The Mage Queen

by R A Dodson

  D’Artagnan tied his gelding to the hitching post outside. He was busy stoking a fire in the forge and sorting through piles of tools when the pale nobleman with the injured shoulder arrived with his mare.

  “I am almost ready for you, monsieur,” d’Artagnan said. “Bring your horse inside.”

  The gentleman inclined his head wordlessly and stood the animal up in the empty workspace between two posts. D’Artagnan approached the animal’s shoulder, running a hand down its left front leg and picking up the hoof. Ignoring the feeling of light-headedness and the chafe of his shirt against the raw skin of his back as he bent over, he secured the horse’s foot between his knees and began to pare away the dead hoof with a curved knife.

  “What’s it been? About three months since she was trimmed last?” he asked.

  “A bit more,” the other man replied.

  D’Artagnan reached for a pair of hinged hoof nippers to remove the ragged and overgrown hoof wall, pausing frequently to check the angle and evenness since he was somewhat out of practice.

  “She’ll likely be tender-footed for a day or two after this, since I’m having to remove so much at once,” he said. “You’re lucky, though—the cracks don’t extend up into the live part of the hoof.”

  “That’s as well,” said the mare’s owner, not offering more in the way of conversation as d’Artagnan continued to work steadily, rasping down the rough edges on the foot and moving on to the other legs in turn.

  He was heating metal shoes in the forge when his other two customers arrived.

  “Well, now!” exclaimed the big man as he entered. “Would you look who else is here? What are the odds of that, eh?”

  “Ah—Porthos. And Aramis as well, I see,” the injured man said, a quirk of the eyebrow and faint uptick at the corner of his mouth the only sign that he was surprised and pleased to see the newcomers. “Goodness, my cup runneth over.”

  The chevalier, now identified as Aramis, smiled widely. “Athos, my friend! I did not expect to see you until later. How fares your wound?”

  The man called Athos shrugged his good shoulder. “An annoyance and a hindrance, as you see. On the positive side, wielding a sword in my off hand is probably good practice.”

  The big man—Porthos—let loose with his deep, rumbling laugh. A devilish grin dimpled his broad cheeks.

  “Looking on the bright side of things is not a trait I generally associate with you, Athos,” he said. “Though it was three against one in that fight, so I suppose things could have gone worse. You should have waited for us.”

  “Still,” put in Aramis, “I’d rather go up against most swordsmen using their dominant hands than Athos using his off hand.”

  “That’s true enough,” Porthos agreed, and though he said nothing in reply, the hint of a smile that had been playing around Athos’ lips moved upward to his eyes, as well.

  D’Artagnan frowned and applied himself to the anvil, shaping the shoes as the three friends continued their lazy banter. The heat from the forge and the red-hot metal combined with his hunger and exhaustion to make him dizzy. His focus narrowed to the pounding of hammer against iron, the hiss of steam as hot shoe met hoof, the tap-tap-tap as he nailed the shoes in place and clinched the sharp nail-ends down securely.

  “A workmanlike job,” said the nobleman named Athos when he was finished with the mare. “I am grateful.”

  D’Artagnan only nodded brusquely and moved on to the gelding with the lame front foot. His general discomfort from heat, hunger, and half-healed wounds conspired with the melancholy surrounding his recent circumstances to make him feel more alone than ever, despite the evident camaraderie of the three friends.

  He pared away the sole of the sore hoof, discovering a hoof abscess near the toe. Once it was drained, he packed the gap with wadding soaked in brandy from the owner’s flask. His mood worsened as he repeated the steps of trimming and shoeing, half-listening as the three men chatted in a roundabout manner about some recent undertaking, which had apparently taken Aramis and Porthos to Vendôme for some weeks.

  The pair had just returned—Aramis riding ahead when Porthos’ horse went lame shortly before d’Artagnan had met them on the road. It was obvious that they did not wish to speak of any details in front of d’Artagnan, and he found himself becoming irrationally resentful of the easy verbal shorthand between the longtime friends.

  Did they appreciate their own luck, he wondered, to have kept not merely one person, but two with whom they were so close, when so many had lost everything and everyone to the dark magic that cursed the land? Surely, he thought to himself, they would not be so casual in their bonhomie if they understood what a blessing they had received.

  His second horse completed, d’Artagnan interrupted the men’s conversation abruptly, uncaring if he sounded churlish.

  “Your gelding is finished,” he said, addressing Porthos but not meeting his eyes. “Pack the hoof abscess twice daily for a week with clean cloth dipped in spirits, and the animal should be sound enough for light work.”

  He ignored Porthos’ words of thanks, and moved on to the gray mare belonging to Aramis, catching himself briefly against one of the pillars in the work area when the world tilted unexpectedly to the left for a moment. When he straightened, the chevalier was watching him with a critical eye.

  “Are you quite all right, monsieur?” he asked in a solicitous voice that made d’Artagnan bristle unaccountably.

  “Fine,” he said curtly. “Do not concern yourself.”

  He applied himself to the mud-covered mare, but something about him must have caught Aramis’ attention—because a few minutes later, the man turned to him once more.

  “So, stranger,” he said. “You have heard our names. Might we, in turn, learn the name of the man who has rescued us from the tedium of having to travel everywhere by foot?”

  “D’Artagnan,” he replied curtly.

  “A Gascon by the accent, I take it,” Aramis said.

  D’Artagnan grunted an affirmative, not looking up from his task.

  Evidently, this was not enough to discourage further conversation, since Aramis continued, “And what brings you north to Blois, young d’Artagnan? I’ve been to Gascony, you know—beautiful country. If I had a place there, I think I’d find it difficult to leave.”

  D’Artagnan felt a flush rise to his cheeks, the pounding ache in his skull ratcheting up another notch for a moment before subsiding to its previous levels.

  “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.”<
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  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.

  Aramis stepped forward toward the pair. A moment later, his eyes went wide, staring at the empty space behind the boy’s left shoulder.

  “Oh, look,” he said conversationally. “Are those large, armed men approaching us friends of yours?”

  The terrified boy craned around, trying to see what Aramis was looking at. The dagger wavered against the girl’s skin, drawing a thin line of red and then falling away from her neck as he twisted his body away. The blade slid out of harm’s way, Aramis calmly pulled his pistol and shot the boy through the temple.

  With a cry, the older girl swept forward and pulled her sister away from the lad’s fallen body, embracing her and rocking her back and forth as the younger girl clung to her.

  “Oh, Madeleine, thank God,” she said. “Thank God! You’re not injured, are you?”

  Madeleine pulled back, wiping her eyes with a sleeve. “Just a scratch on my neck, I think, where the knife caught me when he turned away. It’s not too bad, is it, Christelle?”

  Christelle examined the cut and kissed Madeleine on the forehead with relief.

  “No, ma petite,” she reassured. “It’s barely bleeding. Stay back, now, and cover your eyes. Don’t watch.”

  With a final squeeze of her hand, Christelle turned and stalked toward the man that Porthos had shot in the leg, her stolen dagger clenched tightly in one hand.

  “Mademoiselle—” Athos began, but allowed himself to be moved aside as the young woman brushed past him single-mindedly.

  She stopped and crouched in front of the boys’ father, sneering at him as he writhed on the ground, clutching uselessly at his wound as blood continued to pulse through his fingers. He glared up at her, features twisted with hatred and pain.

  “I told you I would see you dead for this, Jean Paul. I wasn’t lying,” she said, and stabbed him through the heart. The man grunted, body jerking and twisting for several seconds before going limp. When the last glimmer of life had left his eyes, she turned back to Madeleine. “It’s over now, little sister. You may look.”

  Madeleine lowered the hand that had been covering her eyes uncertainly. D’Artagnan could see that tears once more spilled down her cheeks.

  Aramis stepped forward, hat in hand. “N
ow that this unpleasantness has been dealt with, may we conduct you somewhere safe, mesdemoiselles?”

  “Please, messieurs,” Madeleine said in a quavering voice, “Our grandmother is hurt. Our house is only one street over—please help her!”

  “Of course,” Athos said immediately. His eyes swept over the scene, resting a brief but assessing glance on d’Artagnan before he continued. “Aramis and I will escort the young ladies to their home and determine what assistance is needed. Porthos? Stay here with d’Artagnan and keep an eye on the horses. You might also see about organizing someone to deal with the refuse currently littering the roadway.” He jerked his chin the bodies.

  Now that the thrill of the fight was wearing off, d’Artagnan felt his earlier weakness coming back with a vengeance, but even through the wisps of gray fog crowding the edges of his vision, it seemed that Porthos’ gaze, too, rested on him for a beat longer than necessary before he nodded to Athos and answered, “Guard the horses, eh? Right you are.”

  The other two ushered the sisters away, and Porthos turned to d’Artagnan, clapping him on the back companionably. D’Artagnan barely managed to suppress the wince as his half-healed whip marks flared with pain. His feet seemed very far away, for some reason, and his head felt like it was floating high above his shoulders.

  “Bet you never expected anything like this when you offered to shoe our horses, eh?” the big man asked. “Still, it was good of you to jump into the fray. These days, not too many would risk their own skin for strangers.”

  D’Artagnan opened his mouth to ask Porthos why he was speaking from inside a tunnel, and frowned when no words came out. The gray fog swirled over his head in a rush as the ground swelled up to meet him, and he knew no more.

  AWARENESS WASHED OVER d’Artagnan in waves. It was dark behind his eyelids, but he couldn’t summon the effort or ambition to drag them open—they were far too heavy. The dull buzzing in his ears resolved into voices, though they echoed oddly, as if heard underwater. Some he recognized; others he did not.