Book 2: The Queen's Musketeers, #2

by R. A. Steffan

  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 bandages. 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. The two of them 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 further 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 further 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 up 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 his loose 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.

  The other man 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 t
hrobbed 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. The horses were still grazing in the clearing; their meager pile of weapons and money was undisturbed.

  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, disappearing under the loose, borrowed shirt and 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."

  That was true enough, d’Artagnan acknowledged. And so, while Athos dozed restlessly, he went back to flexing his hands and wrists, gradually forcing movement and feeling further up his arms until he could bend and extend his elbows. Eventually, with a great deal of pain and a bit of whispered cursing, he was able to roll his right shoulder to and fro, and raise that arm to chest level. His left was still practically useless; all attempts to force it into action sent a muscle running down the side of his neck and over his shoulder screaming in protest, and any resulting movement was as weak and tremulous as the fumbling of a newborn kitten.

  Feeling as close to functional as he was likely to get, d’Artagnan rose unsteadily to his feet and grabbed the lead ropes, walking slowly out to retrieve the horses. Rosita approached him with pricked ears, stepping daintily within the confines of her makeshift hobbles. His own mare—that was to say, Grimaud’s mare—eyed him in an unimpressed way and went back to grazing until he walked up and awkwardly tied the rope to her halter, one-handed.

  The knots in the hobbles had tightened overnight, and defeated his clumsy right-handed efforts to undo them, so he led the animals back to the tree at a slow walk and roused Athos to untie them rather than cutting through the rope and wasting it when they might need it again.

  "Better now?" Athos asked, eyeing d’Artagnan’s awkward movements.

  "As long as I don’t need two arms for anything," he replied a bit snappishly, and immediately felt remorseful when he thought about Athos’ own painful injuries. "Do you want to go back in the river? Cool your burns again?"

  Athos shook his head, and levered himself carefully to his feet. "No. However, we should both drink some more before we leave. It will help fill our stomachs, if nothing else."

  They made their way back down to the edge of the river and slaked their thirst, though d’Artagnan was privately of the opinion that it did nothing whatsoever for his growing hunger. Donning the weapons belts they had taken the previous night, they mounted using a fallen tree trunk; Athos turning pale and gray from the strain. The older man slumped forward for a moment, bracing himself against Rosita’s neck briefly before straightening again and indicating with a nod that he was ready to proceed.

  By mutual agreement, they decided to follow the river rather than the road, at least until they were further from Illiers-Combray. The going was slower, but they could stop to water the horses or get a drink themselves, and if someone approached, it would be easy to melt into the trees and disappear. After an hour or so, the river meandered gently to the east, and a small cluster of buildings huddled near the outer bank.

  It was the first sign of human habitation they had come upon since fleeing the burned-out manor. The two looked at each other, and Athos shrugged and placed a hand on the butt of the loaded pistol at his hip before riding toward the largest of the structures. As they approached, it became increasingly evident that the property was abandoned, though it had evidently been quite an impressive farm at one point.

  D’Artagnan dismounted and drew his sword with a weak and shaking arm. "Hullo!" he called as he eased open the front door of the main house. The only answer was the creak of hinges, along with the smell of dust and old decay. He crept further into the house, calling back to Athos to reassure him that no one was hiding inside. No footprints marred the dust and not a breath of air moved except for that which he himself disturbed.

  There was nothing left in an edible state in the kitchen; time, insects, and rodents had seen to that. There was, however, a crate of wine with only a few bottles missing. Assuming it had not yet turned to vinegar, this was a useful find, indeed. D’Artagnan rummaged around until he found a pile of cloth sacks in a cupboard. He used the ones that were frayed and rotted to wrap the bottles before loading them into the bags that were s
till sound.

  He carried the first of four such sacks back to the front door and presented it triumphantly to Athos, who nodded approvingly and called him the very best of men in a low, serious voice. Once all four bags were outside, he gave two to Athos, who tied the tops together so he could hang them across Rosita’s shoulders.

  D’Artagnan reentered the home and ranged further into the back, opening doors until he stumbled upon a large bedroom that smelled of musty, sweet decay. The two intertwined figures on the bed were barely recognizable as human bodies anymore; more than skeletons, but far less than corpses. They were presumably the owners of the place; a husband and wife, struck with plague at the same time with no one else left to care for them.

  At least they died together, d’Artagnan thought, and tried to push any further musings about them out of his mind. Instead, he made himself search through the dead couple’s belongings thoroughly, looking through drawers and chests for anything useful.

  Eventually, he re-emerged to find Athos, still mounted, making steady inroads on one of the wine bottles.

  "How desperate are you for clothes?" he asked.

  * * *

  An hour later, a few rays of sunshine were breaking through the clouds as the pair rode away with their spoils. Though dusty and stiff, a new set of clothing transformed Athos from pale, sickly ghost back to confident swordsman—assuming one did not linger overlong observing his gray complexion and the sheen of sweat on his brow. Rosita bore the one saddle they had recovered from the barn that had not yet cracked and rotted to a dangerous point, and both horses now wore bridles, though they still relied on makeshift rope reins rather than trust the original stiff, mildewed leather.