“I may have had a place there once,” he stated in a flat tone, “but there is nothing and nobody left for me in Gascony now.”
Aramis’ brow furrowed in understanding and sympathy, but before he could form a reply, a commotion erupted in the street in front of the smithy. A girl’s scream pierced the air, and the three companions locked gazes for a bare instant before making for the door, drawing rapiers and pistols as they went.
Without pausing for thought, d’Artagnan followed, the balance of his own broken blade feeling awkward and wrong in his sword hand. Outside, d’Artagnan counted seven armed, surly-looking men stalking down the main road. Two of them were dragging struggling girls with them. The young women—not yet eighteen years of age if d’Artagnan was any judge—had the appearance of sisters. The younger one was crying, while the older one cursed her captor loudly, hitting at his shoulder and arm with her free hand—to little effect. Farther up the street, several onlookers stood in a knot, pointing and speaking in low voices, but taking no other action.
Athos stepped into the roadway, blocking the procession with a drawn sword.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, voice snapping like a whip.
The apparent leader—a tough-looking older man with a ragged scar running from temple to chin—stopped two paces in front of Athos, regarding him with a sneer.
“Nothing that involves the likes of you,” he drawled. “Run along back to your castle, little Comte, before you and your friends end up with worse than a bandaged shoulder.”
Porthos and Aramis were at Athos’ side before the man finished speaking, and without consciously deciding to do so, d’Artagnan found himself flanking the injured nobleman as well.
“Please, messieurs!” called the younger girl. “These men are kidnapping us! Our grandmother is badly injured—please help us!”
“Shut up!” said the young man holding her, punctuating the words with a slap across his victim’s face. She cried out, and the older girl snarled in anger and redoubled her efforts to get free from her own captor.
“That’s enough!” bellowed Porthos, crowding forward toward the gang of men.
“Release the girls,” Aramis said, his voice deceptively mild, but there was steel running underneath. “Now. I guarantee you will not enjoy the consequences if you fail to comply.”
“My sons are simply claiming their property,” retorted the man who had insulted Athos, stabbing the air with a forefinger to emphasize his words. “These girls were promised to them by their father before he died of the Curse. Now their witch of a grandmother is trying to renege on the deal!”
“She was trying to protect us from these animals you call sons!” snarled the older sister. “And you broke down our door, knocked her down, and kicked her until she stopped moving—a defenseless old woman! I will see you dead for that, you swine!”
“You will not pass until you free the girls,” Athos reiterated.
“Oh?” said the boys’ father. “And how are you going to stop us?”
He stepped back two paces, drawing a pistol and aiming it at Athos’ chest.
Before d’Artagnan could do more than tense in reaction, Porthos raised his own pistol and fired, moving faster than d’Artagnan would have thought possible for a man of his size. The older man fell to the ground with a grunt, his own pistol shot going wide. Blood sprayed from a wound in his thigh.
With cries of rage, the men who were not holding the girls captive surged forward, brandishing swords and clubs. D’Artagnan scanned the group, but saw no one else with a pistol. An instant later, he was set upon by a man half a head taller than him and twice as broad, wielding a heavy two-handed sword of the type favored by Englishmen.
The heady rush of imminent death cleared every last ache and twinge from d’Artagnan’s body, and for that one moment, he felt as if he could fly. The impact of the massive weapon against his own broken rapier reverberated up the length of his arm, but he held fast, wrenching his opponent’s blade to the side and dancing around his guard.
D’Artagnan tried to keep half an eye on his companions’ progress, while simultaneously contemplating his own woes. Unlike his opponent’s sharp-edged sword, his rapier was useless for slashing... and with the tip broken, it was now essentially useless for thrusting as well. With his sword snapped and his dagger and pistols stolen, d’Artagnan lacked any useful offensive weapon, and was limited to dodging and parrying the other man’s attacks.
Normally, he would place more faith in his own endurance and ability to outlast a larger, heavier opponent, but he knew that his earlier weakness and dizziness did not bode well for him. Around him, he caught glimpses of Aramis battling a man with a wicked-looking club, darting and weaving as he tried to get close enough to use his sword. By contrast, Porthos was swinging a huge schiavona almost gleefully, his opponent obviously outclassed. Athos, fencing left-handed, was holding his own against a man with a rapier, who obviously knew how to use it.
Another blow of the heavy sword jarred through d’Artagnan’s shoulder. He kicked out at his enemy’s knee as he spun away, but the blow was only a glancing one. Just then, a sharp whistle drew his attention to Porthos in time for d’Artagnan to catch a rapier—presumably liberated from Porthos’ downed opponent—that the big man tossed to him, pommel first.
Throwing his own ruined sword to one side, d’Artagnan gripped the new blade and drove forward with renewed energy, ducking and slashing; driving the other man back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Porthos wade in to help Aramis against the man with the club, just as Athos lunged forward, running his opponent through.
D’Artagnan narrowly avoided the heavy blade swinging toward his head, allowing his momentum to propel him into a forward roll. Coming to a crouch, he drove the pommel of his rapier into the side of the other man’s knee with all the strength he could muster, feeling the crunch of bone and cartilage as his opponent collapsed with a yell. Blocking a wild sword swipe, d’Artagnan staggered to his feet and drove his blade through the man’s heart.
As they saw which way the tide had turned, the two sons holding the girls captive began to back away, trying to put space between themselves and the swordsmen. The older sister stumbled, nearly going to her knees—but when she righted herself, d’Artagnan saw a fist-sized chunk of stone from the roadway clutched in her free hand. He watched in surprised admiration as she swung it at her attacker’s head, catching him in the temple. He staggered drunkenly, losing his grip on her.
Quick as a snake, she wrested the dagger from his belt and buried it between his ribs with a cry. The man collapsed to the ground, blood spurting from the wound, and the girl whirled to confront the only member of the group left standing after Aramis and Porthos had overcome their club-wielding assailant, mere moments before.
The boy holding the younger sister stared with wide, frightened eyes as four armed, grim-faced men and one murderous older sister converged on him. Fumbling for his own dagger, he pressed it to his sobbing captive’s neck.
“One step closer and I’ll cut her throat!” he cried in a quavering voice.
Chapter 3
Athos gave the boy a look of such utter contempt that d’Artagnan was surprised he didn’t combust on the spot. “Aramis?” he prompted, sounding almost bored.