“Don’t worry yourself on that account,” Athos said, regarding him kindly. “We won’t suffer any shortages if you test your new weapon and bring down a hart. De Tréville has contacts that are extremely helpful in that regard.”
“These days,” Milady added, “it’s not who you are that’s important; it’s who you know.”
“Wise words, Milady,” Aramis said, “and, in point of fact, one of the reasons I continue to tolerate your husband’s company.”
Milady snorted, and Athos raised an eyebrow.
“Indeed,” Athos said. “And remind me once again why it is that we keep you around?”
“My finely honed wit and handsome good looks, I should imagine,” Aramis replied with a smirk. “My singing voice has also garnered high praise from certain quarters, I’m told.”
“Hmm,” said Milady. “Perhaps we’ll trade you in for our young guest, here. At least he can shoe a horse.”
D’Artagnan blushed, and Aramis slapped a hand over his heart. “You wound me, Madame. I suppose I shall have to bring down a stag now, to prove my usefulness.”
As it happened—and to no one’s surprise, given their rather rudimentary armaments—none of them brought down a stag. D’Artagnan had a single chance at a young doe, but the sights on his new pistol were slightly off and the shot buried itself in a tree a foot to the left of the animal as it leapt away. By compensating for the discrepancy, he was eventually able to shoot a large hare. Unfortunately, even large hares tended to end up fairly mangled when pierced by a lead ball at range.
Milady—more suitably armed with a pellet crossbow—bagged four fat pigeons over the course of the afternoon, and Athos, a brace of partridge. Aramis, much to his disgust and the others’ amusement, was empty-handed when they returned in the deepening dusk, but all agreed that the bounty would at least keep them supplied for a couple of days without having to taste chicken again.
D’Artagnan surrendered the remains of his hare to Grimaud, and brushed down both Grimaud’s horse and his own by lamplight before eating a hasty meal and returning to his quarters. Unlike the previous evening, he found himself barely able to keep his eyes open as he carefully cleaned and reloaded his pistol, removed his boots and doublet, and eased his shirt free from the new wounds on his back where the blood had dried. He had scarcely blown out the candle next to his bed before he was fast asleep, lost to dreams.
An explosion in the castle wrenched him abruptly from slumber some unknown amount of time later, shifting the stonework around him and sending trickles of dust and mortar down from the ceiling.
Chapter 7
The overwhelming blast of noise was like nothing d’Artagnan had ever experienced before. Disoriented, ears ringing, he flailed toward the wall next to the bed before remembering where he was. Turning the other way, he grabbed for his sword belt, pistol, and dagger in the dark.
The smell of smoke and gunpowder assaulted his nose as he quickly donned his shirt and weapons belt before pulling on his boots—his eyes adjusting rapidly to the faint moonlight coming through the window. D’Artagnan had no idea what was happening, but decided that drawing attention to himself by lighting a candle would be too great a risk in such an uncertain situation.
Creeping through the doorway in a macabre re-enactment of the previous night, he made it only a few steps before an arm snaked around his neck from behind and he was dragged backward into the shadows, a blade pressed to his throat as he cried out in surprise.
“D’Artagnan?” a voice hissed in his ear.
“Aramis?” d’Artagnan asked in reply, suddenly remembering his new friend’s self-confessed tendency toward insomnia. Instantly, the arm and blade disappeared.
“Yes, it’s me,” Aramis whispered. “Keep your voice down.”
“What’s happening?” d’Artagnan whispered back, heart still pounding.
“I don’t know,” said the other man, grounding him with a steady hand at the junction of his neck and shoulder. “But that felt like a bomb, and it was somewhere in this wing. Come... hurry!”
D’Artagnan followed Aramis’ guiding hand down the hallway, the smoke and dust becoming thicker as they progressed until they could just make out where it was coming from in the darkness. It was a room with which d’Artagnan was unfamiliar; its doors blown halfway off the hinges. Aramis froze, his hand clenching convulsively around d’Artagnan’s shoulder.
“Oh God in Heaven, no,” he moaned as if struck. “Ana’s room!”
D’Artagnan’s mouth opened and closed in shock. After a moment, he whispered, “We need light, Aramis!”
Aramis was silent for a beat before replying, “No. No, this won’t be the end of it. They’ll still be coming, and they’ll need illumination of their own to find their way through the castle. Carrying lights will only make us easy targets.”
“They?” D’Artagnan echoed, feeling completely out of his depth. “Who are they?”
“Ana María’s enemies,” Aramis replied grimly, leaving d’Artagnan considerably confused as to why a sweet young woman like Ana would possibly have enemies.
Before he could ask any more questions, torches flooded the hallway from the far end, momentarily blinding him. A bellow of rage sounded amidst the lights, and one torch fell to the ground, still clenched in its dead owner’s hand.
“Aramis!” Porthos yelled from within the confusion of flame and men, and Aramis disappeared from d’Artagnan’s side like a shot, flinging himself toward the fight.
“Porthos, down!” he barked, waiting a beat before firing both pistols into the mass of men. Two more torches dropped, and Aramis drew his sword and waded into the fray as Porthos staggered back to his feet and began cutting down opponents with broad strokes of his schiavona.
D’Artagnan came back to himself with a jolt, a flush rising as he realized that he had stood frozen for several moments while Aramis and Porthos fought. With a flash of insight, he knew that the intruders would not be aware of his presence in the shadows, and that could be to his advantage. Skirting the wall and trying to keep away from the torchlight, he edged toward the fringes of the fight and drew his dagger.
Imitating the move Aramis had used on him earlier, he grabbed the nearest figure from behind and dragged him backward even as he sliced the blade across the man’s throat. His victim fell with a horrible gurgling noise. D’Artagnan swept up the man’s torch, keeping it between his body and the other intruders to obscure their view of him as he dove in once again, attacking from behind.
As more men fell under his assault, d’Artagnan got a view of Porthos and Aramis fighting side by side, backs to the wall. A rough, unfamiliar voice shouted from within Ana’s ruined room.
“She’s not here! Finish off those fools and search the other rooms! We’re not leaving here until the bitch is dead!”
‘D’Artagnan!” Aramis called, just as the men around him registered his attack on their flank and turned to engage him. “Find de Tréville and help him! Leave these swine to us!”
The idea of running away from the fight was galling, but d’Artagnan suddenly remembered seeing Ana in de Tréville’s room the previous night and understood that Aramis was sending him to protect her. With a yell, he brandished his torch in a wide arc, catching one opponent in the face with the flaming end and causing the other to jump back or risk the same fate. Knowing that discarding it would make it harder for the others to follow him, he threw the torch at a third man and hared away into the darkness, trusting luck and instinct to let him avoid any obstacles until his eyes could adjust to the moonlight once again.