Several sets of footsteps pounded after him. A lantern carried by a running figure approached from the other direction, and d’Artagnan glimpsed Athos, half-dressed and wild-eyed as he rushed toward the fight in the hallway. A sudden stabbing pain ripped through d’Artagnan’s left shoulder and he stumbled to a halt, awkwardly grasping the handle of the small throwing knife that one of his pursuers had lodged there and pulling it free.
The three men who had followed d’Artagnan were nearly upon him when Athos passed by him, swinging the heavy lantern up and catching one of them on the temple. The man fell as if pole-axed.
D’Artagnan dropped the dagger and drew his pistol. He fired at one of the others, but missed. Blood was streaming down his numb left arm as he replaced the pistol on his belt and reached for his sword with his right, but just then the scent of rosewater wafted past him. He heard Milady hiss, “Olivier, go! I’ll deal with these two!” before she appeared like an avenging angel in his pursuers’ torchlight, barefoot and with wild hair curling around her head and torso like writhing snakes in the flickering light.
Milady lunged forward and drove a dagger between the ribs of one man with her left hand before smoothly whirling and shooting the other through the heart with her right.
Feeling stupid and slow due to shock and blood loss, d’Artagnan said, “I have to find de Tréville.”
Milady grabbed his arm and dragged him forward. “Hurry, then. We’ll both go.”
“They’re after Ana,” d’Artagnan said urgently. “They’re trying to kill her.”
“Of course they’re after Ana,” Milady snapped in response. “Lucky for her that she’s spent the last few nights crying on de Tréville’s shoulder instead of sleeping in her own room.”
“What’s going on?” d’Artagnan asked, unable to keep a plaintive note from entering his voice. “Who is she?”
“It’s not for me to say,” Milady replied. “Here we are.”
Unthinking, d’Artagnan barged through the door into the candlelit room, only to find himself slammed up against the archway with a sword against his throat. Consciousness wavered as his shoulder wound screamed at the ill treatment, and he grunted in pain.
“It’s us; for God’s sake don’t kill him,” Milady said. “I have a feeling we’ll need all the sword arms we can get this night.”
“D’Artagnan?” came de Tréville’s rough voice in his ear, and he nodded, too short of breath for words. The blade moved away, and the scarred face with its single bright eye looming in his vision backed off, giving him a view of Ana María pressed against the wall out of sight from the doorway, wide-eyed and pale, clutching a main gauche dagger protectively in front of her with both hands.
“How many men?” de Tréville asked.
“More than a score, I think,” d’Artagnan answered hoarsely, rallying his wits as best he could. “We’ve taken down ten, at least. Porthos, Aramis, and Athos are engaged with the main body of men, but I heard one of them tell the others to search the rest of the wing.”
“What weapons do they have?” Milady asked.
“Blades only,” he said. “I didn’t hear any gunshots except ours.”
De Tréville shook his head. “Doesn’t mean anything. Ammunition is hard to come by. They could be saving it for their main target.”
“What have you got stashed in here that we can use?” Milady asked de Tréville. “D’Artagnan and I each have a spent pistol and a dagger. He has a sword. I think he’s injured, though.”
“It’s nothing,” d’Artagnan said quickly, not wanting to seem like a liability. Milady made a skeptical humming noise in response.
“There are two loaded pistols, along with powder and ammunition on the bench,” de Tréville said, motioning with his chin. “Reload your own weapons, both of you—quick as you can.”
Milady nodded and moved immediately to her task. D’Artagnan hesitated, knowing that he would be unable to load a pistol with his left arm numb and useless. He was saved from looking foolish by the approach of pounding footsteps.
“Too late,” Milady said, dropping the unloaded pistol and scooping up the two loaded ones, one in each hand. D’Artagnan drew his sword, thanking providence that he would not have to fight left-handed like Athos.
“Stand clear!” Milady snapped, and d’Artagnan and de Tréville smoothly pressed themselves against the wall on either side of the doorway as the first two attackers appeared, only to fall as she fired first one pistol, and then the other. Retrieving her dagger, she moved to stand between Ana and the door even as de Tréville and d’Artagnan drove forward to engage the next wave of men as they tried to squeeze through the doorway and over the slumped bodies.
It was hard to tell from within the confines of the room, but d’Artagnan thought there were perhaps half a dozen men remaining outside. He tried not to think about what might have happened to Athos, Porthos, and Aramis that would have prevented them from blocking the men or at least shouting a warning of their approach. Instead, he focused on coordinating their defense with the old soldier next to him; picking off the intruders as they attempted to enter the room, while they were still constrained by the confines of the archway.
Even as blood loss from his wound began to make d’Artagnan’s head swim unpleasantly, three more of the opposing force fell before them, making entry into the room even more difficult as the bodies piled up. Just as he was beginning to hold out hope that they might prevail, de Tréville fell beneath a blow to the head from a sword pommel, and the assassin burst into the room even as d’Artagnan ran his sword through the stomach of a second man.
A third—the last, as far as d’Artagnan could make out—pressed forward to take his place, but d’Artagnan’s attention was snatched by the sight of the one who had beaten de Tréville reaching for a pistol at his waist. Moving on instinct, d’Artagnan leapt sideways to put himself between the assassin and the two women, even as the muzzle of the man’s firearm came up in a smooth arc and exploded.
Pain unlike anything he had ever experienced bloomed in d’Artagnan’s side. He tried to catch himself against the wall and was vaguely aware of a dagger whistling past his ear to lodge in the shooter’s throat. D’Artagnan’s legs collapsed under him and he slid down the wall. The scent of roses assailed him and a slender hand picked up his rapier from where it had fallen. Milady growled and rushed toward the remaining man. The sound of bare feet slapping on stone and Ana’s soft voice reciting prayers under her breath behind him were the last things d’Artagnan registered.
Chapter 8
He couldn’t breathe.
D’Artagnan flailed, trying to free himself from the stabbing constriction that caught at his lungs when he tried to gasp for air. Hands closed around his arms and legs, restraining them, and panic washed over him, bringing tears to his eyes.
“D’Artagnan!”
The voice was familiar. A hand rested on the side of his face, guiding it to the right until a blurry face came into view, and his mind helpfully supplied a name—Athos. Athos was the person leaning over him and speaking his name so urgently.