The Mage Queen

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The Mage Queen Page 17

by R A Dodson


  He was trying to haul himself into position with weak, trembling arms when Hughes barreled into the doorway, pistol in hand. Athos fired his own captured pistol, but missed. Taken by surprise, Hughes missed his own shot in the flickering lantern light. With a roar, the big man grabbed d’Artagnan’s leg and tried to drag him off the horse. D’Artagnan kicked out, feeling his boot heel connect with flesh and bone, and Hughes staggered back. Overbalanced, d’Artagnan slid from the mare, landing awkwardly; his death grip on the rope reins yanking unintentionally against the frantic animal’s head with the full force of his weight.

  The little horse pulled back against the sudden pressure, scrambling backwards until her hindquarters bumped into Hughes’ shoulder. With a high-pitched squeal of anger at being hemmed in, front and rear, the animal hauled off with both hind feet and kicked Hughes in the chest, felling the large man like a hewn tree. He hit the ground and lay still, his ribs caved in gruesomely.

  D’Artagnan steadied himself and the mare and stared at the downed man for a moment, jaw hanging.

  “I’m starting to understand what Grimaud sees in this horse,” he said stupidly.

  “Don’t just stand there, man. Get his money and weapons and come on,” Athos said, shattering d’Artagnan’s reverie.

  He quickly complied, scrambling onto the irritated horse’s back successfully on the second attempt, stolen weapons digging into his side. Righting himself, he looked to where Athos was painfully hunched over Rosita’s neck as she danced nervously in place. Without a word, the two rode through the open door and into the darkness outside, eyes adjusting slowly to the faint sheen of the setting moon.

  As quietly as possible, they picked their way past the smoldering house and up the tree-lined drive, keeping to the grassy verge to muffle the sound of hoof beats. They were almost to the road when d’Artagnan’s horse snorted softly and swiveled an ear to the right, craning her head around and skittering sideways a moment later. Remembering the last time that had happened, d’Artagnan hissed, “Athos! To our right!” just before pounding hooves and shouts broke the stillness of the night.

  Chapter 24

  “Ride for your life, d’Artagnan!” Athos said, and spurred Aramis’ mare to a gallop, d’Artagnan following close behind. A shot rang out behind them as they scrambled around a tight turn onto the main road, heading south. A second shot followed, but fortunately for them, it was too dark for accuracy. Both men urged the horses into a flat gallop, knowing their only chance was to outdistance their pursuers.

  Without benefit of saddle or bit, d’Artagnan gripped the mare’s slick hide with his knees and gave the horse her head, feeling her powerful, compact muscles bunch and explode beneath him with every stride. A fall at this speed meant almost certain death—either from the impact or at the hands of their pursuers—and was all too likely, riding bareback as they were. D’Artagnan’s fear was all for Athos, though. His friend had undergone hours of torture and could barely remain upright under his own power.

  He risked a glance to the side through watering eyes and received the impression of a figure bent nearly double; hands tangled in the Spanish mare’s extravagant mane, clinging stubbornly to the animal’s broad back. Both horses’ breath came in deep, rhythmic snorts as they settled in for a sustained run.

  Their saving grace was that these horses had rested in the barn during their captivity, while their pursuers’ animals had been out on patrol during that time. Additionally, though the lack of tack made their headlong flight ridiculously dangerous, it also meant that their captors’ mounts were carrying upwards of fifty extra pounds apiece in saddlery and supplies. D’Artagnan refused to think about how they would manage after their escape with little more than the clothes on their backs—and barely any of those, in Athos’ case. Instead, he focused on the way that the hoof beats behind them were fading almost imperceptibly as they gained ground.

  The moon had set, and Rosita’s light gray hide was a faint blur beside him under the starlight. D’Artagnan split his attention between his injured companion, the pursuers now far behind them, and the labored breathing of his own sweat-lathered mount. He squinted. The dark shapes off the road on Athos’ other side were almost certainly trees, he decided.

  “Athos!” he hissed, receiving no response.

  Sitting back, he allowed his exhausted horse to slow, which she did gladly. He was relieved to find that Rosita kept pace with him in the apparent absence of any direction from her passenger. As quickly and carefully as he could, he eased close to the other horse and grabbed her rope. Closer inspection showed Athos still bent over her neck, hands tangled tightly in the horse’s mane.

  “I’m taking us into the woods to hide,” d’Artagnan whispered, unsure if the other man was even aware enough to understand.

  He directed the horses off the road and down a gentle incline, letting them pick their own way in the dark. Not until the large boles closed around them, hiding them from view, did he release a tense breath. The little mare he was riding continued to press forward eagerly, and he concentrated on avoiding low branches and other obstacles, letting her take them deeper into the forest, always traveling downhill.

  The horse’s goal became obvious when the rushing of water caught d’Artagnan’s notice over the background rustle of leaves. He was suddenly aware of his own powerful hunger and thirst, it having been many difficult and exhausting hours since they had eaten or drunk. The trees opened up into a clearing, allowing just enough starlight in to see by. The horses hurried forward to the pebbled shore of the small river and plunged their muzzles into the cool water, drinking deeply.

  D’Artagnan slid to the ground gratefully, feeling shaky and weak. After the horses had a few swallows, he tugged their heads up and led them away from the water, lest they drink too much while hot and blowing, and bring on a bout of colic. Rosita came reluctantly, but calmly, while his own mare pinned her ears back and snapped at him to express her displeasure.

  “You can have more in a few minutes, you infuriating beast,” he said, tying both horses to a sturdy branch so he could turn his attention to his companion, still draped over Rosita’s back and showing no sign of awareness. “Athos. We’re safe now, I think. Let me help you down. There’s water here; you should drink something.”

  He reached up, intending to untangle Athos’ hands from the horse’s mane, but the only response was a groan and a determined tightening of the other man’s grip. D’Artagnan stilled his hands, at a loss as to how to proceed.

  “I need your help, Athos,” he tried. “You can get off the horse now, but you have to let go of her mane.”

  Athos’ eyes fluttered, struggling to focus on him. “... d’Artagnan?” he asked after a pause.

  “Yes, it’s me,” d’Artagnan replied, caught between worry at Athos’ befuddlement and relief that he was responding at all. “Let go of the horse’s mane. I have you.”

  Athos looked at his tangled hands in confusion, but did not resist this time as d’Artagnan eased them free of the long hair. He gingerly swung a leg over, allowing d’Artagnan to help him slide down. The younger man bit back a curse as the numbness and heaviness that had characterized his abused arms gave way to sharp pain followed by a deep ache of wrenched muscles.

  Unfortunately, Athos’ legs were unable to support him when his feet met the ground; nor was d’Artagnan’s remaining strength sufficient to keep them both upright. The pair stumbled to the ground in a heap, Rosita stepping sideways to keep her hooves clear of them and directing a concerned snort at their untidy tangle of limbs. After a moment, d’Artagnan was able to shift Athos over to rest against the base of the tree. The older man was a pale blur in the starlight. His skin radiated heat under d’Artagnan’s hands.

  “Where are you hurt?” he demanded. “What did they do to you?”

  “Burns,” Athos grated out. “Branded... me.”

  D’Artagnan’s gut clenched, and he swallowed hard, trying to be practical. “Right. We don’t have any band
ages. Or ointment. Or, well, anything really.” He wracked his brain, suddenly remembering his mother holding his hand in a bucket of cold water after he burned it trying to get a heavy pot of soup out of the fireplace. Deciding it might help and probably wouldn’t hurt, he urged Athos to sling an arm over his shoulder and dragged him to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get you in the river until your skin cools down, at least. It should help with the pain.”

  Athos let himself be led. When they reached the edge of the water, d’Artagnan debated with himself about removing Athos’ braies, but decided he might as well let the water wash away all the horse sweat that was sure to be soaking them, and which would probably sting like the devil against any wounds.

  “Can you drink a bit?” he asked, helping his companion kneel at the shallows. Athos nodded, and the two of them drank from shaky, cupped hands. D’Artagnan had completely forgotten about the torn skin around his left wrist until the cool water lapped against it, startling a sharp gasp from him.

  “D’Artagnan?” Athos asked quickly, sounding more coherent. “Are you injured?”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, striving to keep his voice even. “Just a scrape. Forgot it was there until the water got in it.”

  Athos seemed to relax at that, and d’Artagnan turned back to him.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you in the river and see if that helps.”

  D’Artagnan clumsily removed his and Athos’ stolen weapon belts, along with his own boots, stockings, doublet, shirt, and breeches. They crawled into the water in their smallclothes. A choked cry escaped Athos’ control and he cursed sharply as the water flowed over his injuries.

  “Easy,” d’Artagnan said, remembering the initial sting as his mother had submerged his burned hand in the water. “Give it a minute, Athos—it will pass.”

  His companion’s harsh breathing gradually quieted as the initial shock wore off and the water slowly began to work its magic.

  “Better now?” d’Artagnan asked. “Are you all right on your own for a few minutes, here in the shallows?”

  “Yes. Thank you,” Athos replied in a weary voice.

  The current was not fast, and Athos had positioned himself comfortably with his head near the bank and the rest of his body trailing into the slightly deeper water. D’Artagnan nodded and waded a bit farther out, ducking down to scrub at his own layers of sweat and grime with aching arms and hands. He took a deep breath and slipped under the surface, running a hand over his face and through his hair before emerging and wading back to the bank.

  He untied the horses and brought them back for another drink, pleased to see that they were breathing normally again and showing no signs of distress; the sweat drying slowly on their coats. His mare waded farther into the water and, after pawing a couple of times, dropped down to wallow and roll in the shallows. She was far enough away not to be a danger to Athos, so he let go of the rope to prevent it becoming entangled in her legs as they waved in the air, and left her to it.

  Rosita watched with pricked ears and delicately splashed a front hoof in the river. He sighed and flipped the free end of the rope over her back.

  “Go ahead, then,” he told her. “You might as well.”

  The Spanish mare joined her herd mate, the two horses grunting in pleasure as they scratched their backs on the pebbly river bottom and let the water wash the sweat out of their coats. After a moment, they lurched to their feet and shook themselves like oversized dogs, thoroughly spraying d’Artagnan, who only sighed again and gathered up their wet lead ropes as they stepped back onto the shore.

  He checked on Athos, relieved to find the other man splashing water on his face and hair. Leading the horses back to the tree, he judged that their ropes would still be long enough to use as reins if he cut off a couple of lengths for makeshift hobbles, allowing them to graze in the clearing overnight and regain their strength. After hobbling the pair and turning them loose, he sorted through his clothing. Athos could use d’Artagnan’s soft linen shirt, which wouldn’t chafe too badly against his burns. His boots wouldn’t fit the man, though maybe his stockings could provide some minimal protection for Athos’ feet. Likewise, d’Artagnan was too slender for either his breeches or doublet to work for his companion.

  Examining the weapons belts as best he could in the faint starlight, it appeared they had netted five daggers, three swords, and two pistols, one of which was already discharged. There was no additional shot or powder. Two of the purses were disappointingly light, containing only a few coins, but the leader’s had a promising heft to it. He looked up as Athos wove his way unsteadily up the bank to join him.

  “Here,” he said, proffering the shirt and stockings. “Put these on. I’m sorry, but I don’t have any other clothes that will fit you.”

  Athos nodded and donned the clothing with stiff movements, carefully lowering himself to rest against the tree trunk once more.

  “It’s unlikely that we’ll be found here,” he said in a weak voice, “but we should try to keep watch nonetheless. Can you—”

  “I’ll take the first watch,” d’Artagnan said quickly, knowing that Athos was on the cusp of collapse.

  “Wake me in a couple of hours,” Athos said, and d’Artagnan nodded, privately thinking that he would do no such thing.

  Chapter 25

  Athos was asleep or unconscious within minutes, and d’Artagnan breathed a sigh of relief that the pain of his burns was not enough to keep him awake and tormented. He settled himself against the tree as well, positioned so that he could make out the gray blur of Aramis’ mare in the clearing beyond; knowing that the horses would react to any disturbance in the area well before he became aware of it.

  The muscles of his neck, shoulders, and back throbbed with ill use, making it impossible to get comfortable. He tried to tell himself that the pain was a good thing, since it would keep him awake despite his exhaustion. He was still telling himself that when he drifted into troubled sleep an hour later.

  It was daylight when he jerked awake, though clouds obscured the sun. He looked around, momentarily disoriented before events came crashing back to him. Athos was still dead to the world, his neck canted in a way that was certain to add to his already considerable discomfort. Their meager pile of weapons and money was undisturbed; their horses were still grazing in the clearing.

  D’Artagnan let out a sigh of relief and made to rise, only to fall back with a surprised grunt when his arms completely refused to function. The sudden noise jolted Athos to awareness as well; the other man looking around himself with the same initial confusion d’Artagnan had experienced.

  “What—?” he began, only to cut himself off with a wince as his injuries made themselves felt.

  “I’m sorry, Athos. I fell asleep,” d’Artagnan said, wisely omitting the fact that he would not have woken the older man, regardless. “Fortunately, no harm appears to have come from it.”

  The confusion faded from Athos’ eyes as he took in their surroundings.

  “I see,” he said, still sounding worryingly weak and spent. “Well, we should probably get on the horses and make for civilization.”

  “Yes, probably,” d’Artagnan agreed. “Only, I, er...”

  Athos’ brow furrowed, and d’Artagnan’s attention was drawn to the blistered, weeping welts running at irregular intervals up the side of his neck from beneath the collar of the loose, borrowed shirt, terminating with an angry red burn less than an inch below his left eye. He swallowed hard; he had taken the indistinct marks as bruises in the darkness, even after Athos told him he’d been burned.

  Stupid.

  Athos was still staring at him, and he recalled himself to the conversation with difficulty.

  “I, uh, can’t seem to lift my arms this morning,” he said in a rush. “I may have... damaged something getting loose from the ropes yesterday.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t injured.”

  D’Artagnan fought not to duck his head in embarrassment. “I
didn’t think I was. Not to any significant degree.”

  “One of your shoulders is hanging lower than the other. You’ve probably torn some muscles. Can you move your hands?” Athos asked in a tired, hoarse voice.

  He wiggled his fingers experimentally, and was pleased to find that it elicited only a dull ache. Flexing his wrists, however, reminded him rudely of the bloody, torn ring of flesh around the left one, and he hissed in pain.

  Athos turned toward him and leaned forward stiffly to lift his left arm in both hands and examine the damage. “Well,” he said. “I had been wondering how you got loose. I suppose that answers the question. I’ll need to tear a strip off the bottom of your shirt to bind it.”

  D’Artagnan nodded, and watched dumbly as Athos picked up one of the daggers they had stolen and used it to remove a thin strip of linen from the item in question. The older man lifted his arm again and efficiently but gently wrapped the cloth around the wound and tied it off. It was ridiculous—surely soldiers bandaged each other’s wounds after battle all the time—but something about the act made his chest ache.

  He cleared his throat, and asked, “What of your wounds?”

  “Too many and too spread out to bandage, I fear.” Athos’ voice hardened, gaining strength. “But they will not prevent me from finding and gutting that cowardly cur who called himself my servant all these years.”

  “You can’t mean to go after him now?” d’Artagnan asked, disbelieving. “You can barely stand!”

  “I don’t need to stand for long—only long enough for you to help me back on Aramis’ horse.”

  D’Artagnan let himself flop back against the tree. “A task that would be much simpler if I had any use of my arms.”

  Athos settled back, as well. “Indeed. Which is why we will be resting for another hour or two while you try to get some movement back in your shoulders. We’ll need to move soon regardless, to obtain food and supplies. There’s also no guarantee that our friends from the manor won’t come looking for us in the daylight, as well.”

 

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