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fredbassettTitle : A Dangerous Contract, Part 7 of 8
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : The Musketeers
Rating : 18
Characters : Athos/Treville, Gallagher, Aramis, Porthos and others
Disclaimer : Not mine (apart from some OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 25,500, split into approximately equal parts.
Summary : Athos learns an assassination contract has been taken out on Treville’s life.
A/N : Written for luthorchickv2 on AO3 who kindly commented on all my Dangerous Liaison stories.
The unnatural silence in the tangled woodland told Athos that the area was alive with killers rather than birds. He and Cahusac made their way cautiously to the point they had agreed for their meeting with the rest of their group should the trap that he’d devised proved successful.
With most of the mercenaries occupied by an attempt to smoke them out of the mine, they now had the chance to pick off any sentries before turning their attention to Boucher and the rest of his men.
He fell quickly into a standard soldier’s tactic with Cahusac. When one of them moved, the other kept watch, loaded pistol in hand. Like that, they leapfrogged quickly through the wood, away from the main action. They saw no one. The meeting point was in what Athos had been told by one of the old quarrymen that was one of the oldest parts of the mine, where the stone was removed for the first foundations of the original manor house at Pinon in his great-grandfather’s day. Here, a series of dug chambers opened on the side of the hill overlooking the river. The workings were shallow and inaccessible from the main mine, which is why he’d rejected them as a place to make a stand, but as a spot to regroup, they would serve their purpose.
As they approached, Athos gave a low, trilling whistle. The call of a blackbird repeated three times, a signal they had developed at La Rochelle.
From the depths of the old quarry, he heard an answering call, and a second one, signalling that the area was clear.
They broke from cover and ran to the entrance. Aramis stepped out, a broad smile on his handsome face. “What kept you?”
“A small matter of assassins and other hired killers. Where are Porthos and the others?”
Aramis gestured with his hand and Athos turned to see Porthos and Philippe moving from cover on the other side of the quarry. The big musketeer had blood caking one side of his face and he moved stiffly, the tell-tale sign of damage to ribs. Philippe had blood staining his doublet sleeve on his sword arm, and he carried his pistol in his left hand. Of Gallagher and Bernajoux there was no sign.
“When we had to leave him, Bernajoux still lived, although he was unconscious,” Aramis said quickly to Cathusac. “He has a pistol ball lodged in his shoulder and he struck his head on a rock when he fell. We killed the man who shot him, but one other got away. We bandaged the wound and left him hidden in an old shooting hide. Providing he comes round, I do not think the shot will prove fatal but the ball needs to come out.”
“And Gallagher?” Athos demanded.
“We became separated. We have not seen him since.”
Athos could see the unspoken doubt in his friend’s eyes but could not bring himself to believe that the Irishman had played them false. “We have sufficient numbers to take them providing we can pick off their sentries. Once that is done, we can stop playing cat and mouse and turn to the attack.”
“Good,” Porthos growled. “Hiding ain’t to my liking. Nor is runnin’”
“Cahusac and I will return to Treville and Jussac. We attack on my signal,” Athos said. “There were still eight men in the dell, and maybe three or four in the woods. If you can take two from above, the rest should be manageable.”
“Don’t underestimate Boucher,” Aramis cautioned. “He didn’t gain a reputation as an assassin by being easy to kill.”
Athos nodded. “Philippe, remain with Porthos. That wound will hinder you.”
“I have trained with my left hand as much as my right.”
“As every good soldier should. You will make an excellent musketeer.”
The young vicomte flushed with pride at Athos’ words.
Athos and Cahusac retraced their steps to the hidden mine entrance. On the final approach, the red guardsman stopped abruptly and raised his hand in warning. Athos moved smoothly into the shadow of a gnarled old oak tree. He watched Cahusac step over something in the undergrowth then beckoned to him.
“One of their sentries is already dead,” Cahusac murmured. “His throat’s been slit.”
Athos hoped that meant Gallagher was still active in the woods.
They reached the mine exit without sight of any sentries. Treville stepped out of the shadows, his face a grim, angry mask. “They have hostages.”
The words were like a punch to the gut. This changed everything.
“How many?”
“Three. A man, a woman and a young boy. They will kill them if I do not give myself up.”
“Not going to happen, captain.”
“We cannot let innocents suffer.” Treville hesitated, then added, “They have already raped the woman and beaten the boy. We had to watch and listen, Athos.”
“There was nothing the two of you could have done,” Athos said. “Are they still trying to smoke us out?”
“Yes, but they suspect we have found a way out. They seem certain we are still nearby.”
“Who are the hostages? Villagers?”
Treville shook his head. “From what we overheard, a family of travelling pedlars who were unwise enough to follow the road to the house in the hope of plying their trade. Two of Boucher’s men saw an opportunity.”
Before Athos could reply, a woman’s scream echoed around the woods, shrill and terrified.
A man’s voice cut over her cry in a parade ground shout, “Treville, give yourself up or these people die!”
Athos laid a restraining hand on his captain’s shoulder and hissed in his ear, “If you speak you will give away our position. In this labyrinth of rock, they can’t be sure where any of us are.”
The woman screamed again then started to sob. Other shouts echoed in the woods and they heard a man pleading for them to stop.
“Athos, we can’t let these people suffer. That is not what musketeers stand for.”
“Captain, no!” Athos grabbed Treville’s arm and spoke urgently. “Jussac’s ruse earlier means they already believe you to be injured. Now we need to convince them you are dead…”
“They will demand to see a body.”
“And we will give them one. We need blood. A lot of blood.”
“Fortunate there is a source nearby,” Cahusac said, grinning. “It could work. Strip your jacket off, captain, and follow me… quickly.”
“You’re mad, the pair of you,” Treville countered.
“We just need to get close to them with you. Surprise will be on our side.”
“Every weapon they possess will be trained on us.”
“We have four men in the woods. That will even the odds.”
Another cry of pain rang around the woods, this time a boy’s voice followed by his mother’s pleading and angry cries from a man’s voice.
“You’re wasting time, musketeers!” The voice was confident, tinged with amusement.
“Treville is already dead!” Athos shouted in reply.
His lover shot him a look that said there would be reckoning for that move if they lived past that day, but without further argument, he turned to follow Cahusac. Athos was damned if he was letting Treville just walk out to his death in an excess of nobility. At least his idea gave them a fighting chance.
Laughter greeted his words.
“Nice try, musketeer! Bring the body and I might believe you.”
“And get shot for our pains? I think not. You’ll find him in the mine.”
“I will count to ten and then shoot the man in the stomach. You can listen to him die. It won’t be quick and it won’t be pretty. And while he’s dying, my men will have the woman again. The boy, too. He’s pretty enough if you ignore the muck and the blood.”
Athos wheeled around at a rustle of leaves to find Jussac behind him. The red guard captain’s face was impassive, but Athos could see the anger blazing in the man’s eyes.
“Your plan is the only way,” the red guard captain said. “It stands a chance. And a chance is all we need.”
Athos nodded.
Boucher started counting. When he reached nine, Athos yelled, “Stop. We will bring Treville’s body out, but we want guarantees of safe passage for ourselves and your hostages.”
“Our contract specifies Treville only. There’s no bonus for killing more musketeers.”
“Your word on it?”
Boucher laughed. “And what reliance would you place on that?”
“Not a lot,” Athos admitted. “But there are three of us left. Two of us will bring you Treville’s body. One will keep a pistol trained on you. If you play us false, you take your chances.”
“What makes you think you’re in a position to bargain, musketeer?”
Athos wanted to respond with a tally of the men they’d killed, but that would hardly count as diplomacy. “We have something you want, but I am not prepared to throw the lives of more of our men away unnecessarily. For all I know you will kill the hostages anyway after having your fun with them.” He injected every ounce of aristocratic disdain into his voice that he could muster, throwing several generations of the nobility behind his well-bred tones.
“You have a reputation as a ruthless bastard, Athos,” Boucher called. “But I don’t believe you are that ruthless.”
“Have pity!” The woman’s plea broke on pained sob as the sound of a hard blow followed her words.
“One more word and I cut your son’s tongue out!” Boucher threatened her. “Stop playing for time, Athos. Fetch your captain’s body. While you do, my men will amuse themselves with the woman and the boy. Maybe that way, you won’t linger. Make sure you carry no weapons!”
“His body is in the mine. You can follow us if you care to.”
“That didn’t end so well last time. Make haste, musketeer…”
Athos nodded to Jussac and together they backed off, hoping that their comrades had been able to account for Boucher’s sentries. If not, they had given away their position and would soon be dead men.
“Are your missions always like this?” Jussac asked dryly.
“No, sometimes they’re dangerous,” Athos drawled. “At least if this goes wrong, I’ll be dead before Treville has chance to kill me.”
A moment, later, his breath caught in his throat as he took a step forward in the deep, overhung gully and caught sight of his captain, his face and upper body liberally covered in blood. His shirt had been ripped into makeshift bandages and was now wound around his chest. The charade of blood leaking through the wrapping looked convincing, and it was hard to see the colour of Treville’s skin through the dust, mud and blood.
“You make a convincing walking corpse,” Jussac said. “This mad plan might just stand a chance. Who carries the body and who stays behind?”
“Cahusac and I will carry him. You cover us. We will throw out our pistols and swords, but you will keep two. Make both shots count. We will have no more than boot knives. Ready?”
Raucous laughter burst out from Boucher’s men, accompanied by pained cries. They did not need telling that his threats were being carried out, but there had been no pistol shots, so the hostages might yet escape this alive.
Moments later, Treville was a dead weight between Athos and Cahusac, his head lolling back, eyes closed, as they carried him down the gully. The first person to step into the dell was Jussac, a pistol raised in each hand. Athos half-expected him to be cut down in a hail of musket fire, but all that greeted him was the pained sobs of the woman, and a soft litany of pleas falling from the lips of her husband. There was no sound from the boy.
Athos and Cahusac threw out their weapons and took up Treville’s weight between them. Athos’ torn shoulder muscles protested the strain, and when he stumbled on a loose stone, Treville’s head scraped on the ground. Sparing him only the briefest of glances, Athos had to agree that Jussac was right, his captain did make a very convincing corpse, then he was busy scanning the open area before the mine entrance for the position of Boucher and his men.
The man Athos presumed was Boucher was standing in the middle of the open area, a pistol in each hand. His men were ranged about the quarry, all with firearms in hand. Without aid from Aramis, Porthos, Gallagher and Philippe, they were facing a massacre.
The woman was sprawled on the floor at the feet of a man who was retying his breeches. Her husband was kneeling on the ground, his head bowed, hands roped behind his back. The boy lay motionless beside a stone block.
“That’s far enough, musketeer. Drop the body and move back.” A smile spread across the assassin’s unremarkable face. “A bonus for the man who fired the lucky shot. But let’s just be sure, shall we?”
He lowered the muzzle of his weapon in his left hand and pulled the trigger. Treville was already rolling away; the first shot missed him by only a hands’ breadth.
In the same heartbeat, a volley of shots erupted from all around the quarry as Treville came up in a fast crouch, diving at Boucher rather than away from him. As ever in combat, time seemed to slow to a crawl as Athos grabbed the dagger from his boot and hurled it at Boucher. The blade took him in the left shoulder, throwing off his aim and the second pistol shot went wide, but with an almost inhuman turn of speed, the man kicked out at Treville as he swept his sword from its sheath, striking down with a vicious blow that Treville barely avoided.
“Athos!” Cahusac’s shout drew his attention and he turned in time to catch a rapier in his gloved hand.
He had no idea how many of Boucher’s men were down, as the fight had now turned into a close-quarter battle with no ground being given on either side. He met Boucher in a clash of steel as around them the quarry still echoed to the sound of pistol shots but soon every weapon had been discharged and there was no time to reload. Pistols served now as clubs. He had no idea how many of the mercenaries had fallen and there was no time to gauge the success of their surprise offensive as he was already hard pressed by Boucher’s blade.
The man was good. Athos had known that from the first moment their blades touched. His style verged on the flamboyant, yet he left no openings that could be exploited. Athos was hampered by not having a dagger in his left hand and he had no opportunity to reach down for his second boot knife. Boucher’s strikes were fast and hard. He changed from low to high line with impressive speed and lunged for Athos’ throat in a move that was very nearly Athos’ undoing. He parried a fraction late and the blade left a thin red line on his neck.
Boucher’s lunge carried him forward and for a moment their bodies were locked together as the assassin fought to bring his dagger into play. For a man who still had a knife sticking out of his shoulder, it was a brave move. Athos pressed against him, knocking the hilt of the blade and grinding it further into the Butcher’s flesh and bone. The man let out a roar of pain and rage and shoved Athos away.
A musket barked from somewhere overhead. Boucher staggered and blood and bone sprayed out of his chest, splattering Athos’ face. As he crumpled to the ground, Athos looked up to see Gallagher reloading his weapon in a firing position at the top of a rock overhang. The Irishman tipped his hat to Athos as he finished ramming home a ball and wadding, searching immediately for another target.
Athos saluted Gallagher with his sword then stared down at the assassin. Boucher had dropped his sword and was clutching his chest, a surprised expression on his face. Without hesitation, Athos drove his sword through Boucher’s heart, watching as the light went out in the eyes of the man who had taken a contract to kill Treville, the man Athos valued even above his own life.
Smoke from the fire in the mine entrance had drifted across the dell, and the air was acrid with the smell of smouldering leaves mixed with the all too familiar smell of black powder from the pistol shots. Porthos was now in the thick of the fight, fighting bare-handed against one of Boucher’s men. The big musketeer grappled with his opponent and drove him back onto the smouldering fire, sweeping his legs out from under him.
Philippe de Beaune was giving a good account of himself, fighting left-handed against a short, thick-set man wielding a rapier with grim determination. What the man lacked in style, he made up for in brutal power. Abruptly, he broke Philippe’s guard, forcing the young man to throw himself sideways to avoid the sharp steel. Before Athos had time to time to take his place, Cahusac leaped forward to put himself between the young noble and the mercenary. The red guard fought with an impressive economy of style and before his opponent had realised the danger he was in, Cahusac had feinted to the right, drawing the other blade out of line, before lunging forward, burying his sword hilt-deep in the man’s chest.
“Flashy bastard,” growled Porthos approvingly.
“So you said before.”
“They’re all down!” Gallagher called from his vantage point.
Cahusac saluted them both with his sword.
Athos cast his eyes around the quarry floor, desperately seeking sight of his commanding officer. Treville was standing over the body of one of Boucher’s men, the hostages behind him crouched in a ragged huddle. The blood-soaked bandages had slipped down to reveal a long red scrape on his right side but beyond that, he appeared unharmed. Their eyes met across the smoke and Treville smiled grimly, nodding his thanks.
Athos swayed, giving in for a moment to the excruciating pain in his shoulder and left arm, feeling the combat high still thrumming in his body.
“It seems your plan was not so mad, after all,” Jussac commented. “For the record, I made both my shots count.”
Athos smiled through the pain. “I never doubted you for an instant.”
Treville made his way over to them, his sword bloody in his hand. “That has to rank as one of your more outrageous schemes.”
“Fortunate you moved when you did,” Athos said wryly.
“Fortunate the Butcher signalled his intentions.”
“If you’re going to kill, then kill, don’t talk,” Aramis said, slithering down a slope onto the quarry floor, repeating a mantra they always drilled into the cadets.
“You took out their sentries without a problem?” Athos asked.
Aramis grinned. “We had help.” He nodded towards the top of the slope.
Athos looked up and recognised two men from the village, Felix and Gaston, both grey-bearded veterans of the King’s wars in the Spanish Lowlands.
“They heard the musket fire and came to investigate. Gallagher heard them talking and realised they were not with the Butcher. The three of them did our work for us before we even got here.”
“My thanks!” Athos called.
“They’re all dead,” Cahusac reported. “The hostages are alive.” He wiped his sword on a handful of leaves and sheathed it.
“We need to get back to Bernajoux,” Aramis said. “Everyone else’s injuries can wait. We can fashion a stretcher at the house.”
Athos nodded. He turned to the former hostages. The man’s bonds had been cut and he was standing now, supporting his wife. “I’m sorry you were caught up in this. We will tend your wounds back at the house. Can you walk, madame?”
The woman nodded, her eyes still wide and afraid. The young boy, no older than his early teens stood by her, protectively, one arm clasped across his chest where he’d no doubt taken some kicks from his captors. Gallagher had been right about the Butcher’s disregard for women and children.
Treville looked dispassionately at the bodies of the men who had been sent to kill him. “The dead can wait, as well.”
Helping each other where needed, they emerged from the labyrinth of old quarry workings and followed the haulage way back towards the house. The two village men left them at the edge of the woods, promising to fetch food and more bandages for the wounded. The afternoon sun was waning as they crossed the meadow in silence, the exhilaration of the fight fast fading to a bone-sapping weariness for them all.
Two of the loose horses, cropping the sweet grass, came at a whistle. Treville ordered Jussac, now limping heavily, to take one, and the woman and her son they loaded onto another. The small family stayed close together, the woman wept silently, tears furrowing the dirt on her face. Her husband murmured soft words to her, but they seemed to bring no comfort. They were lucky to have survived the attentions of the Butcher and his men, but it would no doubt be a while before that sunk in.
By the time they reached the courtyard, Athos’ shoulder was aching as if kicked by a particularly bad-tempered mule and every movement of his arm sent sharp flares of pain from fingertips to neck.
“There are poles in the barn that will serve for a stretcher!” Aramis called, and with Cahusac at his side, he quickly fashioned a serviceable stretcher from two long poles and cloaks from their saddlebags.
“You two ‘ave barely got two good arms between you,” Porthos declared, looking at Athos and Philippe. “Stay with the captain and we’ll fetch Bernajoux back. Don’t think any of the buggers got away, but ain’t no point takin’ chances.”
“Jussac, if your leg will bear it, ride with them,” Athos said. “As Porthos says, no point in taking chances.”
The red guard captain nodded, clearly as anxious as Cahusac to find out if Bernajoux still lived.
While Treville was hauling water from the well, Phillipe went inside to light the fire and put water on to boil for cleansing their numerous injuries and Athos went in search of material to rip for bandages. A chest in one of the storerooms contained some old worn linen sheets that would do well for that purpose. He also cleared the kitchen table in readiness for a hopefully still living patient.
In the courtyard, the pedlar boy was helping Treville wash the dead mercenary’s blood from his body. Athos smiled wearily, simply glad that his mad, desperate plan had worked. The cut to Treville’s side would need to be cleaned and dressed, but it was not deep. He could attend to that before consigning his arm to a sling.
Hearing Athos’ boots on the cobbles, Treville turned, a smile on his face that died abruptly as a thin black bolt embedded itself in his back. Shock hit Athos with the force of a kick to the guts even as his eyes swept the courtyard for the assassin, training overriding shock in a heartbeat as Treville staggered and fell.
By the barn, the pedlar was reloading a small but deadly crossbow. Athos reached behind his back for his pistol, yelling loudly in the hope of distracting the man and alerting Philippe to treachery. The would-be killer swung his weapon up and fired as Athos jumped back. The bolt embedded itself in the doorframe. The assassin was already moving, dodgy nimbly.
The powder took a heartbeat too long to ignite and Athos’ shot went wide.
He cursed and drew his sword, intending to get to the man before he could reload, but instead, the would-be killer casually tossed the crossbow to the woman as the boy snatched up Treville’s sword and threw it hilt first through the air. The assassin caught it, his hand sliding into the hilt-guard in a movement redolent of long practice. The sick realisation came Athos that they had been played for fools. The pedlars had never been hostages and the man he had killed in the quarry had not been Boucher. The assassin was not one man, but three people.
The pistol shot and the yell brought Philippe of the door at a run, sword in hand.
“Deal with the boy and the woman if you can!” Athos ordered. “Protect the captain.”
Boucher met him, steel on steel, an amused look on his face. “You cost me thirty men, but at least I won’t have to pay them.”
Athos said nothing. He used words in a fight only as another weapon, to force an opponent into an error. A professional assassin would not easily be goaded. He needed to finish this fight, and he needed to finish it fast. With Treville down, he and Philippe were facing three killers, and he had no doubt that the woman and the boy were skilled at their work. The rape in the quarry had been no more than a clever pretence. The charade had been even more elaborate even than the one Athos had devised. The mercenaries were nothing more than decoys, fighting for the promise of a large purse, no doubt, but ultimately expendable.
“Only one good arm,” Boucher taunted. “You stand no chance, musketeer.”
Athos ignored both the pain and the temptation to tell the man to go fuck himself. Instead, he gave ground fast, maintaining his guard in a manoeuvre he’d practised until it was second nature to attack while seemingly in retreat. A wary look came into his opponent’s eyes but if he wanted to maintain contact, he had to follow. The man was a superb swordsman, far superior to his decoy in the quarry. Athos could feel the strength in the man’s wrist and his almost casual mastery over the blade. Fresh and uninjured he might have been able to take him; now, with his reactions dulled by pain and the soul-sapping post-combat ebb of energy, he knew he was fighting for his life, as well as for Treville’s.
The man’s gaze didn’t waver from Athos’ face and the deadly dance their swords were weaving in the air continued unabated.
A crossbow bolt ricocheted off the stone surround of the well and skittered harmlessly on the cobbles.
A gurgling gasp from behind him forced Athos to break his silence. “Philippe?”
“The… boy’s… dead,” the young vicomte panted, revulsion at what he’d had to do making him stutter the words.
Anger blazed in Boucher’s eyes and his blade flashed dangerously close to Athos’ chest, turned only by a parry that took all the strength he could muster.
“Musketeer, down!” The voice was Gallagher’s, coming from behind him.
Athos dropped to the cobbles as the Irishman fired twice. One shot took Boucher in the throat, the other hit him full in the chest. He staggered back, a look of surprise on his face as he died, crumpling to the ground in an ungainly heap.
Athos came to his knees in time to see Jussac limping towards the woman, his pistol pointing at the cobbles. “You’re safe now, you can drop the weapon,” he said, in a reassuring tone.
“She’s one of them!” Phillipe yelled.
The woman and the Red Guard captain swung their weapons up at the same time, but Jussac was a heartbeat faster and fired his weapon without hesitation. The woman’s face exploded in a red ruin. Her finger spasmed on the trigger. The bolt flew high and wide.
“You don’t fuck around,” Gallagher commented dryly.
“Without the vicomte’s warning, I’d be dead.” Jussac nodded his thanks to Philippe.
“That’s twice you’ve saved my life,” Athos said to the mercenary, clasping his hand in gratitude before dropping to his knees besides Treville.
“I like to pay my debts, musketeer.”
“We are in your debt now.” Treville’s voice rasped in his throat and his breathing was fast and shallow, his face pallid.
“Stay still,” Athos instructed urgently.
The thin bolt was protruding a finger’s length from Treville’s back. It had struck behind his shoulder, penetrating the flesh at an angle. If Treville hadn’t turned when he did, the bolt would have punched straight through his back into his heart or a lung.
“Find one of the bolts,” Gallagher said. “We need to know what we’re dealing with. That’s a custom-made assassin’s weapon. The tip is probably barbed.”
Philippe quickly grabbed the one that had buried itself in the door jamb. “Barbed,” he confirmed, handing it to Gallagher.
“Athos,” Treville groaned. “I…”
Athos cupped his face with one hand, supporting his weight with his good arm. “Don’t talk, just stay with me…” As Treville’s eyelids started to flicker and close, Athos stroked his lover’s cheek through the close-cropped beard. “Jean, don’t you fucking dare die on me!”
Treville’s lips quirked into a slight smile as he whispered, “I’ll try not to.”
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : The Musketeers
Rating : 18
Characters : Athos/Treville, Gallagher, Aramis, Porthos and others
Disclaimer : Not mine (apart from some OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 25,500, split into approximately equal parts.
Summary : Athos learns an assassination contract has been taken out on Treville’s life.
A/N : Written for luthorchickv2 on AO3 who kindly commented on all my Dangerous Liaison stories.
The unnatural silence in the tangled woodland told Athos that the area was alive with killers rather than birds. He and Cahusac made their way cautiously to the point they had agreed for their meeting with the rest of their group should the trap that he’d devised proved successful.
With most of the mercenaries occupied by an attempt to smoke them out of the mine, they now had the chance to pick off any sentries before turning their attention to Boucher and the rest of his men.
He fell quickly into a standard soldier’s tactic with Cahusac. When one of them moved, the other kept watch, loaded pistol in hand. Like that, they leapfrogged quickly through the wood, away from the main action. They saw no one. The meeting point was in what Athos had been told by one of the old quarrymen that was one of the oldest parts of the mine, where the stone was removed for the first foundations of the original manor house at Pinon in his great-grandfather’s day. Here, a series of dug chambers opened on the side of the hill overlooking the river. The workings were shallow and inaccessible from the main mine, which is why he’d rejected them as a place to make a stand, but as a spot to regroup, they would serve their purpose.
As they approached, Athos gave a low, trilling whistle. The call of a blackbird repeated three times, a signal they had developed at La Rochelle.
From the depths of the old quarry, he heard an answering call, and a second one, signalling that the area was clear.
They broke from cover and ran to the entrance. Aramis stepped out, a broad smile on his handsome face. “What kept you?”
“A small matter of assassins and other hired killers. Where are Porthos and the others?”
Aramis gestured with his hand and Athos turned to see Porthos and Philippe moving from cover on the other side of the quarry. The big musketeer had blood caking one side of his face and he moved stiffly, the tell-tale sign of damage to ribs. Philippe had blood staining his doublet sleeve on his sword arm, and he carried his pistol in his left hand. Of Gallagher and Bernajoux there was no sign.
“When we had to leave him, Bernajoux still lived, although he was unconscious,” Aramis said quickly to Cathusac. “He has a pistol ball lodged in his shoulder and he struck his head on a rock when he fell. We killed the man who shot him, but one other got away. We bandaged the wound and left him hidden in an old shooting hide. Providing he comes round, I do not think the shot will prove fatal but the ball needs to come out.”
“And Gallagher?” Athos demanded.
“We became separated. We have not seen him since.”
Athos could see the unspoken doubt in his friend’s eyes but could not bring himself to believe that the Irishman had played them false. “We have sufficient numbers to take them providing we can pick off their sentries. Once that is done, we can stop playing cat and mouse and turn to the attack.”
“Good,” Porthos growled. “Hiding ain’t to my liking. Nor is runnin’”
“Cahusac and I will return to Treville and Jussac. We attack on my signal,” Athos said. “There were still eight men in the dell, and maybe three or four in the woods. If you can take two from above, the rest should be manageable.”
“Don’t underestimate Boucher,” Aramis cautioned. “He didn’t gain a reputation as an assassin by being easy to kill.”
Athos nodded. “Philippe, remain with Porthos. That wound will hinder you.”
“I have trained with my left hand as much as my right.”
“As every good soldier should. You will make an excellent musketeer.”
The young vicomte flushed with pride at Athos’ words.
Athos and Cahusac retraced their steps to the hidden mine entrance. On the final approach, the red guardsman stopped abruptly and raised his hand in warning. Athos moved smoothly into the shadow of a gnarled old oak tree. He watched Cahusac step over something in the undergrowth then beckoned to him.
“One of their sentries is already dead,” Cahusac murmured. “His throat’s been slit.”
Athos hoped that meant Gallagher was still active in the woods.
They reached the mine exit without sight of any sentries. Treville stepped out of the shadows, his face a grim, angry mask. “They have hostages.”
The words were like a punch to the gut. This changed everything.
“How many?”
“Three. A man, a woman and a young boy. They will kill them if I do not give myself up.”
“Not going to happen, captain.”
“We cannot let innocents suffer.” Treville hesitated, then added, “They have already raped the woman and beaten the boy. We had to watch and listen, Athos.”
“There was nothing the two of you could have done,” Athos said. “Are they still trying to smoke us out?”
“Yes, but they suspect we have found a way out. They seem certain we are still nearby.”
“Who are the hostages? Villagers?”
Treville shook his head. “From what we overheard, a family of travelling pedlars who were unwise enough to follow the road to the house in the hope of plying their trade. Two of Boucher’s men saw an opportunity.”
Before Athos could reply, a woman’s scream echoed around the woods, shrill and terrified.
A man’s voice cut over her cry in a parade ground shout, “Treville, give yourself up or these people die!”
Athos laid a restraining hand on his captain’s shoulder and hissed in his ear, “If you speak you will give away our position. In this labyrinth of rock, they can’t be sure where any of us are.”
The woman screamed again then started to sob. Other shouts echoed in the woods and they heard a man pleading for them to stop.
“Athos, we can’t let these people suffer. That is not what musketeers stand for.”
“Captain, no!” Athos grabbed Treville’s arm and spoke urgently. “Jussac’s ruse earlier means they already believe you to be injured. Now we need to convince them you are dead…”
“They will demand to see a body.”
“And we will give them one. We need blood. A lot of blood.”
“Fortunate there is a source nearby,” Cahusac said, grinning. “It could work. Strip your jacket off, captain, and follow me… quickly.”
“You’re mad, the pair of you,” Treville countered.
“We just need to get close to them with you. Surprise will be on our side.”
“Every weapon they possess will be trained on us.”
“We have four men in the woods. That will even the odds.”
Another cry of pain rang around the woods, this time a boy’s voice followed by his mother’s pleading and angry cries from a man’s voice.
“You’re wasting time, musketeers!” The voice was confident, tinged with amusement.
“Treville is already dead!” Athos shouted in reply.
His lover shot him a look that said there would be reckoning for that move if they lived past that day, but without further argument, he turned to follow Cahusac. Athos was damned if he was letting Treville just walk out to his death in an excess of nobility. At least his idea gave them a fighting chance.
Laughter greeted his words.
“Nice try, musketeer! Bring the body and I might believe you.”
“And get shot for our pains? I think not. You’ll find him in the mine.”
“I will count to ten and then shoot the man in the stomach. You can listen to him die. It won’t be quick and it won’t be pretty. And while he’s dying, my men will have the woman again. The boy, too. He’s pretty enough if you ignore the muck and the blood.”
Athos wheeled around at a rustle of leaves to find Jussac behind him. The red guard captain’s face was impassive, but Athos could see the anger blazing in the man’s eyes.
“Your plan is the only way,” the red guard captain said. “It stands a chance. And a chance is all we need.”
Athos nodded.
Boucher started counting. When he reached nine, Athos yelled, “Stop. We will bring Treville’s body out, but we want guarantees of safe passage for ourselves and your hostages.”
“Our contract specifies Treville only. There’s no bonus for killing more musketeers.”
“Your word on it?”
Boucher laughed. “And what reliance would you place on that?”
“Not a lot,” Athos admitted. “But there are three of us left. Two of us will bring you Treville’s body. One will keep a pistol trained on you. If you play us false, you take your chances.”
“What makes you think you’re in a position to bargain, musketeer?”
Athos wanted to respond with a tally of the men they’d killed, but that would hardly count as diplomacy. “We have something you want, but I am not prepared to throw the lives of more of our men away unnecessarily. For all I know you will kill the hostages anyway after having your fun with them.” He injected every ounce of aristocratic disdain into his voice that he could muster, throwing several generations of the nobility behind his well-bred tones.
“You have a reputation as a ruthless bastard, Athos,” Boucher called. “But I don’t believe you are that ruthless.”
“Have pity!” The woman’s plea broke on pained sob as the sound of a hard blow followed her words.
“One more word and I cut your son’s tongue out!” Boucher threatened her. “Stop playing for time, Athos. Fetch your captain’s body. While you do, my men will amuse themselves with the woman and the boy. Maybe that way, you won’t linger. Make sure you carry no weapons!”
“His body is in the mine. You can follow us if you care to.”
“That didn’t end so well last time. Make haste, musketeer…”
Athos nodded to Jussac and together they backed off, hoping that their comrades had been able to account for Boucher’s sentries. If not, they had given away their position and would soon be dead men.
“Are your missions always like this?” Jussac asked dryly.
“No, sometimes they’re dangerous,” Athos drawled. “At least if this goes wrong, I’ll be dead before Treville has chance to kill me.”
A moment, later, his breath caught in his throat as he took a step forward in the deep, overhung gully and caught sight of his captain, his face and upper body liberally covered in blood. His shirt had been ripped into makeshift bandages and was now wound around his chest. The charade of blood leaking through the wrapping looked convincing, and it was hard to see the colour of Treville’s skin through the dust, mud and blood.
“You make a convincing walking corpse,” Jussac said. “This mad plan might just stand a chance. Who carries the body and who stays behind?”
“Cahusac and I will carry him. You cover us. We will throw out our pistols and swords, but you will keep two. Make both shots count. We will have no more than boot knives. Ready?”
Raucous laughter burst out from Boucher’s men, accompanied by pained cries. They did not need telling that his threats were being carried out, but there had been no pistol shots, so the hostages might yet escape this alive.
Moments later, Treville was a dead weight between Athos and Cahusac, his head lolling back, eyes closed, as they carried him down the gully. The first person to step into the dell was Jussac, a pistol raised in each hand. Athos half-expected him to be cut down in a hail of musket fire, but all that greeted him was the pained sobs of the woman, and a soft litany of pleas falling from the lips of her husband. There was no sound from the boy.
Athos and Cahusac threw out their weapons and took up Treville’s weight between them. Athos’ torn shoulder muscles protested the strain, and when he stumbled on a loose stone, Treville’s head scraped on the ground. Sparing him only the briefest of glances, Athos had to agree that Jussac was right, his captain did make a very convincing corpse, then he was busy scanning the open area before the mine entrance for the position of Boucher and his men.
The man Athos presumed was Boucher was standing in the middle of the open area, a pistol in each hand. His men were ranged about the quarry, all with firearms in hand. Without aid from Aramis, Porthos, Gallagher and Philippe, they were facing a massacre.
The woman was sprawled on the floor at the feet of a man who was retying his breeches. Her husband was kneeling on the ground, his head bowed, hands roped behind his back. The boy lay motionless beside a stone block.
“That’s far enough, musketeer. Drop the body and move back.” A smile spread across the assassin’s unremarkable face. “A bonus for the man who fired the lucky shot. But let’s just be sure, shall we?”
He lowered the muzzle of his weapon in his left hand and pulled the trigger. Treville was already rolling away; the first shot missed him by only a hands’ breadth.
In the same heartbeat, a volley of shots erupted from all around the quarry as Treville came up in a fast crouch, diving at Boucher rather than away from him. As ever in combat, time seemed to slow to a crawl as Athos grabbed the dagger from his boot and hurled it at Boucher. The blade took him in the left shoulder, throwing off his aim and the second pistol shot went wide, but with an almost inhuman turn of speed, the man kicked out at Treville as he swept his sword from its sheath, striking down with a vicious blow that Treville barely avoided.
“Athos!” Cahusac’s shout drew his attention and he turned in time to catch a rapier in his gloved hand.
He had no idea how many of Boucher’s men were down, as the fight had now turned into a close-quarter battle with no ground being given on either side. He met Boucher in a clash of steel as around them the quarry still echoed to the sound of pistol shots but soon every weapon had been discharged and there was no time to reload. Pistols served now as clubs. He had no idea how many of the mercenaries had fallen and there was no time to gauge the success of their surprise offensive as he was already hard pressed by Boucher’s blade.
The man was good. Athos had known that from the first moment their blades touched. His style verged on the flamboyant, yet he left no openings that could be exploited. Athos was hampered by not having a dagger in his left hand and he had no opportunity to reach down for his second boot knife. Boucher’s strikes were fast and hard. He changed from low to high line with impressive speed and lunged for Athos’ throat in a move that was very nearly Athos’ undoing. He parried a fraction late and the blade left a thin red line on his neck.
Boucher’s lunge carried him forward and for a moment their bodies were locked together as the assassin fought to bring his dagger into play. For a man who still had a knife sticking out of his shoulder, it was a brave move. Athos pressed against him, knocking the hilt of the blade and grinding it further into the Butcher’s flesh and bone. The man let out a roar of pain and rage and shoved Athos away.
A musket barked from somewhere overhead. Boucher staggered and blood and bone sprayed out of his chest, splattering Athos’ face. As he crumpled to the ground, Athos looked up to see Gallagher reloading his weapon in a firing position at the top of a rock overhang. The Irishman tipped his hat to Athos as he finished ramming home a ball and wadding, searching immediately for another target.
Athos saluted Gallagher with his sword then stared down at the assassin. Boucher had dropped his sword and was clutching his chest, a surprised expression on his face. Without hesitation, Athos drove his sword through Boucher’s heart, watching as the light went out in the eyes of the man who had taken a contract to kill Treville, the man Athos valued even above his own life.
Smoke from the fire in the mine entrance had drifted across the dell, and the air was acrid with the smell of smouldering leaves mixed with the all too familiar smell of black powder from the pistol shots. Porthos was now in the thick of the fight, fighting bare-handed against one of Boucher’s men. The big musketeer grappled with his opponent and drove him back onto the smouldering fire, sweeping his legs out from under him.
Philippe de Beaune was giving a good account of himself, fighting left-handed against a short, thick-set man wielding a rapier with grim determination. What the man lacked in style, he made up for in brutal power. Abruptly, he broke Philippe’s guard, forcing the young man to throw himself sideways to avoid the sharp steel. Before Athos had time to time to take his place, Cahusac leaped forward to put himself between the young noble and the mercenary. The red guard fought with an impressive economy of style and before his opponent had realised the danger he was in, Cahusac had feinted to the right, drawing the other blade out of line, before lunging forward, burying his sword hilt-deep in the man’s chest.
“Flashy bastard,” growled Porthos approvingly.
“So you said before.”
“They’re all down!” Gallagher called from his vantage point.
Cahusac saluted them both with his sword.
Athos cast his eyes around the quarry floor, desperately seeking sight of his commanding officer. Treville was standing over the body of one of Boucher’s men, the hostages behind him crouched in a ragged huddle. The blood-soaked bandages had slipped down to reveal a long red scrape on his right side but beyond that, he appeared unharmed. Their eyes met across the smoke and Treville smiled grimly, nodding his thanks.
Athos swayed, giving in for a moment to the excruciating pain in his shoulder and left arm, feeling the combat high still thrumming in his body.
“It seems your plan was not so mad, after all,” Jussac commented. “For the record, I made both my shots count.”
Athos smiled through the pain. “I never doubted you for an instant.”
Treville made his way over to them, his sword bloody in his hand. “That has to rank as one of your more outrageous schemes.”
“Fortunate you moved when you did,” Athos said wryly.
“Fortunate the Butcher signalled his intentions.”
“If you’re going to kill, then kill, don’t talk,” Aramis said, slithering down a slope onto the quarry floor, repeating a mantra they always drilled into the cadets.
“You took out their sentries without a problem?” Athos asked.
Aramis grinned. “We had help.” He nodded towards the top of the slope.
Athos looked up and recognised two men from the village, Felix and Gaston, both grey-bearded veterans of the King’s wars in the Spanish Lowlands.
“They heard the musket fire and came to investigate. Gallagher heard them talking and realised they were not with the Butcher. The three of them did our work for us before we even got here.”
“My thanks!” Athos called.
“They’re all dead,” Cahusac reported. “The hostages are alive.” He wiped his sword on a handful of leaves and sheathed it.
“We need to get back to Bernajoux,” Aramis said. “Everyone else’s injuries can wait. We can fashion a stretcher at the house.”
Athos nodded. He turned to the former hostages. The man’s bonds had been cut and he was standing now, supporting his wife. “I’m sorry you were caught up in this. We will tend your wounds back at the house. Can you walk, madame?”
The woman nodded, her eyes still wide and afraid. The young boy, no older than his early teens stood by her, protectively, one arm clasped across his chest where he’d no doubt taken some kicks from his captors. Gallagher had been right about the Butcher’s disregard for women and children.
Treville looked dispassionately at the bodies of the men who had been sent to kill him. “The dead can wait, as well.”
Helping each other where needed, they emerged from the labyrinth of old quarry workings and followed the haulage way back towards the house. The two village men left them at the edge of the woods, promising to fetch food and more bandages for the wounded. The afternoon sun was waning as they crossed the meadow in silence, the exhilaration of the fight fast fading to a bone-sapping weariness for them all.
Two of the loose horses, cropping the sweet grass, came at a whistle. Treville ordered Jussac, now limping heavily, to take one, and the woman and her son they loaded onto another. The small family stayed close together, the woman wept silently, tears furrowing the dirt on her face. Her husband murmured soft words to her, but they seemed to bring no comfort. They were lucky to have survived the attentions of the Butcher and his men, but it would no doubt be a while before that sunk in.
By the time they reached the courtyard, Athos’ shoulder was aching as if kicked by a particularly bad-tempered mule and every movement of his arm sent sharp flares of pain from fingertips to neck.
“There are poles in the barn that will serve for a stretcher!” Aramis called, and with Cahusac at his side, he quickly fashioned a serviceable stretcher from two long poles and cloaks from their saddlebags.
“You two ‘ave barely got two good arms between you,” Porthos declared, looking at Athos and Philippe. “Stay with the captain and we’ll fetch Bernajoux back. Don’t think any of the buggers got away, but ain’t no point takin’ chances.”
“Jussac, if your leg will bear it, ride with them,” Athos said. “As Porthos says, no point in taking chances.”
The red guard captain nodded, clearly as anxious as Cahusac to find out if Bernajoux still lived.
While Treville was hauling water from the well, Phillipe went inside to light the fire and put water on to boil for cleansing their numerous injuries and Athos went in search of material to rip for bandages. A chest in one of the storerooms contained some old worn linen sheets that would do well for that purpose. He also cleared the kitchen table in readiness for a hopefully still living patient.
In the courtyard, the pedlar boy was helping Treville wash the dead mercenary’s blood from his body. Athos smiled wearily, simply glad that his mad, desperate plan had worked. The cut to Treville’s side would need to be cleaned and dressed, but it was not deep. He could attend to that before consigning his arm to a sling.
Hearing Athos’ boots on the cobbles, Treville turned, a smile on his face that died abruptly as a thin black bolt embedded itself in his back. Shock hit Athos with the force of a kick to the guts even as his eyes swept the courtyard for the assassin, training overriding shock in a heartbeat as Treville staggered and fell.
By the barn, the pedlar was reloading a small but deadly crossbow. Athos reached behind his back for his pistol, yelling loudly in the hope of distracting the man and alerting Philippe to treachery. The would-be killer swung his weapon up and fired as Athos jumped back. The bolt embedded itself in the doorframe. The assassin was already moving, dodgy nimbly.
The powder took a heartbeat too long to ignite and Athos’ shot went wide.
He cursed and drew his sword, intending to get to the man before he could reload, but instead, the would-be killer casually tossed the crossbow to the woman as the boy snatched up Treville’s sword and threw it hilt first through the air. The assassin caught it, his hand sliding into the hilt-guard in a movement redolent of long practice. The sick realisation came Athos that they had been played for fools. The pedlars had never been hostages and the man he had killed in the quarry had not been Boucher. The assassin was not one man, but three people.
The pistol shot and the yell brought Philippe of the door at a run, sword in hand.
“Deal with the boy and the woman if you can!” Athos ordered. “Protect the captain.”
Boucher met him, steel on steel, an amused look on his face. “You cost me thirty men, but at least I won’t have to pay them.”
Athos said nothing. He used words in a fight only as another weapon, to force an opponent into an error. A professional assassin would not easily be goaded. He needed to finish this fight, and he needed to finish it fast. With Treville down, he and Philippe were facing three killers, and he had no doubt that the woman and the boy were skilled at their work. The rape in the quarry had been no more than a clever pretence. The charade had been even more elaborate even than the one Athos had devised. The mercenaries were nothing more than decoys, fighting for the promise of a large purse, no doubt, but ultimately expendable.
“Only one good arm,” Boucher taunted. “You stand no chance, musketeer.”
Athos ignored both the pain and the temptation to tell the man to go fuck himself. Instead, he gave ground fast, maintaining his guard in a manoeuvre he’d practised until it was second nature to attack while seemingly in retreat. A wary look came into his opponent’s eyes but if he wanted to maintain contact, he had to follow. The man was a superb swordsman, far superior to his decoy in the quarry. Athos could feel the strength in the man’s wrist and his almost casual mastery over the blade. Fresh and uninjured he might have been able to take him; now, with his reactions dulled by pain and the soul-sapping post-combat ebb of energy, he knew he was fighting for his life, as well as for Treville’s.
The man’s gaze didn’t waver from Athos’ face and the deadly dance their swords were weaving in the air continued unabated.
A crossbow bolt ricocheted off the stone surround of the well and skittered harmlessly on the cobbles.
A gurgling gasp from behind him forced Athos to break his silence. “Philippe?”
“The… boy’s… dead,” the young vicomte panted, revulsion at what he’d had to do making him stutter the words.
Anger blazed in Boucher’s eyes and his blade flashed dangerously close to Athos’ chest, turned only by a parry that took all the strength he could muster.
“Musketeer, down!” The voice was Gallagher’s, coming from behind him.
Athos dropped to the cobbles as the Irishman fired twice. One shot took Boucher in the throat, the other hit him full in the chest. He staggered back, a look of surprise on his face as he died, crumpling to the ground in an ungainly heap.
Athos came to his knees in time to see Jussac limping towards the woman, his pistol pointing at the cobbles. “You’re safe now, you can drop the weapon,” he said, in a reassuring tone.
“She’s one of them!” Phillipe yelled.
The woman and the Red Guard captain swung their weapons up at the same time, but Jussac was a heartbeat faster and fired his weapon without hesitation. The woman’s face exploded in a red ruin. Her finger spasmed on the trigger. The bolt flew high and wide.
“You don’t fuck around,” Gallagher commented dryly.
“Without the vicomte’s warning, I’d be dead.” Jussac nodded his thanks to Philippe.
“That’s twice you’ve saved my life,” Athos said to the mercenary, clasping his hand in gratitude before dropping to his knees besides Treville.
“I like to pay my debts, musketeer.”
“We are in your debt now.” Treville’s voice rasped in his throat and his breathing was fast and shallow, his face pallid.
“Stay still,” Athos instructed urgently.
The thin bolt was protruding a finger’s length from Treville’s back. It had struck behind his shoulder, penetrating the flesh at an angle. If Treville hadn’t turned when he did, the bolt would have punched straight through his back into his heart or a lung.
“Find one of the bolts,” Gallagher said. “We need to know what we’re dealing with. That’s a custom-made assassin’s weapon. The tip is probably barbed.”
Philippe quickly grabbed the one that had buried itself in the door jamb. “Barbed,” he confirmed, handing it to Gallagher.
“Athos,” Treville groaned. “I…”
Athos cupped his face with one hand, supporting his weight with his good arm. “Don’t talk, just stay with me…” As Treville’s eyelids started to flicker and close, Athos stroked his lover’s cheek through the close-cropped beard. “Jean, don’t you fucking dare die on me!”
Treville’s lips quirked into a slight smile as he whispered, “I’ll try not to.”
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Date: 2020-06-17 05:29 pm (UTC)I feel like a broken record, but the action just keeps getting better and better and even more intense. While Team!Athos might have fallen for the hostages ploy, I thought they were really clever to fake Treville's death. It was also a nice bit of foreshadowing as to what was to come with that arrow bolt -- not that I'm expecting Treville to die. Umm...you wouldn't kill him, would you?
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Date: 2020-06-17 06:46 pm (UTC)I wanted it to be complicated without having to hit them with the stupid stick, and I must admit I was quite pleased when this idea came to me.
But then having got them into the situation, I had to find a way of getting them out of it! Which took me a while to work out.
LOL.... no spoilers!
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Date: 2020-06-17 10:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-06-18 12:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-06-18 05:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-06-18 12:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-07-05 11:25 am (UTC)Wow, that was a turn-up. Mind you, I had a feeling about that family... very cool :D
Reading this has made me miss Porthos very much, I love the way you write him, so glad he was ok. Or so far!!!
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Date: 2020-07-05 12:43 pm (UTC)Aha, I was wondering if anyone would suspect them.
I do like Porthos!
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Date: 2020-07-05 02:31 pm (UTC)hee
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Date: 2020-07-05 02:35 pm (UTC)