by Stuart Gibbs
“Did he arrive alone?” Aramis asked.
“No,” Gérard said. “There was a Spaniard with him. They had been on some sort of mission in the countryside until now.”
Aramis screwed up his face in concern. Greg knew he was worried that there had been no mention of Milady. “That’s all? He was with no one else?”
Gérard shrugged. “He might have been. It’s a big camp. I don’t hear everything.” He suddenly yawned, then grew embarrassed. “Well, it’s late, and I’m sure you’re even more tired than I am. I’d be honored if you would join up with my brigade.”
“The honor would be ours,” Porthos said humbly.
Gérard broke into a pleased smile. “Then it’s settled! My officers will make room for you in their tent.” He clapped his hands, and his underlings immediately sprang to attention. Gérard ordered that the boys be shown to the officers’ quarters. Porthos graciously thanked him for his hospitality, they all swore allegiance to King Philip once more, and then the boys were off.
The officers’ quarters weren’t that impressive, merely a moderate-size tent inside which the officers slept on the ground. Most of them were already sound asleep.
“Looks wonderful,” Porthos lied to the soldiers who’d led them there. “However, before turning in, I think my friends and I might take a stroll about the camp, just to make sure the defenses are up to snuff.”
The soldiers, who probably couldn’t have cared less whether Gérard’s new recruits went to bed or not, nodded agreement and shuffled off. Suddenly, the Musketeers were alone and unguarded in the midst of the enemy camp.
Porthos grinned, pleased with himself, as usual, then led them toward the powder wagon they’d seen earlier.
Greg had been concerned that they wouldn’t blend in, given their lack of uniforms, but now that he was in the camp, he discovered that almost no one had a uniform. The army was mostly a hodgepodge of men recruited from all walks of life, most of whom were serving—and sleeping—in the clothes they’d worn to enlist.
The Musketeers moved quietly through the camp, eventually reaching the powder cart. No one was guarding it—although there was a gauntlet of sleeping soldiers and sentries they’d have to pass to get it on the road.
“There’s no way we’ll get this out of here without being seen,” Greg whispered. “It’s one thing to walk into the camp and join up. But it’s a whole other to waltz right out again with two tons of gunpowder.”
“Have a little faith,” Porthos said, unfazed. “And while you’re at it, see if you can find me some horses.”
“It’s an oxcart,” Greg protested.
“Only when you have oxen pulling it. And oxen are dreadfully slow,” Porthos said. “When we go, we’ll need to go fast. So find me some horses.”
Greg reluctantly nodded agreement and set off into the camp with Aramis. They found two horses relatively quickly—impressive, muscular steeds tied up outside the tent of some officers. While Greg untied them, Aramis found a few handfuls of sweet grass, which the horses loved. They eagerly allowed themselves to be led away in return for more.
“Only two?” Porthos asked when they got back. “We’ll need at least three to pull this cart!”
“You might have mentioned that before,” Greg snapped, but he set off to find another horse while the others hitched up the cart.
It took him longer to find one this time. There were lots of other horses, but most were in such sorry shape that Greg doubted they could pull a baby carriage, let alone their share of the powder wagon. The horses that were in good shape were understandably well protected. The sky was already starting to turn pink with the sunrise by the time Greg happened upon a suitable horse that miraculously wasn’t tied to anything. In fact, it appeared to have freed itself by gnawing through its tether; a short hank of rope dangled from its reins.
Greg did what Aramis had done; he found some sweet grass and offered it to the horse, which gulped it down and whinnied happily. “That’s a good boy,” Greg said, petting its nose. The horse nuzzled him, nice and friendly. Greg grabbed a bit more grass and the horse let him lead it away.
Greg had only taken a few steps before he realized where he was. He’d been so focused on finding a horse, he hadn’t been paying attention to where he was in the camp. But now he saw that he’d come dangerously close to the center. The huge tent he’d noticed before was only twenty feet away from him.
Greg noticed a makeshift hitching post next to it. There was a chewed-off length of rope dangling from it, one that matched the piece currently in Greg’s hand.
Greg gulped. He was stealing the horse of his mortal enemy.
And then, the flap of the tent flew open and Michel Dinicoeur emerged.
TWENTY-FOUR
GREG INSTANTLY KNEW IT WAS MICHEL AND NOT DOMINIC. The madman had a glove on the stump of his right arm, hiding the fact that his hand was missing. He didn’t see Greg right away—although he did seem to be on the alert. He was dressed in full military regalia—but what really caught Greg’s eye was the object that dangled from Michel’s neck: a dark piece of stone strung on a silver chain.
The Devil’s Stone. Michel had already found one half. Even without the entire stone, however, Greg could sense that Michel was drawing strength from it. Greg didn’t know how, exactly, but he could feel it, as though Michel was surrounded by an invisible, powerful force.
Greg was about to run, leaving the horse behind, when Michel seemed to sense his presence. The madman whirled around and stared directly at Greg, fire in his eyes.
“You!” he gasped. “How …?”
Before Greg even knew he was doing it, he sprang onto the back of Michel’s horse and snapped the reins. “Go!” he shouted.
The horse dutifully obeyed, galloping through the camp.
Michel flushed with rage. “To arms!” he yelled at the top of his voice. “The enemy is in our camp! Kill them!”
The sheer volume of his voice seemed superhuman to Greg. It echoed throughout the canyon like a lion’s roar. But the soldiers, most of whom were still deep asleep, were slow to respond. Michel quickly realized this was something he’d have to handle himself. He unsheathed his sword, slashed through the rope of another horse tethered near his tent, then leaped astride it and took up the chase.
Greg thundered through the enemy camp, his heart pounding with fear. He’d gotten better at riding over the past few months, but this horse wasn’t saddled, and going bareback was difficult normally, let alone at a full gallop while trying to avoid a thousand obstacles. Greg clenched the horse’s flanks between his knees, clung to the reins as tightly as he could, and prayed he wouldn’t fall off.
The farther he got, the more time the soldiers had to wake and realize what was happening. Now men began pouring out of tents. Several lunged for the horse’s reins, but the stallion was moving fast now. Most attackers were bowled out of the way, although one managed to cling on for a few seconds as the horse dragged him through the camp before finally getting slammed headfirst into a battering ram and collapsing, unconscious.
Greg saw the powder wagon ahead. Porthos and Aramis had apparently realized that the plan was coming undone. Aramis had found another two horses in Greg’s absence, and Porthos had just finished hitching them up. They clambered onto the cart and snapped the reins. “Yah! Yah!” Porthos shouted. The horses whinnied and ran, dragging the cart and its explosive cargo along.
The cart cut a far bigger swath through the camp than Greg’s single horse did—and Porthos wasn’t that good a driver. The thick wooden wheels quickly flattened two tents, scattering their panicked occupants—as well as dozens of other soldiers who woke to find themselves in its path. Cages full of chickens collapsed, releasing their captives in flurries of feathers, while horses and cattle bolted in fear. Porthos swung his sword wildly, slashing at any enemy structure he could—and thus dozens of other tents collapsed in his wake.
Ahead, at the perimeter of camp, a group of soldiers were hurriedly for
ming a barricade. Greg recognized a few of them from earlier in the evening: the men Valois had chosen to form his hunting party. Now there were twelve men … and Valois stood by their side.
Valois seemed even more enraged than Michel to see the Musketeers in the camp. He glared hatefully at the boys. “Ready crossbows!” he ordered.
His men slipped their bolts into their weapons.
Porthos didn’t waver for a moment. Instead, he swung his sword in the air and whooped at the top of his lungs, an act of defiance that struck fear in the hearts of those ahead. Greg and Aramis followed his lead as they bore down on the enemy.
Valois’ blockade faltered. The soldiers scattered before the wagon. A few bolts flew. One managed to slice the air between Porthos and Aramis and thwack into a powder keg, but most went well wide of their targets. Greg heard a few screams behind him as unwitting Spaniards were taken down by friendly fire.
The Musketeers burst free from the camp and onto the Roman road. Once the wagon’s wheels hit the evenly paved stones, it picked up speed. Greg had to spur his horse to keep up.
He chanced a look back toward the camp, which he quickly regretted. Michel Dinicoeur barreled through the ranks astride his horse, ordering his troops to arms. Behind him, dozens of soldiers—including Valois—were wrangling whatever mounts they could and joining the pursuit on horseback, while hundreds of others charged after them on foot. The entire army was now awake and bloodthirsty, two thousand men funneling onto the road in hot pursuit.
Greg heard the sound of something splitting the air and whirled around to see what looked like a ball of flame fly out of the woods along the road. He realized, to his horror, that it was a flaming arrow. It impaled a powder keg on the rear of the wagon and began to burn.
Greg glanced toward the woods, but whoever had fired the shot remained hidden. Dominic, Greg thought. He turned back to the wagon, knowing he had to act quickly. If the flaming arrow ignited the gunpowder, Porthos and Aramis would be toast.
The other boys realized this as well. Aramis took the reins while Porthos tried to scramble over the pile of powder kegs to the back of the wagon. However, this was too difficult while the wagon was moving. Porthos was nearly thrown off as the wagon made a sharp turn. He caught the rope that held the barrels at the last instant and clung on for his life.
Which left saving the day up to Greg. He brought his horse in as close to the wagon as he dared and slashed at the flaming arrow with his sword. He had to strain to get close enough, which would have been difficult enough with a saddle and stirrups, but was nearly impossible on an unsaddled horse, for fear of being tossed to the ground and trampled. He missed the shaft again and again, while the flame burned closer and closer to the powder in the keg.
Finally, Greg made a last-ditch effort, clinging to the horse’s mane and stretching as far as he could. With a final lunge, he severed the arrow, and the flaming shaft tumbled harmlessly onto the road.
Greg heaved a sigh of relief and looked up to see the aqueduct bridge looming around the bend ahead. They were less than half a mile away. Perhaps they’d make it....
There was a snort of air from behind. Greg whirled and found Michel Dinicoeur almost on top of him. He’d gained ground while Greg had been distracted by the burning arrow—and now his sword was slashing down.
Greg blocked it with his own sword. Sparks flew. Michel’s horse slammed into his, which whinnied and stumbled away from the cart.
Again Michel attacked. Again Greg parried. Michel’s horse slipped ahead of Greg’s, cutting him off.
A path forked off the Roman road, heading up the mountain. It was stone as well, a spur of the main road, and Greg had no choice but to take it. He steered his horse onto it, leaving Michel behind for a moment, until the madman could regroup and take up the chase.
Greg’s horse galloped up the slope as fast as it could go. Greg could feel it tiring beneath him. He couldn’t blame it; he was getting exhausted as well. And still Michel came after them, his horse still going strong.
They rounded a bend and Greg realized where this second road was taking them: to the upper level of the bridge. It appeared to be a maintenance road that accessed the second and third tiers. Greg gulped, realizing he was now heading for a narrow passageway sixteen stories above a raging river on a charging horse with a sword-wielding lunatic chasing him. And his friends were rushing to blow up that very same bridge.
Greg glanced down at the road, which was already surprisingly far below. Porthos was still dangling from the support rope, struggling to get back to his seat, while the enemy troops were gaining.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, Greg noticed the last barrel on the wagon was burning. Perhaps a piece of the flaming arrow hadn’t fallen off. Perhaps a spark from his sword had set it aflame. Whatever the reason, the powder keg was on fire—and his fellow Musketeers didn’t know.
He screamed to them, but his voice was drowned out by the thunder of hooves and the roar of the wagon wheels. Porthos and Aramis were on their own.
TWENTY-FIVE
ATHOS SAT IN THE WOODS ON THE FAR SIDE OF THE BRIDGE, morosely tending the fire he’d built hours before. He was tired of waiting, and his wounded leg throbbed with pain. The annoyance he’d felt at being left behind had shifted to concern as the sun began to rise. His fellow Musketeers had been gone too long. He’d expected them before dawn. Something must have gone wrong.
Catherine stirred in her sleep beside him. She was curled on the ground, huddled close to the warmth of the fire. She had volunteered to remain on watch herself, but Athos wouldn’t hear of it. No matter how tired he was, it simply seemed wrong for a man to sleep while a woman guarded him.
He snapped a thin branch off a tree and began to whittle it with his knife, making yet another arrow. He’d already made dozens, more than enough—he hoped. What else was there to do? He’d honed the shafts, found sharp stones to serve as arrowheads, notched the shafts, and fit the stones inside. He’d made pitch by collecting resin from the pine trees and boiling it down over the fire—and then he’d rolled the arrows in it. They were all ready to go now, dried and waiting in his quiver....
The whinny of a horse echoed through the canyon. Athos jumped to his feet and instantly felt pain sizzle through his thigh. His wound wasn’t healing well. He should have taken more time to treat it, and he’d been using it too much; Greg had been right about that. He needed to rest it—though there was no time for rest now.
Athos propped himself against a stump to take the weight off his leg and stared through the trees toward the bridge. Along the river beyond it, he saw two of his fellow Musketeers round the final bend of the road in a powder wagon, four horses pulling it as fast as it would go. Then, to Athos’s dismay, enemy soldiers rounded the bend in pursuit. They were on horseback—and more and more kept coming. It seemed as though the entire Spanish army was after his friends.
“What’s happening?” Catherine was suddenly at Athos’s side, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She paled as she took in the situation. “There’s only two of them....”
Athos grabbed his quiver and his bow and hobbled toward the bridge as fast as he could go, trying his best to ignore the pain. “Yes. Porthos and Aramis, I think.”
He heard Catherine let out a gasp of dismay. “Where’s D’Artagnan?”
“I don’t know,” Athos said grimly. “Bring the fire!”
Catherine did as they’d rehearsed. She took a resin-soaked log and jabbed it in the campfire. It caught quickly, creating a torch. Catherine then raced through the woods after Athos.
He had already reached the Roman road, where it snaked up the mountain after it exited the bridge. Across the river, Aramis and Porthos were nearing the Pont du Gard, with the Spanish army behind them. The cacophony of hooves on the ancient stones now drowned out the river itself.
“Oh my …” Catherine gasped. She pointed at the hillside across the river.
Athos looked up and saw D’Artagnan on horseback, heading for t
he highest level of the bridge—and he was locked in a swordfight with someone else on horseback at the same time.
“That level’s not nearly wide enough for the horses,” Catherine said.
“No,” Athos said gravely. Things weren’t going to plan at all. In fact, it didn’t seem things could possibly be worse.
Porthos and Aramis could hear the enemy’s horses bearing down on them while their own horses were flagging. They were almost to the bridge, but it wasn’t coming fast enough.
“We’re not going to make it!” Aramis shouted.
“Yes, we are,” Porthos said reassuringly, although he was filled with doubt himself. He focused on the far end of the bridge, hoping Athos was in place. If the plan was to work at all, Athos would need exceptional aim and timing....
Aramis glanced back at his pursuers. The enemy was almost on top of them. Valois was in the lead, only a few paces behind the powder cart, grinning maniacally from his horse, as if he couldn’t wait to hack the Musketeers to pieces.
Then, Aramis noticed something even more worrisome. Smoke was pouring off the back of the cart. “Porthos!” he cried. “One of the powder kegs is on fire!”
Porthos spun around and grimaced. “And just when everything was going so well,” he muttered.
As they watched, the fire suddenly blossomed, tripling in size. It flamed around the hole where a cork stopper held the gunpowder in.
“The powder’s starting to catch!” Aramis warned. “It’s going to blow!”
The first arch of the bridge was just ahead, but they needed to get to the middle for their plan to work. “There’s not enough time,” Porthos admitted sadly. “There’s only one thing to do.” He whipped out his sword and slashed through the rope that held the kegs to the wagon.
The taut rope snapped like a broken rubber band, freeing the powder kegs. They tumbled off the back of the wagon and into the road.