Double Cross

by Stuart Gibbs

  Greg heard the blade slicing through the air before he saw it. He spun away just as the sword crashed down.

  Stupid, Greg told himself. Richelieu hadn’t been unconscious. He’d merely been lying in wait. Greg had dropped his guard and hadn’t even thought to arm himself.

  Richelieu came at him again. Greg dodged the blade and lunged for the only handy thing to defend himself—a torch lying nearby. He tumbled across the ground and grabbed it, spinning to meet Richelieu’s next attack, though as he did, the first half of the Devil’s Stone slipped from his hand and fell into the dirt near the second.

  There wasn’t time to pick them up. Greg deflected Richelieu’s slash with the torch, creating a shower of sparks. Richelieu came again and again, backing Greg through the ruins. Greg blocked the sword with the torch each time, but the wood was splintering apart beneath the steel. The sparks that flew off stung Greg’s eyes and singed his skin.

  “Aramis!” he yelled. “I need some help here!”

  “I’m coming!” Aramis yelled back, although his voice was far away, across the ruins.

  Greg’s torch was almost reduced to matchsticks. He didn’t think it would last until Aramis got there.

  Richelieu stabbed at him, and Greg felt a rush of pain as the sword nicked his side. Richelieu swung the sword out, bringing it around toward Greg’s head. . . .

  And Greg saw his opening. He brought the torch down on Richelieu’s arm.

  Richelieu screamed as the fire seared his skin, and he dropped his sword.

  Greg snatched the weapon before it could even hit the ground and turned it on its owner. He slashed toward Richelieu, and saw his opponent gasp in terror. . . .

  Greg froze in mid-swing, his sword pressed against the flesh of Richelieu’s neck, unable even now to kill the man. “On your knees,” he ordered.

  Richelieu nodded, amazed that Greg had spared his life. His eyes were still wide with fear.

  Although Greg noticed them flick to focus on something behind him.

  “D’Artagnan!” Aramis yelled. “Look out!”

  Greg was moving before his friend could finish his warning, sensing something terrible was coming. He whirled around to find Dinicoeur charging toward him. The madman had freed himself and recovered his sword. Now he’d clearly planned to kill Greg from behind.

  As Greg spun, the blade just missed him. Dinicoeur hurtled past, stunned that he’d missed his target and now unable to stop his own momentum.

  The sword intended for Greg plunged into Richelieu’s chest, stabbing him right through the heart.

  It happened so quickly, Richelieu didn’t even seem to feel the pain of it. He staggered backward, staring in astonishment at the sword jutting from his body, and then looked up at Dinicoeur. “You fool,” he gasped. “You’ve killed us.”

  He stumbled again and fell to the ground. Taking one last breath, he died.

  Now Dinicoeur screamed. It was a howl of agony and frustration, of four centuries of pent-up rage. He grabbed a large stone off the ground and came at Greg, his eyes wild with fury. “You insufferable wretch!” he roared. “I’ll bash your head in!”

  Greg scrambled away through the ruins.

  Dinicoeur tried to follow, but a change was coming over him. He seemed to be fading; Greg could see things faintly through the madman’s body. The heavy stone dropped through his hands. Dinicoeur watched his arm slowly vanishing before his eyes and screamed again. “No! What’s happening to me?”

  “By killing your younger self, you’ve negated your own existence,” Greg told him.

  Dinicoeur gaped at him, horror in his eyes as he realized what he’d done, as he grasped that his four hundred years of misery had ended in failure.

  He started to say something but could no longer speak. His body was completely transparent now, like that of a ghost. He was fading quickly, melting into the darkness. In his eyes, Greg saw shock and rage and terror.

  And then, Dinicoeur was gone.

  Greg stood there for a few moments afterward, staring at the space where Dinicoeur had been, wondering if what he’d seen was possible, trying to comprehend that the horrible madman was truly gone for good.

  Aramis was suddenly by his side. “You did it,” he said. “You killed him.”

  “No,” Greg said. “He did that himself.”

  It seemed that he should feel relief, but instead, he knew all was still not right. He felt overwhelmed. The exhaustion that had waned when he held the Devil’s Stone now returned with a vengeance, washing over him, as though the stone’s force had faded as well.

  The stone!

  Greg turned toward where he’d last seen the pieces and raced over to recover them. But the ground was bare.

  “The halves of the stone are gone!” he cried.

  “How?” Aramis asked.

  Greg wondered if he was looking in the wrong place. So much of the ruins here looked the same. But no, he could see the mark in the dirt where Richelieu had lain, the scuff marks their battle had left, and . . .

  A set of much smaller footprints in the dirt.

  In an instant, he realized what had happened. “Milady!” Greg gasped. Milady had known just as much about the location of the stone as he had. She had heard Catherine’s story about it being under the king’s nose—and she’d taken Dinicoeur’s map with the Crown of Minerva marked on it. For all he knew, she’d followed him down there. Or perhaps she’d followed Dinicoeur. Then all she had to do was lurk in the darkness and wait for her chance. She had swiped the pieces of the stone while he, Richelieu, and Dinicoeur were distracted by their battle. Meaning she couldn’t have gone far.

  Greg looked across the ruins toward the hole they’d entered through. Sure enough, someone with golden hair in a white dress was scrambling up the ladder through it.

  Greg went after her.

  SEVENTEEN

  FROM ATOP THE EASTERN WALL OF PARIS, ATHOS WATCHED the machines of war approaching. Catapults. Trebuchets. Siege towers. Battering rams. He’d seen them only from a distance before. Now they seemed enormous to him. Backlit by the bonfires and torches of Condé’s army, the huge wooden structures looked like beasts from another world.

  Each sat on a wooden base with wheels a yard in diameter. They were so big, they required dozens of men to move each one, but still, they came. Condé’s army slowly rolled them toward the wall, using them for both the assault and protection. The war machines were covered with metal plates, which shielded everyone behind them from attack. The rest of the army followed the machines, a thousand men strong, waiting until the walls of Paris crumbled and they could surge into the city. There were so many torches in the darkness, it was like looking into a star-filled sky.

  Athos had virtually nothing—and no one—to fight back with. He and Henri had managed to round up ten members of the king’s guard, who now stood with Athos. These men had swords, bows, and a few arrows each. In addition to them, some brave and stalwart citizens had joined them, determined to do whatever it took to defend the city, but they had only tools and rubble to fight with. The entire force was less than forty people. Against Condé’s massive army and its war machines, they were like David facing Goliath.

  The catapults and trebuchets were massive levers, designed to hurl heavy objects at the walls—or over them. They could take more than an hour to load and fire, but the damage they could do was extraordinary. Over the past day, many buildings close to the city walls had been reduced to rubble from the massive boulders flung by these machines. Now Condé’s army had come up with something even worse: They were coating their loads in pitch and then setting them on fire.

  The result was huge, flaming projectiles. The army had already launched one. It had screamed over the wall like a comet, decimated a church, and set an entire block of the city on fire. Athos had ordered the citizens of Paris to form a bucket brigade to the river before the rest of the city went up in flames. They were working hard at it now, but so many people were fighting the fire, there were a
lmost none left to defend the city.

  Now, not far away, another trebuchet was loaded. A stone the size of a church bell dangled in the sling at the end of its lever, waiting to be whipped into the air. Athos could see the army painting it with pitch.

  “We don’t have enough people to fight another fire,” Henri confided. “If that comes over, the whole city could burn down.”

  “Then we’ll need to fight fire with fire,” Athos replied. He ordered the ten members of the king’s guard along the wall to dip their arrows in pitch and set them ablaze. At his command, all of them fired on the trebuchet.

  Eight arrows missed their targets. The ninth, however, struck the barrel full of pitch the enemy was gathered around. It went up in flames, setting the clothes of the men around it on fire, sending them screaming for the river. The tenth arrow severed the rope that held the sling. The huge rock tumbled free, and the trebuchet’s lever, suddenly relieved of its payload, whipped forward with such force that it tore the entire machine apart.

  A cheer went up from the men on the wall. Henri patted Athos on the shoulder proudly. “Well done!” he crowed.

  Athos barely allowed himself a moment of joy, however. There was more trouble on the horizon, and it wouldn’t be nearly as easy to take care of.

  The siege towers were extremely simple in concept: mobile towers designed to be rolled right up to the city walls, allowing the enemy to come over the top. Each was twenty feet tall, and the fronts had been faced with iron plates. The Parisian army’s arrows bounced off them harmlessly.

  The walls of Paris had been designed to thwart siege towers: There was a four-foot trench around the city to prevent anything from being wheeled directly to the wall. But Condé’s men had come up with a devious addition: a tiny drawbridge at the top of each tower. Now the towers could be parked at the far edge of the moat, and the drawbridge could be dropped to the top of the city wall. Once that happened, the enemy would be able to stream over the ramparts; Athos didn’t have enough men to hold them off.

  And even if he could stop the siege towers, there were still the battering rams to worry about. These, too, were extremely simple: A huge tree trunk was suspended from a wooden frame and capped with a pointed iron tip. When swung, the ram would slam into the wall with great force. One was now being moved into place at the point where the city wall was weakest. One solid shot from that, Athos figured, and the wall would come tumbling down.

  Once again, there was nothing he could do to stop it. Condé’s men had cleverly roofed the battering ram with iron plates, providing themselves with a giant shield umbrella beneath which they could move about without any fear of being hit by arrows.

  Not that Athos had many arrows left anyhow. He was running out. In fact, he was running out of everything. When Condé’s men had detonated the ammunition shed, the French soldiers had lost almost all their weapons. Some of them were down to pelting the invading army below with rocks.

  Still, Athos kept his post, not wanting to cede victory until the very last moment. As long as he stayed, Henri would stay, and as long as Henri was there, the soldiers would stay, too. Athos set another arrow on fire and loosed it at the approaching siege tower, hoping there was a way to set it aflame. Instead, the precious arrow clanged off the iron plates and fell to the ground, where it was instantly snuffed beneath the tower’s wheels. Athos sighed; it was like trying to defeat a dragon.

  “How much longer do you think we have?” Henri asked.

  “Not long at all,” Athos replied.

  “Then why continue risking our men’s lives? Perhaps Condé will spare us in defeat.”

  “No. We need to stay here. We need every second of defense we can buy this city.”

  “But the city is going to fall,” Henri argued. “The only thing that can save it is a miracle.”

  “Yes.” Athos glanced back toward the center of the city, wondering what was happening with the rest of the Musketeers. “A miracle is exactly what we are waiting for.”

  Catherine and Porthos raced through the network of hidden passages in the palace. Porthos felt like a rat running through a maze. Some of the tunnels were so narrow he could barely squeeze his considerable bulk through them. “I need to go on a diet,” he puffed. “How close can these tunnels get us to the king’s quarters?”

  “They can get us into the king’s quarters,” Catherine replied.

  “Oh no,” Porthos said. Normally, the king’s bedchamber would have been barricaded and guarded. But if the enemy was already in the tunnels, they could get around that.

  “These tunnels were designed so the king could escape attackers,” Catherine explained. “I don’t think it ever occurred to anyone what might happen if the attackers used the tunnels themselves.”

  “And I suspect Milady knows all the ins and outs of them.” Porthos sighed.

  “Information that Condé no doubt knows as well. Here we are.” Catherine stopped by an ordinary-looking panel and threw a hidden latch. The panel swung open, revealing the bedroom of King Louis . . . and four assassins. Condé and his men were gathered around the ornate blue canopy bed where Louis slept, unaware that death was seconds away. Milady wasn’t there, although Porthos and Catherine had no time to speculate where she might be. They’d arrived just in time. Condé was removing a dagger from its sheath.

  “Your Majesty!” Porthos shouted. “Look out!”

  Louis snapped awake, and from across the room Porthos could see the king’s eyes go wide with terror. At the same time, however, Porthos had caught Condé and his men by surprise. They turned toward the door, startled by the intrusion, giving Louis time to spring away.

  Condé lunged for the king, but he was too late. His dagger plunged into the bed instead.

  One of his men caught Louis before he could get away. He tried to wrestle the king down so Condé could have another go at him.

  Meanwhile, the other two men came toward Porthos and Catherine, swords at the ready.

  Porthos screamed at the top of his lungs and charged. In truth, he really had no idea what else to do. He merely hoped that yelling and attacking like a crazy person would at least give his enemies some pause, if not scare them out of their boots.

  It worked. Porthos could scream in a very frightening way, and when his entire bulk was coming at a person full force, waving a sword, it was quite terrifying. Condé’s men hesitated, and that was just long enough for Porthos to barrel into them. They tumbled back onto the bed, which collapsed under their weight, and the canopy dropped over them, shrouding them in darkness.

  Their heads were easy to spot, poking up under the canopy, and Porthos slammed them together with such force that the crack sounded like a gunshot. The men collapsed beneath him.

  Meanwhile, Condé’s other man had overwhelmed Louis, and now held the king’s arms while Condé himself raised his dagger for another shot.

  Porthos scrambled to help the king, but he wasn’t fast enough.

  As Condé attacked, though, Louis lifted his feet off the floor and delivered a two-footed kick to Condé’s chest that sent him sprawling. Then he whipped his head back, slamming it into the nose of the man behind him. The man howled, releasing his grip, and Louis pulled free.

  Two swords hung on the wall. Porthos had assumed they were for decoration, but now Louis yanked them off and whipped the air with them.

  “Your Majesty!” Porthos gasped. “You know how to fight?”

  “Of course I do!” Louis shot back. “What do you think, I just sit on my throne all day?”

  Condé now pulled out his own sword. Porthos met the attack, while Louis fended off Condé’s man. Beneath the canopy, the other two soldiers were beginning to stir again, but Catherine set upon them with the only weapon she could find: the king’s chamber pot. It was a large ceramic tub, there so the king wouldn’t have to leave his room to relieve himself at night. Thankfully, it was empty, and it was a very effective blunt instrument. Catherine cracked her enemies hard enough on their heads to b
reak the tub in half, and both sagged into unconsciousness again.

  Condé and his remaining man were trouble, however. Porthos and Louis did their best to battle them, but both of the enemy were quite adept with their swords. Porthos found himself overmatched. He was exhausted from running across the city as it was, and now he was thinking that he probably should have been practicing his sword fighting a bit more instead of teasing Athos and Greg for how much they practiced.

  It wasn’t long before Condé knocked the sword from his hand, leaving him defenseless. Porthos had no choice but to back away as Condé came toward him, grinning cruelly. “You have failed again, Musketeer,” he warned. “The king will still die tonight. And now, you will, too.”

  Greg clambered through the hole in the atelier floor just in time to see Milady disappearing out the window. He caught a glimpse of the silver chain dangling from her hand, indicating that she hadn’t freed the second half of the Devil’s Stone from the amulet yet. If she had, no doubt she would have put the pieces together already and used the power to kill him or make herself queen or who knew what else. So he ran after her, determined not to give her the chance.

  By the time he reached the window, she was halfway across the plaza toward Notre Dame. As he pursued her, she ducked into the door at the base of the southern bell tower.

  Oh no, Greg thought. He’d had a terrible experience in that tower once before.

  But he went after her nonetheless. What other choice did he have?

  He could hear Milady racing up the bell tower steps when he entered and he started up as well. The railing was just as flimsy as he remembered, and he hadn’t gone far up before the steps began to get slick with the droppings of the thousands of pigeons and bats that lived in the belfry. He was aching with exhaustion now, and racing up ten flights of stairs was probably the worst thing he could be doing in his condition. He could barely catch his breath. His heart hammered in his chest. But still, he pushed on.

  Milady kept on going up and up and up. Greg knew she wasn’t lying in wait for him anywhere because he could hear her pounding the steps above. She reached the landing where the giant bell Emmanuel hung, but to Greg’s surprise, she didn’t stop there. A thin ladder was built into the side of the tower, and he spotted Milady scurrying up it, so he followed.