and struggled to collect himself. He looked toward the house, watched the light from the flames of lanterns and candles flicker through the cracks in the building. He closed his eyes, looked over his shoulder, and exhaled slowly. With a deep breath, he collected an arm's load of wood from the pile near the doors and then reentered the small room. He placed the wood on the stone hearth and placed the lantern next to the logs. It was only moments before he had the fire lit. Kindling glowed as the flames ignited the wood that was ripe for burning. Porthos turned and then rested the lamp on the stool next to the cot as he knelt beside it.

"Athos?" It was the first time Porthos noticed the large welt along Athos' left temple. Abraded flesh, speckled with blood and bruising had spread from his scalp to his left eye and along his cheek. A long cut ran along his hairline and blood was in his ear and ran along the curve of his jaw. Porthos frowned, moved the lantern in front of Athos' face and watched him blink and his pupils failed to react. His nosebleed had stopped, but Porthos could tell he was still congested. While the rain had washed away much of the blood, there was some still matted in his beard, his mustache, and below his nose. "Athos?"

Athos hitched his breath and breathed through slightly parted lips. He blinked several times but saw nothing. He could hear Porthos' breathing, the subtle shifts of his clothing as he moved, and he could feel the heat of the lantern on his face.

"What are you feelin'?"

Athos closed his eyes, listened to the horses chew on the hay while still bridled. He could hear the quiet clucks of chickens that roosted, and the drops of rain into growing puddles. "Feels…" he hitched his breath and wished Porthos would hit him. A quick right cross to his jaw would be enough to put him out of his misery, at least for a while. "Feels like… death."

Porthos winced and grasped Athos' shoulder. "You've already said that… can you be more specific?" He frowned, and then gently pulled back the collar of Athos' blouse and noticed a red puncture wound surrounded with a slight rash and swelling. "What happened here?" He touched Athos' neck and took a closer look.

Athos coughed and grasped at the blanket. He clutched it closer to his chest and then felt Porthos' cupped hand at the back of his head.

"Athos… I think you might 'ave been poisoned." Porthos frowned, and leaned back on his haunches. "Athos?"

Athos nodded, pressed his head against the pillow. "You should go… find Aramis."

"I'm not leavin' you."

"You…" Athos said and winced. He went quiet as he rode out the waves of pain and said, "Might… not… have a choice." He quieted suddenly. His hands went slack as he closed his eyes and suddenly lost consciousness.

"Is he dead?" The old farmer said as he entered the room. Still holding his musket, he stepped toward the fire and looked over Porthos' shoulder. The light of the flames highlighted his features. He was tall, thin, with a long, wiry, beard and mustache that reached his sternum. Large brown eyes peered at the figure on the bed, and the man craned his neck to get a closer look. He wore a simple cream-colored blouse that was stained at the cuffs, and tan britches that tied at the knees. His floppy boots were covered in mud.

"No," Porthos said.

"He looks dead."

"He's not!" Porthos snapped and suddenly turned to look at the farmer.

The man stepped back and raised the end of his musket. He swallowed and nodded. "My wife wants to help you — she says it's the Christian thing to do. I'm of a mind to let you rest and be on your way, but," he paused and looked again at the figure on the bed, "it don't look like he's going anywhere anytime soon." He lowered the end of the musket and winced when the musket-ball rolled along the length of the barrel and landed with a thump on the floor.

Porthos relaxed his shoulders, grasped Athos' arm above his wrist, and took an exhausted breath.

The man stepped forward, picked up the musket ball and then slipped it into his pocket. He shrugged and watched Porthos shift from a kneeling position near the cot and then sit on the stool. "Emry is my name, and my wife is Eve."

Porthos introduced himself and Athos. "An' your daughters?" he asked. He reached for the edge of the blanket and pulled it over Athos' shoulders before resting his elbows on his knees and rubbed tiredly at his face.

"Beatrice and Hope… you understand why I can't have you in the house?" Emry questioned. He rested his musket against the wall and then stoked the fire. Using the small shovel, he shoved a runaway hot coal back and crowded it near the wood.

"This is fine," Porthos said with a long sigh. "I'm grateful to be out of the weather…" He watched the subtle shifts of Athos shoulders as he inhaled and exhaled through narrowly parted lips. Porthos looked at the bruising, his pale features, and the blood still caked within his hair. "I think he was poisoned —"

"What kind of poison?" Eve asked as she stepped inside the room. She carried a tray with two bowls and a small loaf of bread. "Emry," she said as she looked at her husband. "Fetch that old table for me."

Emry nodded, dusted his thighs, and then left the room, only to return a few seconds later with a small wooden table. The top was missing a chunk of wood from its edge, and a long crack ran along the center. Emry placed it against the wall. He shoved it into place, forcing the crack together, and then took the tray from his wife and placed it on the surface.

"What kind of poison do you think he was given?" Eve asked again. She wiped her hands on her apron that hung from a long strap around her neck and covered the front of her simple brown dress. She stepped to the narrow bed, pressed a delicate hand against Athos' forehead, and frowned. "He's chilled," she looked at Porthos with a frown, "I would expect a fever… He looks to have been beaten."

Porthos nodded. "We ran into some trouble in the village…" he rubbed his face again.

"Emry, my love, fetch my kit," Eve said over her shoulder.

"I'm not leaving you here alone with him."

"I'll be fine… I trust," Eve looked at Porthos, "that a King's Musketeer will be honorable."

Porthos nodded. He stood so she could sit on the stool, and then positioned himself by the fire while Emry hesitantly nodded and left the room. Eve was small, thin, with mousy brown hair and a roman nose. She had large blue eyes outlined with thick lashes, and a large dark mole at the corner of her right eye. She took a seat, and then carefully lifted the lantern, and then turned to look at Porthos when he cleared his throat.

"Allow me," Porthos said, and took the lantern from her.

"What have his symptoms been?" Eve asked.

Porthos took a deep breath and said, "He lost his vision —"

Eve looked at Porthos questionably. "From a poison?" She returned to her ministrations and gently ran her hand along the cut on Athos' head and tenderly felt around the swelling by his temple. "No," she said, "poison won't cause blindness — unless it was used long term — but," she looked up at Porthos, "a severe hit to his head might."

"Is it permanent?" Porthos asked.

Eve shrugged. "I can't answer that," she said softly. "What else?"

"Chills, severe muscle tremors, he retched a few times, an' he's been in a lot of pain."

Eve nodded. "The retching might be from the head injury." She pulled back the collar of Athos' blouse and ran her finger over the welt and looked at Porthos. "A poisonous tip," she said with a frown. "I saw this once… many years ago when I lived in Italy." She pressed her hand once more to Athos' forehead. "This could be a number of different poisons — it could be a combination — or something I'm not familiar with. I've heard stories about warring tribes in Africa using the venom of frogs, snakes, and even fish."

"You're familiar with poisons?"

Eve curled her lips into a sad smile and shook her head. "Stories mostly. I'm familiar enough to know what plants to stay away from, and what plants to eat, Monsieur. I have children and know how to treat some things, but not all. Your friend would be better cared for by a physician, but I doubt bleeding him would help him, and I'm hesitant to try." She paused for a moment in thought and looked at the flames of the fire that warmed the room. "Paris is too far for him to travel in his condition and the only physician near Allier is the barber, Monsieur Panneton." She exhaled slowly. "I wouldn't take my dog to him." She pulled back the collar of Athos' blouse once more and studied the welt. "This doesn't look deep," she said and shifted to her right as Porthos moved the light for better visibility. "We can only treat him with the little I have," she said and looked at Porthos with a shrug. "I do not know what else to do for him."

"Whatever you can do."

Eve stood, flipped the edge of her apron, and wiped her hands across the front. "I'll brew some tea for him, and I'll have Emry bring you a cot." He looked at Porthos. "You look tired." She turned and walked toward the exit but paused and looked back at both men.

Porthos clenched his jaw and looked at her. He saw the concern written across her pale features and his heart clenched in disappointment.

Eve nodded. "I'll see to that tea."