by R A Dodson
“Ah, but it is one dove in particular that I seek,” said the man, “as I’m certain you’re well aware. My employer is becoming quite impatient with the difficulty of finding her. She is supposed to be in one place. I go, but she is not there. She is supposed to be in another place... again she is not there. It is becoming rather vexing.”
“Perhaps you need a better hunting dog,” Athos said.
Their captor laughed, visibly amused. “Yes, yes, I think you have the truth of it there. A better hunting dog, indeed. Still, I believe a simpler answer presents itself just now.” All trace of jocularity vanished in an instant, replaced with cold menace, and d’Artagnan tensed. “You and your companion will tell me the current location of Anne of Austria, and describe to me her defenses and the level of support she enjoys. You will tell me whether she has yet shown magic.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Athos, still sounding as though he found the entire conversation dreadfully tedious. “Wasn’t Anne of Austria driven out of France years ago?”
Their captor sighed. “Goodness. How terribly tiresome you are.” He turned his attention to d’Artagnan. “And you, young man? Perhaps you would like to avoid the potential unpleasantness and talk with me frankly?”
D’Artagnan curled his lip in disdain and twisted against his bonds once more. “Untie my hands and give me a sword, and I’ll be happy to ‘talk’ to all four of you.”
There were guffaws from a couple of the other men, who had returned to watch the proceedings.
“Oh, dear,” said the leader, as if d’Artagnan had accidentally spilled brandy on his rug, rather than threatening to kill him. “I don’t know about the sword or the untying, but it sounds as though you’ve just volunteered to come and have a word with us in private.”
His eyes flicked to the chain and hook now dangling from a stout rafter behind them, and d’Artagnan forced himself not to swallow as he realized, at least in a vague and nebulous way, what was coming.
I will not tell them anything, no matter what happens, he told himself firmly. I will not tell them anything. I will not betray the Queen, even at the cost of my own life.
“Wait,” Athos said, as Hughes moved forward toward d’Artagnan with a grin. The leader raised a hand, and the large man paused.
“You have something to say?” their captor asked.
“The boy does not have the information you seek,” said Athos. After a short pause, he added, “But I do.”
D’Artagnan jerked his head around to stare at Athos in dismay.
“Do go on,” said the other man, looking intrigued.
“My name is Olivier, Comte de la Fère. As you have already determined, I am here on the business of Anne of Austria. The boy is merely a lackey. I hired him in Orléans only two weeks ago and have trusted him with no details of my undertakings.”
Athos, no, d’Artagnan thought in despair. Surely this fell under the category of stupid things that Milady had made him promise not to let Athos do... but to speak up now would almost certainly make things even worse.
The leader circled them, peering at them speculatively, and d’Artagnan’s neck prickled as he passed behind them.
“Surely you realize that you would have had a better chance of keeping your secrets if you’d let us take the boy first as we’d planned,” the man said, rounding on Athos once more.
Athos met his gaze unflinchingly. “I promised the lad’s father that I would see no harm come to him. Sentimentality has always been my downfall.”
D’Artagnan was caught between the lump that rose in his throat, and the bizarre and utterly inappropriate desire to laugh at the idea of Athos being sentimental. The end result was a faint, but mildly embarrassing, choking noise.
“You seem an oddly honorable man, for a traitor,” said their captor. “Very well. Thierry, bring the comte. Hughes, tie the boy up in one of the empty stalls and patrol outside the house and barn on foot, in case our new friends were planning on meeting anyone else here. Nicolas, go find the others and inform them of developments. Continue checking the perimeter on horseback.”
D’Artagnan had a quick view of Thierry taking Athos away at gunpoint and shouted, “No! Leave him alone!” before Hughes forced him around and shoved him forward, toward the stalls. D’Artagnan set his feet and tried to ram a shoulder into Hughes’ stomach, but the large man stepped out of the way easily and landed a cuff to d’Artagnan’s temple that sent him reeling. He righted himself and growled in anger as a meaty hand grabbed him by the scruff of his jerkin and propelled him forward once more.
He kicked out, hoping to catch the other man in the shin or knee, and the punch that slammed into his cheek in retaliation caused his ears to ring and a gray fog to cloud his vision. When he regained his senses, it was to find himself already in the stall, slumped forward with his bound wrists angled agonizingly upward behind his back as Hughes tied them tightly to the heavy iron ring where a horse would normally be tied.
He groaned as the awkward and painful position twisted the newly healed scar tissue in his shoulder, staggering to get his feet underneath himself. Hughes tugged on the ropes a final time and left without a word, closing the door behind him and leaving d’Artagnan alone in near-total darkness. The tie ring was at head height for a horse, which translated to slightly above waist level for him. It was just about tolerable if he stood a little way away from the wall with his arms stretched out behind him, but there was no possibility of kneeling or sitting to rest.
He tried to reach the knot. His fingers could make out the free ends of the rope below it, but he couldn’t get the angle to manipulate the knot itself, and his hands were already starting to go numb from the constriction. He shuffled around until he could at least lean his right shoulder up against the wall, still feeling dizzy from the punch.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to embrace Athos for his bravery and selflessness, or shake him and shout in his face until he promised never to throw himself in harm’s way on d’Artagnan’s behalf again. The man’s actions made no sense. D’Artagnan was young and strong, and quite frankly knew fewer details of the political and military situation surrounding Queen Anne than Athos did. Their captor was right; Athos should have let them take him.
Stomach roiling with guilt and worry, d’Artagnan tried to quiet his breathing and calm his pounding heart enough to listen to what was happening on the other side of the large building. Low voices could be heard, along with the rattle of the chain. He held his breath, but it was impossible to make out any words across the echoing space.
While he still had some feeling left in his hands, he began to explore behind him; fingers brushing over the free ends of the rope. It was rough hemp, and not new—the fibers having reached that state of dryness which caused the cordage to feel slightly brittle and dusty, but with no signs of rot. The wooden post into which the iron ring had been set was unfinished oak, but the sharpness of the corners had been lost to time and the teeth of bored horses with nothing better to do than gnaw at the wall where they were left tied for hours on end.
He had to hitch his arms up uncomfortably to get at the ring; still heavy and solid despite the layer of flaky rust covering the metal. The low murmur of voices coming from outside his makeshift prison was broken by an unmistakable grunt of pain, and d’Artagnan’s heart sped up again. He closed his eyes and forced himself to continue his exploration of the metal under his fingers. Like most such fittings, it was hinged so as to move with the rope when the horse moved its head to and fro, and d’Artagnan’s perseverance was rewarded when the skin of his finger caught on a rough burr in the metalwork.
Another grunt followed by a low groan floated to his ears.
The burr was not sharp, exactly—it wouldn’t pierce skin—but it might catch clothing. Experimentally, d’Artagnan twisted himself around in such a way that he could grasp the loose end of rope and lift it a bit to rub it back and forth across the edge of the hinge. He felt a twinge of excitement when
the twisted fibers caught and pulled on the small obstruction.
He dropped the tail of the rope and moved himself this way and that for a few moments, trying to decide on the best position for what he had planned. It was incredibly awkward, but if he stood at an angle with his left shoulder near the wall, hunched forward with his elbows bent, he could press the loops of rope wrapped tightly around his left wrist against the iron burr. By swaying his upper body back and forth, the rope sawed up and down against the small edge, and he could feel the tiny, individual fibers snag and fray.
His injured shoulder protested the effort almost immediately, and his uninjured shoulder followed suit within minutes. He gritted his teeth and settled in for a sustained effort. Eventually, he was forced to rest for a bit... as much as one could rest when tied in such an uncomfortable position. He couldn’t readily gauge his progress. There were definitely some fuzzy strands of unraveled rope brushing his skin, but the body of the twisted cord still seemed largely intact.
More sounds of a man in pain quickly banished thoughts of rest, and he repositioned himself to continue. A new source of discomfort soon made itself known, as the rope rubbed against his left wrist with every stroke, scraping against the sensitive skin. He ignored it.
Athos’ first scream, when it finally came, was something that would stay with d’Artagnan for the rest of his life.
Chapter 23
D’Artagnan’s stomach dropped, and the hair on the back of his neck rose at the high-pitched cry of distress. He sawed the rope against the hinge faster and harder, sweat beginning to run down his forehead and into his eyes. The muscles in his arms, shoulders, and back burned, but that was nothing to the mounting fear and nausea at the thought of Athos, who had shown him nothing but hospitality and kindness, suffering so in an effort to protect him.
More howls of pain followed the first. D’Artagnan’s muscles began to tremble and fail, losing coordination. Guilt and self-loathing flooded him as he slumped forward, unable to continue without resting again.
Too weak. Too slow. Not good enough or strong enough to save anyone he cared about.
He longed for his whip... for the peace and oblivion of receiving punishment for his failings. Another scream echoed through the barn, Athos’ voice becoming hoarse with overuse. D’Artagnan’s breath hitched, and he forced himself up and into position again. His shoulder and arm muscles shrieked in protest, and he decided that this pain would be his punishment. The cramp and burn of abused muscles was different than the clear, sharp bite of the cat o’nine tails, but it was still pain, and pain was what he deserved.
The worst part was the focus required. The rise and fall of the whip was hypnotic; the rough drag of his bindings across a tiny metal edge necessitated his close attention if the burr was to rasp against the same place on the rope every time. Additionally, the pain was variable and unexpected—not the comforting predictability of lashes meeting skin. One moment the rope dragged over the raw flesh of his wrist, tearing it. The next, a new muscle in his shoulder cramped, twisting further agony through the knife scar there.
This was what he deserved. He repeated the thought over and over like a chant, in time with his jerky movements. This was what he deserved. Athos’ screams continued intermittently, becoming raspy and desperate; then anguished and pleading. D’Artagnan’s left wrist became slick with blood from chafing against the prickly hemp fibers with every movement. Finally, mercifully, his mind seemed to soften and blur, sliding above the pain like a flat rock skimmed across the surface of a flowing river.
He was aware of his goal, and of his friend and mentor’s continued torture. Time, however, was a meaningless concept, and he could no more have guessed how long he had been tied to the wall than he could have described the face of God. When the pattern of noises suddenly changed, and the screams were replaced with silence—interrupted only by low voices and the clank of the chain—he was brought back abruptly to himself.
He was surprised to discover only a few strands of the rope left intact, the thin remnant digging wickedly into the damaged flesh of his wrist. Voices and footsteps were coming closer to his makeshift prison, until he could at last make out words. The leader was speaking to Athos, sounding positively jovial; his words punctuated by the occasional laugh from his cohort—Thierry, presumably.
“I knew you would come to see things from my point of view eventually, my dear Comte,” said the man. “Now, forgive me, but I must say you do not look at all well. Why don’t you take a little while to rest with your young friend, and I will be back later to continue our discussion, after I have penned a short message for my employer.”
Stony silence was the only answer as the footsteps approached the door to the stall. Desperation flooded d’Artagnan as he realized this might be their only chance. Heedless of his abused arms and wrists, he jerked forward with all his strength against his damaged bonds, swallowing a cry of his own as the remaining fibers flayed his injured wrist before finally giving way.
His left hand was free.
He swung around, scrabbling at the knot with clumsy, numb fingers. It loosened after an endless moment and he yanked the tails of the rope loose, letting them dangle from the loop still tied around his right wrist. D’Artagnan darted as quietly as he could across the stall and pressed himself to the front wall beside the door, grateful for the darkness. The door creaked open, allowing lamplight to illuminate the back wall where d’Artagnan should have been.
“What the hell?” said an unfamiliar voice—Thierry’s—as the man stepped through the doorway.
D’Artagnan simultaneously leapt forward and yelled “Athos, now!”, hoping against hope that the man was in any condition to fight. He grabbed Thierry from behind with arms that felt six feet long and heavy as bars of lead. Fumbling with dead fingers, he grabbed the tail of the rope trailing from his right wrist with his left hand and tightened it around Thierry’s neck, squeezing with all his remaining strength and dragging the man farther into the stall as he choked and scrabbled at the makeshift garrote.
Athos and his captor were barely more than dark silhouettes in the doorway, haloed by the lamplight outside the stall. Athos—barefoot and half-clothed—clasped his bound hands in front of him like a club and swung them at the leader’s head, sending the man staggering and the pistol flying from his hand to land in the dirty straw at their feet. Athos lunged for the weapon, but his opponent tackled him before he could grasp it and rolled on top of him.
With a feral growl, Athos kneed the man in the groin. Their captor roared in pain and slid to the side, curling around himself on the ground. Grabbing the pistol by the barrel, Athos slammed the butt into the man’s head, and he went limp.
D’Artagnan was distracted as Thierry tried to claw at his face and eyes with his right hand—his left still scrabbling at the rope. The movements became increasingly uncoordinated, and finally he collapsed, dragging d’Artagnan down with him.
When d’Artagnan eventually released the rope from Thierry’s neck and disentangled himself, he looked up to see Athos opening the leader’s throat with the man’s own dagger. His lifeblood spurted over his chest and onto the floor in a brief, grisly geyser. Athos, still on his knees, slumped against the doorframe.
“Is yours dead?” he asked in a voice like broken glass.
D’Artagnan forced his heavy, uncooperative limbs around until he could press fingers to Thierry’s neck, and found no pulse. “I think so.”
“Make sure,” Athos said, and slid the knife along the floor to him.
D’Artagnan hesitated; taken aback by the idea of killing an opponent who was already defeated. A moment’s thought, though, and he realized with a jolt that if Athos had given any information under torture, this man knew what it was, and the Queen’s life was in danger.
Steeling himself, he grasped the knife in one clumsy hand and Thierry’s hair in the other. Closing his eyes tightly, he slid the blade across the man’s throat with the same smooth, quick movement he would
use to slaughter a goat or a sheep. He forced himself to look down, releasing his breath when he saw the blood oozing out of the wound without the force of a living, beating heart behind it.
His eyes sought his companion immediately. “Athos, are you—”
Athos spoke across him in a voice still hoarse from screaming.
“Not now,” he said. “We need to flee immediately.”
D’Artagnan swallowed and nodded. “I’ll saddle the horses. Where are the rest of your clothes?” The older man was bare-chested, clothed only in his linen smallclothes.
“No time,” Athos snapped. “Hughes will have heard the commotion. Get your man’s weapons and his purse, if he has one. Hurry.”
Athos suited his own actions to his words, efficiently stripping the leader’s weapon belt and feeling among his clothes for a coin purse as d’Artagnan quickly cut the rope loose from his right wrist and removed Thierry’s possessions.
“Help me up,” said the older man. “Get me on Aramis’ horse.”
D’Artagnan helped Athos lurch to his feet with arms that felt like stiff lengths of waterlogged wood. The two staggered down the row of stalls until they came to their familiar mounts, tied with halters and ropes to the same sorts of rings to which d’Artagnan himself had been bound mere minutes ago.
Athos untied Rosita and looped the lead rope around the mare’s neck, knotting the free end under her chin to form a rough set of reins. They led her out of the stall and d’Artagnan went down on one knee, letting Athos use his other bent leg as a step to scramble inelegantly onto the mare’s bare back with a choked gasp as the exertion aggravated injuries unseen in the dim light.
D’Artagnan rushed into the next stall and retrieved Grimaud’s mare, copying Athos’ method of using the lead rope in place of reins even as he led the horse toward the closed door of the barn. Unbarring the entrance, d’Artagnan swung one of the two heavy doors open just far enough for a man to ride through. He grabbed the reins and a handful of the mare’s mane and vaulted up to lie across the horse’s spine.