Goodness, another long chapter. If you're still with me on this journey, thank you! This is a long story and hopefully it's keeping you entertained. Thank you all who have left feedback! I know time is precious and leaving me a note is really appreciated.

Now, on with the story...

Chapter 39

The moment Porthos awoke to the call of his name and a shake of his shoulder he was angry. He wasn't mad at d'Artagnan for doing what had been requested of him, but rather he was angry with himself. How dare he allow himself to fall asleep, find comfort in rest with a belly full of food when one of his brother's suffered. He rolled his bedroll while muttering to himself and silently thanked d'Artagnan for having the horses saddled and ready to ride. Porthos watched Aramis, who was still moving slowly, tie his bag to his saddle, and then secured his bedroll.

D'Artagnan mounted, collected the reins, and cleared his throat. There was only a hint of light cresting the horizon. The blackness of night was slowly fading, but the dark clouds that promised rain continued to taunt their journey. The winds picked up, the branches of the trees moved and shifted, and the leaves fluttered. They would ride through it as best they could. He watched Aramis mount with a gruff moan and then try to disguise his wince. Porthos soon followed.

D'Artagnan encouraged his horse forward and the big black maneuvered through the trees, up the incline, and then finally onto the road.

"If we ride 'ard," Porthos said, "we should be there a few 'ours before dark." He adjusted his seat in the saddle and urged his mount into a canter.

The winds shifted and grew more intense. The light of the morning sky morphed from reds, oranges, and blues to grays in a variety of shades. The heavy black clouds that promised a long and much needed storm continued to overwhelm the sky and the winds grew harsher as the branches on the trees bowed and bent with the force. Tall grasses and weeds swayed and shifted like the rolling waves on the high seas. The horses' manes fluttered, and they tucked their tails. Despite the heat of the summer weather, the cool air of the storm felt good against the musketeers' skin. Sweat collected on the horses' necks, flanks, and beneath the saddle pads. They had cantered, galloped, trotted, and slowed to brisk walks while they journeyed.

The sudden shout from behind them had all three men pulling on their horses' mouths and moving out of the way as five men on horseback galloped past them. The men's cloaks fluttered and flapped in the wind. The soft brim of their hats lay flat against their foreheads, and shod hooves struck the ground as they passed.

Porthos frowned and then he urged his mount back onto the path. Aramis and d'Artagnan quickly followed. Porthos' big bay tossed his head, chewed his bit, and danced forward. Porthos pulled his eyebrows together and watched one of the men pull this horse to a stop, yank on the reins, and turn abruptly toward them.

The sudden realization of what was to come caused everyone to pause. The winds stopped momentarily. The horses snorted, flickered their ears, and then danced beneath their riders as weapons were pulled.

"That's them!" The man shouted and drew his pistol. "Those are the musketeers!"

The remaining members of his group yanked their horses around with violent pulls on the reins. They pulled their weapons and then urged their horses into the cover of trees.

Porthos followed Aramis and d'Artagnan back into the thicket. All three dismounted, collected their weapons, and Aramis loaded his musket.

"Who, pray tell, did we anger so much that they would go to this extreme to find us?" Aramis said as he leaned against a tree. "We do not have time for this!" He nodded to d'Artagnan, who handed him his musket.

"According to you," d'Artagnan said with a snicker, "we're musketeers… this is just a normal day."

Aramis huffed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Shoot me next time I say anything like it again."

Porthos cocked his head to the left and looked at both with widened eyes. "I 'ave better things to be doin' right now." He grasped his pistol and looked carefully through the brush.

"We need to dispatch them quickly," Aramis said.

"Keep one alive," d'Artagnan said and then shrugged. "At least long enough to ask him a few questions."

Porthos huffed and then ducked when a musket-ball struck the tree he was standing behind. Bark splintered and scattered.

Aramis shifted to his right knee, rested his elbow on his left, and then moved his musket into position. The winds forced the branches to sway and bend, and Aramis blew on the fuse that smoked, and waited patiently for someone foolish enough to expose themselves.

The three positioned themselves apart from one another, each behind a cluster of trees. The horses had trotted toward a grassy knoll and grazed. Another shot was fired, and this time the musket ball struck a stone positioned between Aramis and d'Artagnan.

Aramis narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow. He waited, ignored the winds and the droplets of rain that patted his doublet. He watched the movement of branches, bushes, and grass. The moment he saw a flutter of brown fabric, he fired. Smoke billowed from his musket, and the sudden grunt and collapse of the enemy caused him to quirk his lips and he reached for d'Artagnan's musket, lit the fuse, and waited once more. His patience had always been a virtue. A gift that his mother had envied, and the women in his life had appreciated. He could listen to their diatribes and their monologues while looking engaged and making them feel as special as a diamond flower in a bouquet of roses. Aramis knelt like a stone statue. He watched, listened, and waited.

Fear, anger, and foolishness; a combination of failures

The movement and rustling of grasses is what gave the enemy away. The men on the hunt for musketeers pushed aside the branches of trees and fired their weapons.

Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan fired back.

Despite the winds and the rain, the smoke billowed, and then suddenly the strangers charged. Aramis fired once more, abandoned the musket, pulled his sword and then ran with Porthos and d'Artagnan.

Swords clashed and the singing of metal rang and harmonized with the thunder that rolled in the distance. Porthos swept upward. The long arch of his reach caused his opponent to stumble backward. The man slowly regained his feet and charged again. He pulled his main gauche and countered Porthos' attack. Both were equally skilled and moved in the tall grasses that slapped their legs and hindered their steps.

A harsh and unforgiving flash of lightning fishtailed across the sky in the distance. It brightened the land and gave light to the dark clouds that threatened more violence.

Aramis, exhausted, fought gallantly against his opponent. They shifted their swords that clashed and chimed, and quick, frantic steps upturned the ground beneath their feet as they danced. Weeds lay flat and caught on the buckles of boots and spurs. Aramis shifted to his right to avoid the blade and quickly sliced his own through the air. He struck his opponent's chest, cutting the leather of the man's doublet and drawing beads of blood. His opponent, a dark haired man with long hair that swept along his face as he moved, was young, but bold, and had a long cooked nose that had been broken many times. The man shouted, raised his weapon and swung. Aramis ducked, pulled his main gauche from the back of his belt, and threw it. It landed squarely in the man's chest and he fell backward with a "humph." The man's blade lay alone in the grass, partially hidden within the dried stems and dirt.

The rain continued.

The young man fighting d'Artagnan knew he was out skilled, but he took several steps backward to avoid the oncoming rush of the blade. He fell, kicked his feet, and then struggled to stand. D'Artagnan sliced his blade through the air, knocking the weapon from his opponent's hand and raised the tip to the young man's throat.

"Who are you?" D'Artagnan said. He flared his nostrils, pursed his lips, and flexed his jaw while sweat fell along the sides of his face. "Why are you after us?"

The young man's Adam's apple bobbled and stared wide-eyed at d'Artagnan.

"Who are you?" d'Artagnan asked again.

"Sven," the young man said in a rush. Though barely above a whisper, the hint of an accent was strong.

"Why are you after us?" d'Artagnan asked. He looked to his right when Porthos shoved his opponent to the ground and stood over him with a threatening growl.

The man landed next to Sven and groaned.

Aramis wiped his face with his forearm and took a deep breath. Sweat and rain-soaked hair clung to his scalp, and he placed his hands on his hips and breathed heavily while working to regain his strength. Over taxed muscles worked hard to keep him standing. He looked at Porthos and nodded once in reassurance.

"Why are you after us?" d'Artagnan asked again.

"We were paid," Sven spoke, but was shoved and then punched by the man next him, who shouted in an unfamiliar language.

"What's your name?" Porthos grabbed him by the collar of his doublet, pulled him to his feet, and looked him in the eyes. "What's your name?"

The stranger snarled and then spit.

"His name is Alfred… it's Alfred," Sven said and quickly moved aside when Alfred kicked at him.

The man said something and spit again at Porthos, who cocked his head to the left and snarled. He looked at Aramis and d'Artagnan. "I'm goin' to teach this one some manners." He shoved the man backward and watched him fall. "You," he looked at Sven and pointed a finger toward him, "had better start talkin' or your next." He grabbed his opponent by the collar once again and dragged him toward the trees.

Sven watched, swallowed several times, and then coughed. "We… we… were ordered to kill the musketeers — to keep them from Paris." He stumbled over his words and fought his accent. "We —" He scooted back and looked fearfully at d'Artagnan, who squatted, rested his elbows on his knees, and held his sword casually within his grasp. "Two groups," he said, "a group was assigned to Allier and another to Autun — we were told to make sure you didn't leave with the necklace —"

D'Artagnan frowned. "Why?"

Sven shrugged. "Those were my — our — orders."

"Who gave those orders?" Aramis asked.

"The Apothecary."

Aramis looked at d'Artagnan, who shrugged. They both looked toward Porthos, who had tied his opponent to a tree and hung him by his feet from a branch.

"Who is the apothecary?"

Sven shrugged. "That's what he's called… the Apothecary — he has no other name."

Aramis rubbed his face with his hand, closed his eyes, and then took a deep breath. "Why would the Apothecary want us dead?"

Sven shrugged. "I don't know. I just followed orders."

"Porthos!" Aramis shouted. "Don't kill him yet!"

"I'm not makin' any promises!" Porthos shouted back.

Sven closed his eyes and clutched his hands into fists. "I don't know… I don't know — I was just told, like the rest of them, to make sure you didn't make it back to Paris. We were told you would be in Autun and once you were dead we could have the necklace."

"How many of you are there?" d'Artagnan asked.

"There were seven of us that traveled to Autun… I don't know how many went to Allier."

"Who's the seventh?" d'Artagnan questioned. "The five of you… the watchmen I killed the night you," he looked at Aramis, "were poisoned. Who is the seventh?"

Sven swallowed, pointed past d'Artagnan's shoulder, and said, "Her."

D'Artagnan stood, turned suddenly just as the woman fired her. The musket-ball entered high on his right shoulder, and he fell backward onto the grass with a grunt.

The woman dropped her pistol, grabbed her long skirt, and ran back into the cover of the trees.

Aramis shouted. "Porthos! I need my bag, Porthos!"

"Forget the bag, go after her!" d'Artagnan shouted and pointed. "That's the woman who served you the wine!"

Porthos stopped his sprint toward the horses, turned and looked at Aramis. "How bad is he?"

"Get my bag!" Aramis ran toward d'Artagnan, caught sight of Sven, who scrambled for his sword, but was met with the quick throw of Porthos' main gauche. Porthos had left his opponent tied to the tree and ran toward the horses, while Aramis applied pressure to the bleeding wound.

D'Artagnan groaned, raised his left knee, and grasped at Aramis' hand with his right. "You should have had him go after her." Blood had splattered his face and neck and continued to seep between Aramis' fingers.

"Constance is right — you are a damn fool," Aramis said.

"She might have the antidote, Aramis." D'Artagnan frowned. "Shit," he said. He closed his eyes and shifted his raised knee back and forth as the pain intensified. He forced himself to breathe through his nose, and he felt Aramis move his hands and peek beneath the doublet. "How… bad?"

Aramis winced as the rain ran down the sides of his face and into his eyes. "I can't tell — not yet. It's high on your shoulder — it looks like the ball ran along the length of your collarbone - but I need to get that bleeding stopped to know for certain."

Porthos huffed, fell to his knees, and opened Aramis' bag. "What do you need?" he took several deep breaths, wiped his brow with the sleeve of his doublet, and looked at d'Artagnan? "How is he?"

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan grumbled. "Sven?"

"Dead," Porthos replied.

"Any sign of the woman?" Aramis asked. He pulled back d'Artagnan's doublet and exposed his shoulder.

"I saw someone on a 'orse ride away at a gallop," Porthos said. "I'm assumin' it was 'er."

"We can't stay here," Aramis said. "And I need light to work by." He packed the wound and winced when d'Artagnan groaned and slapped at Aramis' hand.

"Ouch!" D'Artagnan pursed his lips and frowned. "That hurts!"

"Good," Aramis replied. "It means your not dead."

D'Artagnan groaned and wiped at his mouth.

"I'll get a fire goin'," Porthos said and stood. He pointed to the trees where he had left his opponent hanging. "An' I'm goin' to find out who that woman is." He looked at Aramis and then at d'Artagnan.

"Wait!" Aramis shouted over his shoulder and Porthos paused. "Help me move him." He cleared his throat and gently patted d'Artagnan's cheek. "We need to get you closer to the trees."

"Your compassion for the injured, Aramis, makes me question your reason for developing your skill for the healing arts," D'Artagnan said and then hissed. He closed his eyes as the rain patted his face.

"Once the rain really starts to come down," Aramis said with a grimace, "you'll wish you were under a tree." He raised his eyebrows and curled his lips into a knowing smile. "It won't be a long walk."

Aramis motioned for Porthos to help and together they lifted d'Artagnan into a seated position and then hauled him to his feet. He wavered, tightened his hold on Porthos' shoulder with his left hand and felt secured between the two of them. They walked slowly to the trees.

D'Artagnan looked at the man who was still hanging upside down. He wiggled like a worm, his face was red, and the veins of his neck bulged. D'Artagnan felt himself lowered against the trunk and then watched Porthos cut the rope that held their attacker. He fell with a "humph" and groaned when he landed. He was slow to move, but Porthos grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to a spindly tree where he was tied. The stranger leaned back, took several deep breaths, and closed his eyes.

"You could have killed me!" Alfred shouted and kicked his foot.

"Don't tempt me," Porthos replied with his lips narrowed, his eyes widened, and the veins on his neck protruded.

The stranger winced, swallowed, and hunched against the tree.

Porthos was quick to collect several pieces of dried wood. He tossed them into a pile near the highest exposed root of the tree and then lit the fire before leaving to collect the horses.

Aramis helped d'Artagnan out of his doublet and then pushed back his blouse. Blood had soaked the sleeve and the right side of his chest. "It's not deep," he said and then reached for his bag. While on his knees, he sorted through tools: forceps, musket ball extractor, needles, thread, and bandages.

The rain continued to pour, the heavy branches of the tree protected them, but not completely.

D'Artagnan's eyes grew wide and he watched Aramis wipe at the blood and examine the wound. He hissed, tightened his jaw, and clicked his tongue. He silently wished Athos was available with his right hook. "I didn't see a sixth rider," he said, and spittle landed on his chin and lips when he exhaled through clenched teeth. He tried to bite back the pain, but groaned when Aramis continued to poke at the wound.

Aramis frowned, focused on the injury, and then applied more pressure to stem the flow. "She was probably behind them," he said, peering beneath the bandage. He looked up when Porthos tied the horses, glared at the stranger, and then grabbed his water bag.

"The Spanish want us dead?" d'Artagnan looked away and focused on the trees in the distance. "How did they know about the necklace?"

"Payment, I suppose," Aramis said and winced while preparing his instruments.

"How is 'e?" Porthos asked. He squatted to one knee beside d'Artagnan, who looked toward him with glazed eyes. Porthos chuckled, "Hurts, doesn't it."

D'Artagnan hitched his breath and clenched his fists. His internal dialogue repeated the mantra, "Don't let them see you cry… don't let them see you cry." The wound, no matter how small or inconsequential, felt like a brand had been pressed to his shoulder and punctured his skin. The burning continued and every nerve reminded him of how painful it was to move, much less wait for the inevitable: Aramis' ministrations.

Aramis exhaled and nodded. "You're fortunate the woman was a terrible shot," he said, and pulled off the bandage. He looked at d'Artagnan. "Are you ready for this?"

D'Artagnan swallowed, pursed his lips, and then forced himself to nod once, but his internal dialogue repeated, "No… no… no."

Porthos chuckled once again. "Horseshit."

Aramis looked at Porthos, who maneuvered himself to his haunches, and then removed a strip of leather from his pack.

"Bite on this," Porthos said, and then helped d'Artagnan slip the piece between his teeth. Porthos then grasped d'Artagnan's left shoulder and then placed his left hand on his thigh. "Hold still. It'll hurt worse if you move."

D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow and looked in concern at Porthos. He mumbled something beneath the leather and then closed his eyes tightly.

There was a moment of hesitation on Aramis' part and he looked at Porthos, who nodded, and then focused his attention on the wound. Angry red flesh stared back at him. The small circular wound was jagged around the edges and accompanied a long gash prior to entry. The heat of the musket ball had singed the skin around the wounds and blood seeped and soaked the fabric of d'Artagnan's blouse below his clavicle. Aramis poured turpentine over the injury and d'Artagnan hissed, but held strong, and then with careful and purposeful movements, Aramis slipped the long narrow musket ball retriever into the wound. The fingernail sized spoon shaped tool had a long narrow handle that was meant for leverage and when used correctly — and in theory — inflicted less pain than the forceps. Aramis clenched his jaw as d'Artagnan struggled to maintain his composure as the pain grew nearly too much to bear. D'Artagnan breathed through his mouth, and his cheeks puffed outward in short panting intervals with the leather still clutched between his teeth, and beads of sweat dotted his brow. With a slight shift near the top of the handle, the spoon of the instrument slipped beneath the musket ball, and Aramis gently maneuvered it outward. The blood flow increased, pooled and fell over the curve of the muscle and along d'Artagnan's chest.

"Ha," Aramis said. "That was one of the simplest extractions I've ever done." He pressed a bandage to stem the flow. With a look of contentment and satisfaction, he shrugged. "Consider yourself lucky." He raised his eyebrows and slapped d'Artagnan's cheek gently. "It will hardly leave a scar."

"That's unfortunate," Porthos said.

D'Artagnan narrowed his eyes when he heard Porthos snicker.

"And now," Aramis said while he prepared to suture, "for my best work."

Porthos snorted.

D'Artagnan groaned.

It was a long, tedious process as the needle pierced d'Artagnan's skin and was pulled and tugged closed. A small opening was left to allow for drainage and Aramis covered it with a bandage and then wrapped the shoulder, securing it in place against d'Artagnan's chest.

Aramis sat back on his haunches, listened to the winds shift violently and the roar of thunder as it continued to approach. "You need to keep that arm immobile. The bone's not broken, but the tissue needs to rest and heal — you'll be sore for a few days — but generally speaking," he quirked a smile, "it's a minor injury."

D'Artagnan struggled to sit up and was grateful for Porthos' assistance. He spit out the leather and took a deep breath. "Minor for whom?"

Porthos stood, looked at the assailant, and said, "I'm gettin' some answers." He pulled his knife from his belt and walked toward the man tied to the tree.

Aramis took a deep breath. "I believe Porthos is about to dispense some Old Testament judgment."

D'Artagnan craned his neck to look, but winced. "We need to get to Athos."

Aramis nodded. "We will, but let's find out who and what we're facing."

"What do we do with him?" d'Artagnan asked and pointed toward their captive.

"Take him with us," Aramis said.