![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The ambush was sprung upon them just after dawn, while the scouting party was still riding along the coast, some two hours distant from the seawall. So long as it had remained dark, D'Artagnan and his comrades had kept themselves alert for any hint of attack from the shadows, but with the brightening of the sky had come a certain easing of tension, so that the six of them rode around a bend in the shoreline and into the midst of a group of men gathered around a beached boat before either side knew what was happening.
There was a half-instant of surprise, and then d'Artagnan had drawn his sword and produced the pistol from under his coat, holding it in his left hand. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis had also drawn their weapons, and Leroche and the lieutenant were no slower in showing their steel.
One of the men by the boat shouted a curse in what d'Artagnan recognised as English, followed by something that was obviously an order of some kind, though, knowing only a few words of the other language, d'Artagnan could not make out its meaning.
"Morbleu," Leroche swore. "An English ambush!"
As he spoke, one of the Englishman raised a musket to his shoulder, and the loud report of its firing blotted out the latter part of his words. Guided either by superior marksman ship or considerable luck, the musket ball took Leroche squarely in the face, killing him instantly and sending his lifeless body tumbling from his horse.
Porthos shouted and dug his spurs into the flanks of his horse, charging towards the foreigners, and d'Artagnan followed him, firing his pistol as he did so. The bullet took the Englishman with the musket in the chest, but even as he fell, his companions were grabbing muskets and halberds from within the boat. D'Artagnan felt the wind of a musket ball's passage as it sped by inches from his ear, and heard a sharp cry from behind him. From the corner of his eye, he saw Aramis go crashing to the ground, to lie there in a crumpled heap.
Things became rather confused after that. The Frenchmen were outnumbered several times over, and their blades were not as effective against the Englishmen's halberds as they would have been against men armed with swords. D'Artagnan succeeded in wounding two of them, but nevertheless could tell that the fight was hopeless. The English, with the superiority of numbers on their side, must inevitably triumph, and much as it pained him to consider retreating, the native prudence that is as much a part of the Gascon character as is their vaunted stubbornness told him that it was the best course of action.
"We must fall back!" the lieutenant cried, echoing d'Artagnan's thoughts.
"Be damned to that," Porthos shouted. He had dismounted from his horse, and, having lost his sword in the body of one of the Englishmen, was vigorously beating one of the man's fellows about the head with broken-off staff of a halberd.
"He is right," d'Artagnan shouted back, disengaging his sword from an Englishman's halberd and wheeling his horse about. The riderless horses had fled, spooked by the sound of gunfire, leaving Porthos and Aramis--who had struggled to his feet and was wielding his blade with a grim determination that proved whatever injury he had sustained was at least not immediately fatal--without mounts. "Do you mount up with me, and Athos's horse can take Aramis."
"No," Athos objected, "someone must remain to guard our retreat. I shall-"
"Retreat, I said," the lieutenant shouted, seeing that none were responding to his order. "We must carry word of this to the camp!"
His shouts recalled them all to their duties, and Aramis ducked an Englishman's thrust, nearly losing his footing as he did so, and called out, "Ride for the camp, then. Porthos and I will hold them."
"Pardieu, this sort are no match for two musketeers." Porthos lashed out with his halberd staff once more, catching an English blade as it descended toward his head. "We will join you shortly."
"For God's sake, come on!" The lieutenant suited action to words and set spurs to his horse, and d'Artagnan followed, casting a regretful glance over his shoulder. Porthos and Aramis fought on, and d'Artagnan felt a great uneasiness at leaving them, whatever his lieutenant's orders. Athos, galloping beside him, wore a set, cold expression that gave away none of the emotions he might be feeling.
A volley of musket fire and one thrown halberd chased them as they made for the bend in the shoreline, and once they had rounded it and were well out of range of the Englishmen's shots, d'Artagnan drew rein.
"Should we not go back?" he began uncertainly. "The Englishmen are too many to defeat, but our duty-"
"Is to warn M. de Tréville and the King that the English are once more putting soldiers ashore," Athos said. "And inside the seawall."
"Which means," d'Artagnan continued, seeing where Athos's line of reasoning was heading, "that the Cardinal's spies were right, and the dike has indeed been breached by someone. Or else they have found a way around it. Yes, you are right. We must return to camp, though it pains me to leave our friends in such a position."
"I beg to disagree with you, gentlemen," the lieutenant said. He pulled a pair of wheel lock pistols from beneath his coat and aimed them at d'Artagnan and Athos. "I alone will return to camp and warn the Cardinal." A sort of smirk formed upon his lips, and his eyes seemed to light with an ironic humour. "I fear the two of you were killed in the English ambush."
*cue dramatic swell of music, and a cut to a commercial*
Tags:
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
There's something bizarrely endearing about Porthos beating a guy over the head with a halberd; it's such a very Porthos thing to do.
Isn't there? He's so cute when he's beating people up and bragging about it ^_^. And I'm glad I got the style right; it's difficult to keep from sliding back into close third, though the dialogue is really fun.