by Stuart Gibbs
He kept going, passing the base of the castle and reaching the solid rock of the cliff. And yet it didn’t feel like he’d made any progress at all. The ground still seemed like it was miles away. He was still high enough that if he fell, he’d die.
From above, the roar of the soldiers grew louder. Greg gulped. Climbing down was taking far longer than he’d hoped. Contingnac’s men had to be close to the parapet by now. He glanced up, but all he could see were Athos and Porthos above him. Too far above him. Athos was going much too slowly.
“Athos!” Greg yelled. “You need to move faster!”
“I’m going as fast as I can!” Athos yelled back. “This isn’t easy with only one good leg!”
“I don’t suppose you could let me past you, then?” Porthos asked, only half joking.
Greg pushed himself to go faster, sliding down the rope even though it tore through his pants, burned his legs, and rubbed his palms raw. The rock of the cliff slid past him. Finally, he felt like he was getting close to the bottom, although the ground was still obscured by the mist.
He glanced up again. High above Athos and Porthos, at the top of the wall, several soldiers suddenly peered over the edge. Though Greg was far below them, there was now enough daylight that he could see their astonished faces. A second later, the rope jangled.
They’re cutting it, Greg thought.
“We’re down!” Aramis’s voice rang up from the mist below. “It’s not much farther!”
“Get clear!” Greg warned. “We might end up landing on you!”
The rope jounced again. Above Greg, Athos realized he had to move faster. He wrapped his wounded leg around the rope and slid, roaring with pain.
An arrow whizzed past Greg’s head. It wasn’t enough that the soldiers were trying to cut them loose; they were trying to shoot them as well.
He dropped into the mist and suddenly saw the ground. It was blessedly close—although, to his dismay, the rope didn’t reach all the way to it. It ended a good ten feet above the swamp. Greg simply had to let go and hope for the best. He landed on uneven, spongy ground covered by six inches of frigid water. His feet slipped out from under him, and he tumbled into the muck. He staggered back to his feet, now soaked, cold, and muddy, but he didn’t care; he’d never been so happy to feel the earth beneath him.
“D’Artagnan! Over here!” Catherine called. Greg spotted her and Aramis, taking shelter from the arrows under a small lip of rock in the cliff face. Greg raced to their side. To his surprise, Catherine threw her arms around him. “It worked,” she whispered in his ear. “You did it.”
“Not quite yet.” Greg glanced up into the mist above, wondering where Athos and Porthos were. He could hear Athos crying out in pain as he descended, but he still sounded too high. It couldn’t take the soldiers that much longer to cut through the rope. . . .
Athos suddenly appeared in the mist about twenty feet up, coming down fast with Porthos above him. Greg heaved a sigh of relief.
There was a roar of triumph from high above—and the rope suddenly went slack.
Athos and Porthos plummeted the final distance, landing in the swamp with a splash. Both tumbled onto their backs and lay where they’d landed, unmoving.
Greg, Aramis, and Catherine rushed to their side. Greg reached Porthos first and found the Musketeer’s eyes clamped shut. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’ve been better.” Porthos’s eyes snapped open, and he flashed a smile.
Greg realized, to his relief, that the soft, spongy ground had probably saved his friends, cushioning their landing. “Athos?” he asked.
Athos sat up and grimaced in pain. “I can move,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Then let’s go.” Aramis helped Athos to his feet and lent his body as support. The two of them hurried into the misty swamp. Greg, Catherine, and Porthos followed right behind them. They were soon out of range of the soldiers’ arrows, the mist covering their escape.
“Any chance they’ll climb down after us?” Aramis asked.
“I doubt it,” Porthos said. “First, they’ve just cut the only rope in town that’s long enough. And second, the only reason anyone would make that climb was if their life depended on it.”
“They’ll still be coming for us, though,” Athos warned.
“Yes,” Greg said. “But they’ll have to go out the gate on the far side of the mountain and come all the way around. And they’ll have to do it on foot. Horses can’t move through this swamp—and it’s nearly impossible to track anyone through it. We’ll have a huge head start on them, and they won’t know which way we’ve gone.”
Athos nodded. To Greg, it looked as though he might actually be impressed, but was trying not to show it.
“Which way should we go?” Catherine asked.
“East,” Greg suggested. “The mountains rise that way, which means the swamp ends. There are more towns in the hills. We’ll get to one, find some horses, and ride for Paris.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Porthos said, and the others nodded agreement.
They slogged on through the swamp. As Greg’s wet clothes clung to him, he suddenly thought of his matches. He pulled out the oilskin to find that water had seeped into it. One of the matches was ruined. Meaning he only had one left.
The rising sun suddenly sliced through the mist, warming them as they ran. Catherine turned to Greg. “If it weren’t for you, we’d be hanging right now,” she said. “You’ve saved us all.”
Greg returned her smile, but the truth was, he felt only the tiniest bit of relief. Yes, they were alive, but they still had Dinicoeur, Richelieu, Milady de Winter, and all of Condé’s army to confront. And before they could even do that, they had a long way to go—and they were already exhausted, famished, weak, and wounded.
The Musketeers plunged onward into the valley, heading toward Paris. To succeed in their mission seemed almost impossible, and Greg wondered if he would ever get home.
PART TWO
THE DEVIL’S STONE
FOUR
Saint Sauveur, France
Eighty miles south of Paris
THE MUSKETEERS ENCOUNTERED THE FRENCH ARMY AT the end of their third day of riding. Greg had no idea how far they’d come; they’d stolen five horses from a small town near Les Baux and had been riding almost nonstop ever since. They had returned to the Pont du Gard, picked up the ancient Roman road, and stayed on it the entire way north. When the first horses had grown tired and balked at going any farther, the Musketeers had simply traded them for others. They had slept in barns and eaten only what they could scrounge.
Greg had hoped to find the army on the Roman road. Seeing as it was the only major land route from Paris to the south—and there weren’t enough boats in France to send the whole army down the Rhône—it made sense the army would be coming this way. If anything, Greg was annoyed the army hadn’t gotten farther. It had been well over a week since the Musketeers had sent the urgent messages to Paris saying that the Spanish had invaded. Given that the soldiers had no way of knowing the Spanish had actually been repelled since then, Greg had expected them to be pushing south as fast as possible. Instead, however, the army was obviously taking its time. They hadn’t covered even a quarter of the distance to the Pont du Gard yet.
Greg had thought that his trip south through France, when they’d been on a boat on the Rhône, had been difficult, but that was a vacation compared to this. His muscles ached from riding, and he’d been jouncing up and down for so long, he felt as though he’d scrambled his brains. After the first day, he was miserable—and it only got worse from there. But no one complained. Their enemies had a big head start on them, so the Musketeers had a great deal of time to make up.
Besides, Greg knew that as bad as he felt, Athos was even worse off. Athos’s thigh was now so inflamed that it wouldn’t fit in his pants leg. He’d had to turn his pants into shorts. Now Greg could see his friend’s leg, baking in the sun as they rode. The area around the wound was bee
t red, while the wound itself was oozing pus. The pain was obviously intense and taking its toll, but Athos merely gritted his teeth through it.
“Maybe you should stop,” Greg had counseled Athos during their second night on the road. “Your leg is in bad shape, and you’re only making it worse.”
Athos had scowled at him in response. While Porthos’s distrust of Greg had softened after he’d engineered their escape from Les Baux, Athos still remained prickly around him. “I can handle it,” he said.
“Your leg is badly infected, Athos. If you don’t take care of it, you’ll die.”
“Are you a physician in the future, D’Artagnan?”
“No,” Greg admitted. “But I know what I’m telling you is true.”
“When we make it to Paris, I’ll see a real physician,” Athos shot back, and then rolled over to sleep, ending any further conversation.
After a few hours of riding the next day, his leg had obviously been hurting even worse, but Athos stubbornly refused to show the slightest sign of weakness. He rode just as hard as the rest of them, although Greg could see that he was sweating profusely and his gaze was getting glassy. If they hadn’t found the French army, Greg suspected that Athos might have ridden until he died in the saddle.
The army was spread out in a field along the side of a small creek. Compared to the Spanish army that Michel Dinicoeur had commanded, it was small and undisciplined. There were less than a thousand men, and even though there were still a few hours left in the day to march, they had already struck camp. Their tents were arranged haphazardly. Rather than spend the precious daylight training, the men lazed on the grass or played cards. No sentries were posted. Greg got the sense that if this army had encountered Dinicoeur’s, it would have been massacred.
Most of the soldiers didn’t even look up as the Musketeers approached. Greg figured that he and his friends didn’t seem like much of a threat. After their hard journey, their clothes had been reduced to little more than rags. The boys were caked with dust from the road and damp with sweat from the heat. At best, they probably looked like local peasants who were seeking handouts. Only one soldier, whose uniform indicated he was an officer of some sort, even went on guard. “Who approaches the French army?” he asked, his sword drawn.
“The Musketeers,” Aramis replied.
At the mention of “Musketeers,” many other soldiers looked toward them.
“You are the Musketeers?” the officer asked doubtfully, but his expression changed to recognition once Athos turned toward him. “Athos!” he cried, at once happy to see his friend and disturbed by his appearance.
Athos used the last of his strength to muster a smile. “Hello, Emil,” he said—and then toppled off his horse.
The other Musketeers dismounted and raced to his side, as did Emil. Greg rolled Athos over and felt his forehead. It was so hot, Greg guessed he had a high fever. “He needs water!”
Emil uncapped his own canteen and handed it to Greg. “What happened to him?” the officer demanded.
“He was wounded some days ago,” Aramis reported. “But he has refused any medical help.”
Emil turned to the closest soldier. “Fetch the camp physician, now!” While the soldier scurried away, Emil turned back to Aramis. “Athos and I are old friends. We started in the king’s guard together. Tell me everything that happened to you.”
Greg tipped the canteen to Athos’s lips. His friend’s eyes had fogged over, as though he was now delirious from the fever. Greg checked his pulse. Luckily, Athos’s heart was still beating strongly. If anything, it was racing. Perhaps his fever was driving it faster.
While Greg gave Athos water, Aramis quickly filled Emil in on the Musketeers’ adventures, from how they’d managed to turn back the Spanish army to their betrayal by Milady de Winter to their escape from Les Baux. By the time he’d finished, it seemed that half the camp had gathered to hear the tale.
“That is quite an adventure,” Emil said when it was all over. “You know for a fact that the Spanish army has completely disbanded?”
“We talked to a few people in the countryside after we escaped Les Baux,” Aramis replied. “The Spaniards turned and fled back home, while anyone else who had joined their cause abandoned it.”
“Unbelievable,” Emil said, impressed. “An entire army repelled by four boys.”
“And one girl.” Greg nodded toward Catherine, who blushed modestly.
Emil shook his head. “How brave you were to face five hundred men.”
“Five hundred?” Porthos asked, surprised. “It was over two thousand.”
Emil looked at him curiously. “Your message to the king said five hundred.”
“We sent no such message,” Aramis said.
“Certainly you did,” Emil told him. “It stated the size and position of the army, then laid out plans for counterattack in great detail. You even suggested what size army we would need. We certainly wouldn’t have sent a force this small up against two thousand men!”
Greg and Aramis exchanged a look of understanding. “It was Milady,” Aramis said.
“How’s that?” Porthos asked.
“Remember when our homing pigeons were all released in Arles?” Greg said. “We all assumed that Valois had released them so we wouldn’t be able to communicate with Paris. But Milady must have simply taken them instead.”
“Then she sent false information to the king,” Aramis continued. “Only, it would have looked like it came from us.”
“But it would have been in her handwriting,” Porthos said.
“True, but she could have faked mine, or perhaps even just used hers and said she was writing at my behest,” Aramis explained. “As far as Paris knew, she was on our side.”
“But why would she do such a thing?” Emil asked.
“Two reasons,” Greg said. “First, she wanted to get the French army out of Paris. And second, she had no idea that we’d repel the Spanish. She probably hoped that the two armies would clash. The French army would be crushed while the Spanish army would be weakened.”
“But to what end?” Emil inquired.
“So there would be no one to defend Paris against Condé’s army,” Greg answered.
“Condé?” Emil gasped in shock. “He has an army?”
“He claims he does,” Aramis replied.
“How big is it?” Emil demanded. “And where is it?”
“We don’t know,” Aramis said sadly. “But our guess is that it is close to Paris now. How many soldiers are left in the city?”
“Only a residual force,” Emil admitted, shaking his head with concern. “Perhaps a hundred. Maybe two. Although the city has very strong fortifications. . . .”
“Which Milady may know how to get around,” Aramis said.
Emil reacted with surprise to this, but before he could ask any more, Porthos asked, “How far are we from Paris?”
“About a day’s hard ride on a fast horse,” Emil replied.
“That’s not so far,” Porthos said hopefully. “How long would it take you to get the army back? A week?”
“A week?” Emil laughed. “It has taken us more than twice that to get here!”
“Surely that’s not the fastest the army can move,” Catherine put in. “Perhaps if you informed the men that the survival of Paris was at stake . . .”
“This is not a question of my men’s motivation,” Emil snapped defensively. “We have no horses. The men must march, bearing heavy loads, and many of them do not have the proper shoes. They are doing the best they can.”
Greg looked around the camp. “There seem to be at least a few horses.”
“Most of them are drays,” Emil replied. “They are bred to pull the cannons and the supply carts rather than for speed. Although a few of my officers have faster mounts. I suppose I could get them back to Paris quickly.”
“How many would that be?” Aramis asked.
“Thirty, I think.”
Greg frowned. A mere thirty extr
a men wouldn’t be much help against an entire army. Plus, he knew how Athos felt about officers in the army: They were almost always members of the upper class who had bought their positions, men who had money but no actual skill. If the Musketeers intended to ride back to confront Condé, it would be nice to bring some actual soldiers along.
Before Greg could figure out how to ask for this diplomatically, however, the crowd parted and the physician arrived.
The man was surprisingly well-to-do compared to most of the others in camp. He wore a far fancier uniform than Emil and had a haughty air about him.
“Monsieur Fallon!” Emil said obsequiously. “Athos here is in grave need of medical attention.”
Doctor Fallon glanced down at Athos and frowned with disgust at his swollen leg. “Has anyone taken a urine sample?” he demanded.
“No,” Emil admitted.
“Then how am I to make a diagnosis?” Fallon snapped. “Obtain one from him and then I’ll be able to tell what is the matter.”
Emil nodded obediently and ordered a jar for Athos to urinate in. To Greg’s surprise, everyone else seemed quite all right with this.
Greg, however, was beside himself. “You can’t tell what the matter is now?” he asked the doctor. “His leg is obviously infected.”
“I know that,” Fallon replied disdainfully. “But the question is by what? I can’t determine that—and the proper treatment—until I analyze his urine.”
“Why don’t you just examine his leg?” Greg demanded.
Fallon recoiled as though offended. “I am a physician!” he sniffed. “Not some lowly surgeon.”
Before Greg could question this logic, Aramis pulled him aside. “I’m not sure how things are done in the future,” he said. “But in this time, physicians are far more respected than surgeons. Only men from the upper classes can become physicians. It is regarded as a very cerebral profession. Physicians generally consider that even coming in contact with a patient, let alone touching one, is beneath them. Surgery is considered low-class, as it is manual labor.”
