by Stuart Gibbs
The prison was laid out exactly how Porthos had described—save for the cannon. Greg raced around the parapet toward the turret on the opposite corner. The guards were so focused on the river that no one even glanced his way. Within seconds, he was scurrying down a spiral staircase and into La Mort’s interior.
The building shook as the cannon fired once more. The dark stairwell echoed with shouts, screams, and agonized howls. Clearly, the prisoners had no idea what was going on. To Greg, it felt as if he were descending into some nightmare version of the afterlife. It was so dark he didn’t realize he’d reached the very bottom until he stumbled on the rough stone floor.
He found himself in a large room lit only by two oil lamps hung high on the walls. The massive oak doors of the prison stood before him. A smaller alcove sat to the left. There was no door on it. What would be the point of locking something inside an impenetrable fortress? There, as Porthos had promised, was the armory. A dozen muskets lined the walls, along with crossbows and swords. Below them was a low-slung bench, on which rested crates of musket balls and gunpowder cartridges.
Then Greg spied something even better: a huge barrel of gunpowder. Greg shoved it onto its side, pulled the plug, and rolled it to the doors, leaving a thick black trail. Then he tossed all the weapons on top of it—except for one sword and one musket, which he kept for himself. Though he hadn’t been the least bit quiet, the sound was swallowed up by the screams of the prisoners and the gunfire above.
Greg retreated to the safety of the alcove and struck the first match.
It flared quickly and vanished just as fast. A dud. There were only two left. His fingers shook again. He took out the second, set it against the matchbook, and—
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Greg looked up, startled.
A guard stood before him, aiming a musket his way.
“That’s a cannon!” Athos yelled.
“I know!” Porthos yelled back, struggling to keep the rocking boat from tipping over from the waves the cannonball had kicked up. “I can see it!”
“You didn’t say anything about a cannon!”
“Of course I didn’t!” Porthos barked. “It wasn’t there before!”
Getting spotted had been part of the plan. D’Artagnan would never have been able to reach the armory unless they could distract the guards. They’d even expected the muskets. But muskets were inaccurate. And unless they were loaded perfectly, which they rarely were, they tended not to shoot very far. A cannon, however, was a whole different story.
“How far can a cannonball travel?” Athos asked.
A column of water exploded only five feet to their right, drenching them and filling the boat with startled fish.
“Apparently this far,” Porthos replied.
“Then back up!” Athos hissed as the boat swayed violently again. He crouched low, gripping the sides tightly. “Get out of range!”
“What do you think I’m trying to do?” Porthos pulled hard on the oars, only to find one had been splintered in half. “The problem is, if we get too far away, we’ll be swept downstream. And . . .” He didn’t have to finish. Athos knew what he was thinking. Greg would be stranded in La Mort with a dozen soldiers.
Athos had bravely faced many things in his life. But this time, he had to admit he was scared. If a cannonball hit their boat, it would either kill them immediately or plunge them into the river. Either way, they were dead. Please, D’Artagnan, he thought. We need you to come through for us. Where are you?
Greg lifted his hands over his head, but kept them together, concealing the match and the matchbook.
“What’s in your hands?” the guard demanded.
Greg realized his opponent wasn’t much older than he was. And he seemed just as shaken by all the commotion. Working in a place like this probably took a toll on you.
“It’s nothing,” Greg said. “Just a little piece of wood. See?”
He snapped the match against the matchbook. It flared to life. He had only one advantage over the armed guard. He’d seen a match before.
The guard stepped back, terrified, his eyes locked on the flame. “Are—are you a sorcerer?” he stammered.
Greg didn’t answer. He simply dropped the match and dove inside the alcove. The gunpowder flared as the match hit it. The fire raced along the dark trail, straight toward the barrel. . . . Greg squeezed his eyes shut and clamped his hands over his ears.
KA-BOOOOM!
The massive explosion rattled Greg’s bones and sent him rolling across the floor. The entire building shook. For a panicked moment, he thought it might collapse.
His ears ringing, Greg crawled from the alcove and found the prison a very different place than it had been seconds before. Every surface was scorched black, with fires burning everywhere. The huge oak doors had been blown off their hinges and sailed into the river. The weapons he’d piled atop the gunpowder keg were ruined, either lying in charred pieces or embedded in the stone walls. The guard lay sprawled on the floor, having been tossed several feet across the room. His arms and legs were bleeding, but he was alive. His gun was nowhere to be seen.
Greg placed his sword against the guard’s neck. “There’s a man and a woman here, due to be hung tomorrow. Where are they?”
The young guard was too shaken to respond. He could only point down the hall.
That was all Greg needed. The rest of the guards were coming. He could hear them thundering down the stairs. He took one gunpowder cartridge and then threw the rest of the crate onto the fire. Then he grabbed a flaming piece of wood to use as a torch and set off to find his parents.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“HE DID IT!” ATHOS STARED AT THE FLAMING GAP WHERE the prison doors had been blown clear. Despite the cannon and the muskets and the rocking boat, the sight filled him with courage. “Let’s row!”
“But what about the—,” Porthos began.
Athos pointed to the parapets. The other guards were abandoning their posts to race to the site of the explosion. “Forget about the cannon. They have.”
Porthos handed Athos the shattered oar. “Very well. But I could use a little help.”
“Mom! Dad! Where are you?” Greg raced through the maze of passages, clutching the architectural plans of La Mort and his sword in one hand and the makeshift torch in the other, with the musket slung over his shoulder. His route was descending, carved into the island. The builders had lined the earth with stone to keep the river at bay, but with the explosion, the foundation had started to fail. Liquid oozed through the cracks and there were puddles everywhere. The whole place smelled of mold and damp and rot.
In the distance behind him, Greg heard a series of small explosions. That would have been the crate of cartridges he’d dumped onto the fire. The wood had burned through and now the cartridges were going off. Hopefully, it would provide enough cover to slow down the guards for a bit.
A bigger explosion followed. Probably the cannon again, though perhaps something else in the armory had blown up. The entire building shook once more. Dust rained from the ceiling above. A frightening thought came to Greg: If La Mort had been built by less-than-talented masons, how sturdy was it?
He was beginning to lose hope. He’d only been going for a few minutes, but the prison wasn’t that big. It seemed he should have located his parents by now. Perhaps the guard had pointed to the wrong passage. Or perhaps Greg had misread the plans and made a wrong turn. Or maybe they were already dead. Dinicoeur didn’t need them alive to lure Greg over here. . . .
“Greg?” The voice sounded like a croak.
“Mom! Where are you?”
“Greg!” his dad groaned. “This way!”
Greg froze and shut his eyes, listening as hard as he could. They called his name again, but it echoed wildly among the other shouts and explosions. He dashed forward to a fork in the passageway. “Mom? Dad?” he shouted.
“This way!” This time, the voices came from the left.
/> “Keep calling as loud as you can!” Greg instructed, following the sound. The fact that his parents spoke English made it easier to pick them out among the other anguished pleas and cries. The passageway plunged even deeper, down a slick flight of stairs, burrowing into the damp earth. Even with the torch, Greg could barely see a foot in front of his face.
“Mom? Dad? Keep calling—”
“We’re here!”
Greg stopped. The voices were almost right next to him. He turned and squinted at a wooden door only four feet high, rotting from the dampness. He thumped on it—and heard cries of joy from the other side. “That’s us!” Dad shouted, his voice clear and strong now, only slightly muffled. “Help!”
“Stand back!” Greg drove his foot into the door. Despite the rot, it was sturdily locked in place, and he didn’t have a key.
“What’s happening?” his mother cried.
“Relax, Mom. I’m getting you out of here.” Greg hoped he sounded reassuring, because he had only one idea left. If it didn’t work, he didn’t know what to do. He jammed the gunpowder cartridge he’d taken into the keyhole, touched the torch to the linen casing, and then dove for cover. “Get down and cover your heads—”
A loud bang silenced him before he could finish. The lock blew out and clanged off the far wall. Greg waved the smoke away and found the door hanging ajar. He shoved it aside . . . and nearly gagged. His parents’ eyes, wide open in surprise, reflected the torch. They were the brightest points of light in the cell. It was nothing more than a pit: too far below the surface for there to be a window, with a ceiling so low an adult couldn’t stand upright. The floor was a soup of mud.
His parents piled on him, hugging him, clinging to him tightly, as though to prove to themselves that he was really there. Both wept, overwhelmed by joy. “Thank goodness you’re all right,” his father managed. “We thought we’d never see you again.”
“We had no idea if you were even alive,” his mother cried.
“I’m fine,” Greg managed shakily. “Though I’ll be a whole lot better once we’re out of here. Come on!” He led them back the way he’d come. He could tell his parents had a thousand questions, but they understood the urgency. Neither spoke as they raced after him—stooped and filthy, their bare feet caked with mud.
Greg thought he remembered the way back to the entrance, but with all the echoing chaos, he grew confused. Eventually, they came upon a hallway filled with smoke, which seemed promising. But it was also disorienting, as it was now almost impossible for Greg to see where he was going. He coughed and squinted, creeping toward the flames. He and his parents had to stoop so low to stay under the smoke they were practically crawling, until, to Greg’s incredible relief, he spotted the entrance ahead.
The fire was blazing uncontrollably now. Many of the guards were trying to fight it, dragging buckets of water from the river and throwing them at the blaze. Others seemed unsure what to do at all. In the smoke and the confusion, Greg chanced a run straight through the entry hall to the arch where the doors had once been—
Only to find Valois blocking his path. The burly captain stood in the exit, his piggish eyes and sword gleaming in the firelight. Greg couldn’t believe it. To have come so far, to have nearly saved his parents . . . only to be killed here now?
“You’re not going anywhere,” Valois snarled.
An oar swung out of the darkness behind him, thwacking him on the head hard enough to knock him off his feet. He face-planted on the stone, unconscious.
Athos and Porthos leaped through the arch. “Sorry we’re late,” Porthos said cheerfully.
Four guards dropped their buckets and went for their swords, but Athos was ready. He kicked a pile of flaming embers into their faces, temporarily blinding them, then deftly proceeded to disarm all four—sending their swords skidding into the flames.
Another pair of guards attacked from the other side, but Porthos charged with the oar, driving both men into a wall.
“Get your parents to the boat!” he shouted at Greg.
Greg was already one step ahead of him, dragging his parents outside to the small prison dock. Four boats had been tied up there, but Porthos and Athos had cut all but one free. They were now drifting toward Paris, along with the rowboat. Only one vessel remained: the one that had carried the cannon to the prison.
As Greg herded his parents to it, he heard footsteps racing toward him. He spun around to find a guard charging him, blade extended. Before he even knew what he was doing, Greg whipped out the sword he’d swiped from the armory and deflected the strike.
With a strange detachment, Greg realized: This is my very first swordfight.
It was different from fencing—this sword was a lot heavier, for one thing—but there were enough similarities that Greg was able to handle himself. He held his breath, adrenaline coursing through him. They parried time and again, dancing around the dock, switching from offense to defense and back. Greg caught a glimpse of Athos, dispatching an onslaught of attacking guards with ease. Athos bounced one’s head off the stairs, speared another through his shirt and pinned him to the wall, then managed to set the next one’s pants on fire—sending him screaming into the water.
Greg was nowhere near as adept as Athos. Furthermore, the swim, the climb, and the rescue had been exhausting. He was cruising on fumes now, fighting to lift the blade each time. His opponent seemed to be gaining strength, sensing that Greg was weakening. He went on the offensive, hacking so hard at Greg’s sword that sparks flew. Greg backed onto a wobbly plank. It shifted under his weight. He lost his balance and crashed to the dock.
The guard raised his sword, ready to plunge it through Greg’s chest—when a coil of rope suddenly whipped over his head.
Behind him, Greg’s parents yanked on both ends. The rope snapped tight across the guard’s chest, flinging him backward into the river. Greg didn’t have time to thank them, however. Porthos and Athos were charging out of the prison at full speed.
“Untie the boat!” Porthos yelled. “He’s coming!”
Sure enough, Dinicoeur emerged from the building behind them. The madman was so consumed by rage, so intent on vengeance, that he no longer looked human. Backlit by the flames, he looked positively satanic.
Greg’s parents untied the boat and shoved it away from the dock. Porthos leaped in. Athos was almost there. . . . Suddenly Greg noticed something in Dinicoeur’s prosthetic hand: a small black ball with a flaming wick.
“Athos!” Greg shouted. “He’s got a bomb!”
Athos whirled around at the same moment that Dinicoeur raised his hand to throw the bomb. In the blink of an eye, Athos threw his sword. It spun through the air—and severed Dinicoeur’s fake hand from his arm.
For a moment, Dinicoeur seemed more startled than hurt. As if he couldn’t believe—after all these years, after all his plotting, after centuries of nothing but obsessing over revenge—that Athos had done the same thing to him again.
And then Dinicoeur visibly realized the more pressing problem. His hand—and the bomb—had tumbled back toward the prison. The explosion tossed Dinicoeur through the air like a scrap of paper. The already weakened front arch of the prison crumbled and collapsed.
The explosion caught Athos in midair as he leaped from the dock. He tumbled into the boat and nearly flew off the other side, but Greg caught him and held him tight.
Somewhere in the darkness, there was a splash as Dinicoeur landed in the Seine.
Porthos dug the oars into the water. The current caught the boat and quickly pulled it downstream. Guards scrambled over the toppled prison wall, only to find there were no boats left at the dock. They were trapped on the island.
“I’d say that went quite well,” Porthos croaked, his lungs heaving. He flashed an impish smile, the flames dancing in his eyes.
“I could have done without all the people trying to kill us,” Greg muttered.
He glanced at his parents. They were filthy and frail-looking after only three da
ys. They smelled of mold and sweat—and their haunted eyes bulged from their gaunt faces, still in shock at all they had seen. But they were alive. The other boys gallantly took the oars and allowed Greg to sit between his parents. He was almost able to relax as they pulled ashore.
Where Dominic Richelieu and the king’s guard stood waiting for them.
Chapter Twenty-Four
FORTY SOLDIERS ARMED WITH MUSKETS SWEPT TOWARD the boat as the boys and Greg’s parents clambered onto dry land. There was no point in trying to escape. There would be no getting past them. Richelieu appeared in the middle of their ranks, perched atop a black horse. Greg knew it was the younger man: He wore no gloves, revealing two hands of flesh and blood. Besides, Dinicoeur had been blown into the river.
“These people are criminals, all guilty of treason against the Crown,” he shouted at the troops. “Fire at will!”
“You will do no such thing!” The voice rang out through the night.
The eyes of each soldier went wide at the sound of it, though no one was more surprised than Richelieu. He spun around to see two more figures on horseback emerge from the night. Aramis . . . and King Louis XIII.
Greg turned to his parents. Their jaws hung wide. But for the first time that night, he saw a twinkle in their fatigued eyes.
“No one shall be condemned to death unless by the order of the king,” Louis stated, tugging on his reins and pulling his horse up short. “That is the law, is it not?”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Richelieu bowed respectfully from his horse. “I apologize if I overstepped my bounds, but I did so only for your protection. These people have committed treason. And for that, the penalty is death.”