Once again, thank you everyone! Another long one today.

Chapter 47

The afternoon sun was slowly descending when Lyam and his men charged the farm. They spread out, hid behind trees, and stayed out of sight behind boulders and thistles. Muskets were fired and balls hit the house, wagons, trees and the barn. Smoke billowed through the branches and around the windows and door of the home. Pistols and muskets were reloaded and once again fired. Horses trotted to the back pasture and those within the corral next to the barn huddled nervously near the far fence. The dog had hidden himself beneath the porch but continued to growl. Birds fluttered and flew from the trees and bushes.

Porthos pushed himself against the barn and then ducked when a musket-ball splintered the board siding behind him. Wood splintered and broke apart. A broken piece of wood struck his cheek, slicing it along his jaw and causing blood to run and drip toward his doublet. He fired his weapon and then squatted and reloaded.

Emry, standing on the porch, and hidden behind the poorly constructed awning, listened to the singing coming from the house. His daughters' and the women's voices grew louder. They focused their fears into what they could control and he admired them for it. He looked toward the others, the farmers who had arrived just in time, those hiding behind the doors of the barn, behind wagons and trees, and using what they could find for shelter. Emry had never considered himself a brave man, but as he stood there looking outward, he felt proud to be one of the many fighting for what was right. He was protecting his family and his farm. Aramis ducked, fell to his right and then quickly shifted back to his knees. Reloading took time, patience, and knowhow. Nine men with experience could reload and fire more readily than three wounded musketeers, and a rabble of farmers with questionable skills. He heard d'Artagnan mutter several curses when a barrage of musket balls peppered the wagon he hid behind. Several balls splintered the side rails and pinged against stones. One struck the hitch, and another shattered a wheel spoke.

The singing continued.

One of Lyam's men grunted in pain from his position within the trees. Shouts of concern echoed, but the firing continued. Smoke billowed and thickened as the fighting raged.

Suddenly everything stopped, the musket fire and pistol shots, even the shouts from the men hidden in the trees. Porthos wiped his cheek, looked at the blood on his hand, and then wiped it onto his britches. Frustration continued to crawl up his spine like an itch he couldn't scratch. Athos was missing, taken by fools and criminals, men without values, purpose, or honor. The more Porthos thought about it, the angrier he became, and the more guilt swelled up inside him. He had made a promise to a friend, a brother, and as he stood there, hiding behind an old barn door, he felt like a failure.

"What are they doin'?" Porthos shouted and looked at Aramis who hid behind the broad girth of a tree. Squinting, he watched several men moving within the bushes.

"Letting the smoke clear," Aramis replied and reloaded his musket.

"You can't win this!" the shout came. "Surrender and we might let you live!"

Aramis huffed, stabilized his musket, and peered through the V of a branch. "Surrender," he muttered. "I'm not familiar with that term?" He looked to his left and then his right at d'Artagnan, Porthos, and the farmers who readied themselves.

"I think 'e's confused," Porthos said. "We're the ones still standin'." He flexed his jaw, tightened his fingers around the handle of his pistol and said, "We don't 'ave time for this, Aramis. We need to find Athos."

"I know," Aramis said and focused his attention and fired.

Someone grunted and fell near the tree he had used as cover.

Aramis reloaded his musket. His relationship with his weapon was nearly as intimate as his relationship with women. He knew every curve, every discoloration, every notch, and ding. He knew exactly how many times the strike plate had been replaced, and how long it would be before it would once again need some attention. Aramis cared for it, cleaned it, and on days like this, he even spoke to it. The musket's age didn't matter, what did matter was the attention and care that he paid it. And, like a good lover, it performed at its best when he needed it to.

Porthos growled in the back of his throat, wiped at his chin, and again smeared blood across his grizzled cheek. He hated feeling trapped and locked within the confines of duty and honor. Those feelings weren't meant to hold back the harshness of musket balls, or designed to withstand the affront of an enemy that could and would eventually turn to fire to burn them out if they got too close. They would set the barn ablaze first, and then the house, regardless of who was inside. Porthos swallowed. Men without honor and duty were relentless, but easily defeated when they grew careless. Porthos was better suited to face his enemy head on. To fight with his fists rather than the weapons that adorned his sides. Weapons that reflected his duty while he walked through the palace halls; weapons that had been designed to protect the king and queen from threats. The confines of his honor and duty were the same that had made him the man he was, and he couldn't help but appreciate the men he fought beside, the brotherhood that had formed, and the bravery to do what was right no matter how challenging.

"Last chance, Musketeers!" Lyam shouted.

"Kill them," Lucas said with a hint of laughter. "Kill them all!"

Porthos fired, growled, and as he tightened his grip around his pistol, said, "I'm goin' to toss that piece of 'uman flesh so far south 'e's goin' to need a boat to get back to France." He quickly reloaded. He inhaled the strong aroma of smokey black powder and fired his pistol once more.

"Why aren't they returning fire?" d'Artagnan asked. Positioned between Porthos and Aramis, he didn't expect an answer, but suddenly looked at Aramis when he cleared his throat and spit.

"They'll fire all at once," Aramis said. He ducked suddenly when the barrage of musket fire hit the house, the barn, and the trees.

Olaf, Emry, and Adam all fired their muskets in return. Smoke billowed, someone else grunted, and then four more farmers quickly fired. Whether they had planned it or not, the uniformity of their skill and timing brought a half smile to Aramis' face.

Smoke continued to rise through the branches.

D'Artagnan dropped to his knees when the return of musket balls landed in the wood of the wagon, the trees, the barn and the house. He reloaded his weapon, and then cursed himself when he realized he was nearly out of ammunition. He looked over his shoulder, watched Aramis prepare his next shot, Emry as he squeezed the trigger, and then at Porthos, who continued to curse and make threats against Lyam and his men.

More grunts and shouts of panic echoed when another one of Lyam's men went down. Erratic and panicked shots continued. Aramis positioned himself and pulled the trigger, striking a man in the thigh as he ran from behind a tree.

"Three, maybe four down that I've seen," Aramis said, and then quickly reloaded. "How are we doing on ammunition?" He turned suddenly when he heard Emry grunt and fall back against the side of his house.

Porthos hissed and turned suddenly when another shot rang out.

D'Artagnan coughed, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his doublet, and said, "I'm out."

"Do you surrender?" Lyam shouted from his hiding place. "I'm happy to finish what we started!"

"Wait!" Aramis shouted. "Just wait!" He looked up, squinted, and furrowed his brow when d'Artagnan looked at him in question and shrugged.

Emry had crawled to the beam and hid behind the chairs, and the railings, and clutched at the wound on his thigh. Olaf winced, looked at the blood on his arm, and then looked at Aramis. Every farmer, miner, and business owner still stood hiding behind their blockades and reloading their muskets. A few had suffered minor injuries, but they powered through. Everyone paused when Lyam asked them to surrender, and they all looked to Aramis, knowing the request was coming from a man in the final throes of his effort to claim what wasn't his. He had underestimated the community, and the community backed by musketeers had strengthened their resolve.

"It appears to me that you've overestimated the size of your gang, Monsieur," Aramis said and then winked when he looked at Porthos, who rolled his eyes.

"He sounds like a man who knows he can't win," Olaf said. He tossed a small leather pouch to Aramis. "I guess it was a good thing the women showed when they did." He ducked suddenly when another shot struck the downed tree he hid behind.

Aramis reloaded his musket and readied himself. "You're down four men… by my count, that leaves you with five — but I'm guessing one or two might be wounded — perhaps even yourself!"

"We'll kill you!" Lucas shouted. His stringy hair fell into his eyes. "We'll kill all of you, burn this farm to the ground, and then burn the village!" He peeked over the edge of the tree trunk. The massive oak had fallen, and Emry was using it for firewood. Several chopped pieces remained scattered near the upright base.

Emry lowered his musket, and the ball chimed while rolling the length of the barrel, tapping the boards of the floor. He looked across the yard toward the trees where the man hid. He winced, looked at Porthos, who pursed his lips with a look of disappointment.

Aramis winced. He peered through the V of the tree trunk and looked at the members of the gang who dared expose themselves; farm boys, a couple of soldiers, and Lyam, who bore the brand of an ex-convict. "A crime against us," he said, "is a crime against the king." He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "You'll be hunted —"

D'Artagnan raised his hands slightly to his side and shrugged. He then mouthed to Aramis, "We outnumber them. Why negotiate?"

Aramis winked and mouthed back, "Never let them know you've already won."

"We'll be hunted anyway," Lyam countered. "I know what I am… I know what I've done," he shrugged, "but like I told my boys," he motioned with his head toward the men who stood slightly behind and on either side of him, "we've got almost enough to get us out of this mess of a country, overseen by a king who enjoys spending his people's money and negotiating with the enemy."

"How much is enough?" d'Artagnan shouted over his shoulder. He then looked at Aramis and shrugged a shoulder. "Blaming your troubles on the king is foolish when you steal from the poor."

"Let's just kill them," Lucas said as he leaned toward his brother. He quirked a smile, licked his top lip, and said, "I'll start with him." He pointed toward Emry, who remained slightly exposed.

Lyam flexed his jaw muscles and motioned for his men to raise their weapons. He looked at Lucas and then said, "Are you going to surrender?"

Aramis lit the fuse, sighted his weapon, and said, "Just a moment!"

Porthos remained hidden by the barn and fought his desire to charge. He looked at Aramis, watched his kneeling position change, and then suddenly fired. Smoke billowed, and someone grunted, and fell back into the thistle behind the tree.

"Lyam!" someone shouted.

Olaf fired his weapon.

Another person fell back. Someone else dropped their musket and fled on foot toward the hills.

"You'd better run!" Porthos shouted, and fired another shot when he stepped from behind the barn door. Despite missing his target, he grunted and looked toward the big man who had fallen and grasped at his thigh. Porthos walked toward him.

Lyam tightened his fingers around the bleeding wound. "Where're the horses?" He looked at Pascal. "Where's Lucas?"

Pascal pursed his lips and said, "Your brother—" He suddenly fell forward when Lucas shoved him from behind.

"We should have killed them all earlier!" Lucas shouted. He fell to his right, dropped his pistol, and clutched at his arm. Blood seeped between his fingers and he rolled from side-to-side in agony.

Porthos and d'Artagnan, with their pistols loaded, walked toward the three remaining gang members. Lyam had pushed himself upright and sat with his right leg extended, gripping his upper thigh. Blood continued to seep between his fingers.

"Where's Athos?" Porthos asked. He broadened his shoulders and pointed his weapon at Lucas and then Lyam.

Lucas cried out, "You shot me!" He clenched his teeth and spittle peppered his lips. "I can't believe you shot me!"

"Where is 'e?" Porthos demanded.

"What are your intentions?" Lyam asked. He flared his nostrils, fought back the pain, and battled the lightheadedness that followed the blood loss.

Porthos squatted, rested his elbow on his knee and looked at Pascal, the only remaining gang member who had not been injured and said, "Unless you tell us where our friend is…" his features grew stern, confident, and unchangeable, "I'm goin' to drag you back to Paris… an' it won't be in the comfort of a wagon."

Lucas chuckled, spit, and then wheezed as he breathed through his nose. "We should've killed that blind musketeer — he isn't any good to anyone… not anymore." He smiled and looked Porthos in the eyes. "Men like you aren't any different from us. That pauldron… those fancy weapons just mean you're the king's lackeys — overpaid errand boys."

"Porthos!" d'Artagnan shouted and jumped in front of him before he could grab Lucas. "We need him alive."

Porthos chuckled, shoved d'Artagnan aside, and said, "We only need one of 'em alive."

D'Artagnan fell, dropped his weapon, and watched it skid across the ground and come to a rest near Aramis' foot.

Aramis reached for Porthos as he grabbed Lucas by the collar of his doublet and pulled him to his feet. "Let him go. He'll face judgment in Paris for his crimes and hang."

"Wait — what?" Lucas struggled and looked at Aramis in a panic. He scuffled his feet against the ground but went nowhere against Porthos' strong hold. "I can't… I can't hang. People piss and shit themselves when they hang — I've seen it. Lyam!" he shouted and looked over his shoulder at his brother, who looked away. "I'm not going to hang!"

Porthos shoved him backward and watched him fall to his backside. "Where is 'e?" he demanded once more. He looked into the distance as the sun slowly started to set and his blood ran cold. He turned suddenly when the front door to the home was opened and the women poured out. They all gathered around Emry and helped him inside while his daughters cried for their father.

Olaf, with a hand clutched around his forearm, stepped forward, with several others behind him. Sweat soaked their collars. A few men had minor injuries, but they clutched at their weapons and looked at the three surviving members of the brigand.

"We didn't," Lucas shouted. "We didn't kill him!"

"Then where is 'e?" Porthos asked again. This time, spittle flew from his mouth and the veins on his neck bulged. He took another threatening step forward, pushing Aramis aside.

"Near the gully by Potters Ridge," Pascal said. He sat with his elbows on his knees and shrugged. "He was alive when we left him."

Porthos turned suddenly, when Aramis grabbed his arm.

"Wait!" Aramis said, and turned to look at d'Artagnan. "Find a wagon and," he looked at the men who surrounded them, "find out who can help get them," he pointed to Lucas and the other two, "back to Paris."

"You're not leavin' for Potters Ridge until morning," Olaf said with a shake of his head. "You're going to need the light of the sun to travel." He pointed to the horizon. "Once the sun's down it'll be nearly black out and if you don't know where you're going you could end up down the ridge and you won't be any good to anyone if that happens —"

"Our friend it out there—"

Olaf shrugged and winced. "We," he motioned toward those around him, "know this land and we don't travel the ridge without light." A few men mumbled behind him in agreement.

Porthos growled, clenched his fists and walked toward the barn away from the others.

Aramis looked at d'Artagnan. "Find a wagon, get some men organized, and I'll stitch these two up." He looked toward the others.

"I need rope or shackles and three men willing to stand guard," d'Artagnan said and watched Aramis walk to his horse that was in the barn.

"I don't like this, Aramis," Porthos said. He leaned against the outside wall of the small room and watched Aramis untie his medical bag. "We can carry torches." He turned when someone tossed the horses some hay. Ropes were then grabbed and the prisoners bound.

"Nobody does," Aramis said.

"I'm not leavin' 'im out there."

Aramis nodded, clapped Porthos on the arms and said, "Neither am I." He looked over his shoulder at the group of men while they discussed their options, who would travel to Paris, who could leave and who couldn't, and who would stay and help. "Give me some time to patch them up—"

"Aramis —"

"I'm going with you," d'Artagnan said when he stepped into the barn.

"We need you here," Aramis said. He pointed to the men in the yard and their prisoners. "Get them ready to travel and keep them guarded — given what's happened here, Treville will want a complete report. Organize a group to ride after the man that ran, and if you can, bring him back. He's on foot and should be easy to find. If Porthos and I aren't back by morning, organize a band and ride back to Paris with the prisoners —"

"Aramis," d'Artagnan said. "I'm not leaving —"

"We need you to get the lace and the necklace back to Paris," Aramis said. He glanced toward Porthos, who readied the horses. "I'm going to check on Emry and find some torches."

"What about the ridge?" d'Artagnan asked.

Porthos huffed as he tightened the cinch. "We've ridden into more dangerous lands with an enemy shooting at our backsides," he said and lowered the stirrup. "We can manage a ridge in the dark."

Emry hissed when turpentine was poured over the wound on his thigh. He sat on the chair with his britches ripped open to expose the wound. The musket ball had entered mid-thigh and then exited two inches to the left. It wasn't a bad injury, just painful and held a potential for infection if not treated correctly. Eve stood behind Emry, rubbed his shoulders, while Aramis carefully cleaned the wound and then stitched it. The other women had organized a chain of duties. Those who were injured had their wounds cleaned and bandaged. Several men stood beside the fireplace slurping on soup and dipping hard bread.

Three men remained on guard while d'Artagnan and two others rode after the man who had fled on foot.

"If you ride," Emry winced, took several pants of breath, and squeezed his eyes closed. "If you ride toward the ridge, stay this side of the gully until you can see light." He exhaled slowly when the last suture was tied. He clapped Eve's arm when she slipped it around his shoulder and pressed her cheek to his. "That ridge gets unpredictable if you ride too close. We've had several rockslides and if you get caught in one of those," he shook his head, "we'll never find you."

Aramis bandaged the wound and then stood. "If we ride at a steady walk, how long before we come across the gully?"

"Ride in the direction Lyam and his men charged from… for," Olaf shrugged, and looked at Emry, "two hours or so," he said, and nodded confidently. He winced when Clorette cleaned the injury on his arm. "Once you hear the water raging, you'll know to dismount and walk — Like Emry said, stay this side of the gully until light. The rain we had will have weakened the rock-face and there are several trees that are surface rooters that may have come down —"

"Two hours," Aramis said. "He looked at Emry and then at Eve. He closed his bag and said, "Keep those men guarded. D'Artagnan will oversee them but come first light, get them on a wagon and ride to Paris. They need to face judgment." Aramis walked to the door.

"I hope you find him," Emry said.

"Me too."