Part I
O death! Cruel, bitter, impious death! Which thus breaks the bonds of affection and divides father and mother, brother and sister, son and wife. Lamenting our misery, we feared to fly; yet we dared not remain.
~Gabriele de’ Mussi, recounting an outbreak of the Black Death, 1348
Chapter 1
The road leading north toward the town of Blois was overgrown and far too quiet, as much of France seemed to be after five long years under the Curse. D’Artagnan lay on his back, blinking up at the mottled pattern of sun and shadows cast by the rustling leaves above him. His head ached. His ribs ached. The half-healed whip marks on his back from his latest round of flagellation ached.
A gang of five brigands had descended on horseback from the crest of a wooded hill. They were upon him before he could aim a pistol, but he’d still managed to wound two of the ruffians with his rapier before the third snapped his blade with a rusty sword-breaker, and the fourth knocked him unconscious with a club.
As memory filtered back in, so did practical considerations. Still lying flat on the ground, he fumbled at the place where his sword belt had previously hung. His coin purse was gone. His brace of pistols was missing. So was his parrying dagger. With a sick feeling, he struggled into a sitting position and looked around. His eyes caught on a glint of light on metal in the grass nearby. His sword lay on the ground, abandoned—broken six inches from the tip.
Dizziness assailed him as he staggered to his feet, leaning a hand against the nearest tree trunk for balance. He breathed through it, waiting until the vertigo subsided before moving to the sword and scooping it up by the hilt. His heart beat painfully against the cage of his ribs as a sense of utter solitude overcame him.
His pony.
The ewe-necked creature was the last real connection he had with his dead family, and he couldn’t see the gelding anywhere. In a daze, he wandered farther into the forest. Had the brigands spirited the animal away? Surely the aged creature had little value to anyone but him. Nineteen years old if it was a day, the pony had been alive for longer that d’Artagnan, and had been a favorite of his late father’s.
The sad excuse for a road fell away behind him, blocked from sight by trees and brush. Something rustled in the underbrush to his right. Holding his breath, he pushed past a wall of branches and caught sight of a distinctive flash of pale yellow. The air rushed from his lungs in relief so abruptly that his lightheadedness returned.
“Whoa, there,” he called, fighting his way through the choking vegetation.
The phlegmatic pony pricked its ears, gazing at him with a decidedly unimpressed eye. One front leg was held awkwardly in front of the animal, the leather reins tangled around it. D’Artagnan crashed into the small clearing and stumbled to the gelding’s side, resting a hand on its shaggy shoulder. The horse shoved its nose into his hip, clearly conveying its lack of patience with its current predicament.
With a huff, he gave the beast a soft pat and moved to its other side, lifting the bound front leg and unlooping the entangling leather. He ran an assessing eye over the animal and his remaining belongings. A half-full water bag and a pair of hobbles still hung from the front of his saddle, but his saddlebags were gone, along with his bedroll.
D’Artagnan swallowed against the dryness of his throat. While he’d been regaining his bearings and searching for his horse, the sun’s slant had deepened toward the west. It would be dusk soon. Blois was still two days away, and his head felt like someone had stuffed it full of felted wool and then set fire to it.
“Looks like we’re camping rough tonight, old boy,” he murmured, looking around the clearing critically.
The glade was sheltered and out of sight from the road. There was no water, meaning he would have to find a stream first thing in the morning so the pony could drink. Frankly, even if d’Artagnan mustered enough strength to ride on today, he knew it was unlikely he’d be able to find a better site before dark.
This would have to suffice.
On the positive side, there was at least some grass growing. After untacking the pony and hobbling him so he could graze, d’Artagnan drank a modest amount from the waterskin, and settled in for a chilly and miserable night curled up beneath the saddle blanket.
TWO DAYS LATER, THE pain in d’Artagnan’s head had subsided into a manageable dull throbbing, for the most part. Unfortunately, that diminishing ache at the back of his skull had gradually been replaced by the ache of his empty stomach.
At intervals, he stopped near groves of berry bushes hanging with hard, green fruits. There was no one around to see, so he cupped clusters of berries in his hand, closing his eyes and picturing them deep red, plump and sweet with juice. Moments later, he plucked and devoured the ripened drupes with ravenous enthusiasm.
In his weakened state, utilizing such low magic was a waste of his remaining strength. Unfortunately, the ability to influence plants was the only kind of magic he possessed—and even that was rare enough to find, these days. While the energy expended almost certainly exceeded what he might hope to gain from the humble meals, at least having something in his stomach eased the hunger pangs for a time.
Outside of their occasional stops for food and drink, the gelding plodded on with its odd, ambling gait, head hanging level with its knees. One of the reasons his father used to offer to explain his fondness for the beast was its uncanny ability to cover eight leagues per day, rain or shine, despite perpetually appearing to have one foot in the grave. Given this universal constant of equine predictability, d’Artagnan estimated that he would reach Blois by midday, by which point he would hopefully have come up with a plan to replace his stolen money and provisions.
This preoccupation with his plight, combined with the twisting road and all-pervasive vegetation, prevented him from noticing the approaching rider until the two of them were practically upon each other. The other man’s mount—a fine bay mare—spooked sideways to avoid d’Artagnan’s gelding and stumbled alarmingly, nearly going to its knees before righting itself and lurching to a halt. The rider gasped out a curse as he was thrown forward in the saddle. Upon regaining his balance, he hunched over with a grimace—favoring his right shoulder, which d’Artagnan could see was heavily bandaged.
“Are you injured, monsieur?” d’Artagnan asked with concern, once the pale, dour-faced man had recovered enough to straighten in the saddle.
The stranger was a few years older than d’Artagnan, with dark hair and a strong profile. When he spoke, his response was as dry as dust. “Hmm, let me see. Bandages... arm in a sling... yes, I’d say an injury of some sort seems a fair supposition. Tell me, young man, do you always ride on the wrong side of the road when approaching blind corners?”
D’Artagnan looked around in consternation, gesturing at their surroundings one-handed. “This road does not have ‘sides’ so much as a middle closely bordered by branches and wheel ruts, monsieur,” he replied, irked. “Do you always ride a horse with hooves so long and unkempt that it stumbles at the slightest provocation?”
The man pinned d’Artagnan with piercing gray eyes, a frown pinching his brow. “In happier times, certainly not. Unfortunately, the blacksmith in Blois is dead of the Curse, as are the blacksmith’s two apprentices, the former blacksmith, and the blacksmiths in the two closest towns.” His voice grew heavy with irony, and he raised an eyebrow before concluding, “You begin to see the problem.”