Porthos: The Incident with the Flower: Part 2C
Chapters 13 - 16
Chapter Thirteen: The Strategy of Relaxation
He had disappeared. They had had one remaining prisoner literally between them and they had lost him.
After Oliver had ascended, they had been treated to the odd sensation of hearing two people laughing with one voice. When they had emerged from the opening, they had seen Oliver’s bindings lying at the base of a tree. They had been cut clean through. Behind this infamous tree was a forest, and beside the forest was an open grassy plain, which was the same plain from which they had traveled previously, so beyond it, they could infer, lay Paris. What they had not seen was Oliver, or anyone else for that matter. D’Artagnan’s proclivities had come to naught, and their plan to use Oliver to ensure their own safety had suffered a similar defeat.
What was not ultimately in question, however, was where their quarry had gone. After fanning out and circling the immediate area, they discovered the opening to what was clearly another stone mine, except this time, the opening was the size of a door that any man could run through, moving with great haste and luxurious ease. Upon this discovery, D’Artagnan’s youth overcame him and his eagerness returned full fold, but when he would have broken into a run, an anvil in the shape of a hand descended pleasantly onto his shoulder, and he sagged under the weight of it.
“What?” D’Artagnan turned towards his friend. “What are you doing?”
Porthos smiled pleasantly in response. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“It looks like you’re stopping me,” the younger man continued, dragging his shoulder out from the offending hand.
“Then that is probably what I am doing. I am not a dissembler. If I tell you that a man is coming at you with a knife, you should duck.”
“But - but you do understand that our prisoner has - where are you going now?” For Porthos had calmly wandered off in the direction of the forest.
“I’m going to set some traps, which will catch our next meal, and then we can continue with the fighting and chasing,” Porthos continued, knotting some rope together and tying them to low hanging brush. He paused. “You can keep talking, I am listening. With my third ear.” Then he laughed at his own joke.
“I don’t understand you. We are wasting time! The more time we spending…cooking, is time we allow him to get farther away from us!”
“I don’t much care for chasing.”
“What?”
“Fighting yes, but the chasing part…no.”
“Why does that matter? You always have to chase someone before you kill them. No man is going to coming running into your sword! If that happened, then there would be no need for Musketeers!”
Porthos gestured for them to hide themselves. “Do you know why I don’t care for it?” he asked, after he had settled himself.
“Do we have to discuss this now?”
“Well, we are waiting for rabbits to run into my traps, and what I am saying is relevant.”
“Chasing is more relevant!” Now D’Artagnan was whispering feverishly behind a set of bushes, where they had retreated to give their quarry a better chance of getting caught, and Porthos, having taken refuge behind a much larger boulder, looked down on him good naturedly.
“What about,” and here D’Artagnan looked up slyly, “your promise to him?”
“My promise?”
“Yes, your promise. You told him, and I remember this clearly, that if he tried to escape, you would kill him.”
“Ah…” Porthos brightened. “That promise.”
“Yes, in keeping with that…”
“Do you know how many times I have made that particular promise?”
Now D’Artagnan appeared uncertain. “No, not exactly…”
“Neither do I,” Porthos cut in, grinning. “I use that saying frequently when I am drunk, and many times even when I am sober, and I mean it every time. But you can see how that creates a problem. Sometimes people run away. Some leave the county altogether. That in itself is a kind of death. But if I had to hand death to each and every person I promised, well…my tomb stone might as well say ‘I Will Be Returning for the Rest of You.’”
“So, you might not kill him?” D’Artagnan looked disappointed.
“No, I did not say that.” Porthos grinned at him and slowly released his sword from his scabbard. It was an exceptionally long blade, well polished. Well used. “He is a dead man. When I lift my sword, I can feel him on the other end of it.”
The two men locked eyes in understanding. “It will not be long from now. Why don’t we check the traps?” D’Artagnan nodded.
They eventually caught a hare for each of them, and the two men set to skinning and cooking. Presently, there was a low fire and the smell of roasting meat turning slowly over it when D’Artagnan, like a dog with an itch, returned to his favorite subject.
“So, why didn’t we chase him?”
Porthos paused in his chewing and swallowed thoughtfully, the flames licking at his face. “We are chasing him. Just not when he expects us to.” D’Artagnan did not appear to understand.
“Tell me, my young friend,” Porthos continued pleasantly, “are you in such a hurry to die?”
“What?” D’Artagnan was taken aback. “No. Of course not. I’m eager to fight. Like you.”
“I used to fight and chase, and fight and chase. They always run from me eventually, and even then I did not enjoy the chasing, because when you chase, you always find five other men with swords waiting for you at the other end.” Porthos took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. “I have no doubt that that is what is waiting for us now.”
“So you do not think that Oliver is running away.”
“No. He is confident for some reason. He knows we’re coming. He will wait.”
“And isn’t this the same as our own plan? To wait?”
“In a way. It is also to surprise. To wear them down. There is nothing worse than having to be completely alert for hours.”
“For hours?” D’Artagnan smiled.
“For hours.” Porthos put his finished meal off to the side and settled in for a nap with a smile. “I like to savor my food.” When he woke again, he would be replenished.
Chapter Fourteen: Blows Between Friends
Where were they, he wondered? First, to himself, and then aloud and with relish. Where were they, where were they, where were they? Henri paced back and forth across the narrow balcony of his tower. It was not a great height, and truly that was not the point. The tower, set as it was in the center of the garden, was strategic, more a vantage point from where he could survey the width and breadth of his surroundings. If he was looking for a way to view the every man in his vicinity, for the immediate area provided no cover, he could do no better. However, the height was more of an indication of status, specifically his dominion over all others on his estate. He rose at most ten feet above ground, but the implication had been made.
In the space twenty feet from him, lay the entryway from which the men, there should have been two of them, and they should have arrived five hours since. If all had gone as he had foretold, then by now, they would be hanging from the branches of his cypress.
They would still come, he believed, but all discipline had deserted his men. They were not made to serve and did not accept his orders as a mandate. During the delightful first hour, he had waited for the other two men to follow with the anticipation of a child. First Oliver had alighted, bowing, and then the other, informing him that the two Musketeers were not far behind. He had immediately had men gathered and outfitted, and retreated to the vantage point of his tower, where his sister observed him without expression, and a delicious tension had built. Then…nothing.
After the first hour had deserted him, there had been a kind of dulled anticipation. Where there had been excitement, there was now simply overbearing tension…and no release for it. What was needed was discipline, what was on offer was violence. The men were all restless, and they were armed, and as it was Henri felt as if he were balancing on the serrated blade of a knife. There would - regardless of whether two men ever appeared - be a fight.
Incidentally, several feet below these events, and a good several feet west of them, our two friends were already engaged in heated battle. It had begun with a single comment. D’Artagnan had observed that these people, these gypsies, seemed to have obtained a singular strategic advantage, namely by their intimate knowledge of underground tunnels that ran, potentially, all throughout Paris.
Listen, D’Artagnan had insisted, the very path Porthos had taken from the door of the initial whorehouse to the actual…whore…area…place where Porthos had met Oliver…had been a sort of tunnel, hadn’t it? Had not the men who had attacked him appeared seemingly out of thin air? D’Artagnan’s voice grew more passionate as the entire of his theory began coalescing in his mind.
This means, he continued, that whoever it is that is behind Oliver and the men who attacked - because more and more, this seems to be part of a larger plan - will be able to move men, undetected throughout Paris, will be able to attack and depart unnoticed, at any time. Can you comprehend the power that is available to someone with that knowledge? D’Artagnan implored. Do you understand the gravity of what I am saying to you?
Certainly so, Porthos had agreed, the people we are up against are excellent tunnelers.
That is not my point! Not my point at all! D’Artagnan would have shrilled if he had not been whispering. They had been walking for some time, and the young man had been itching to fight for even longer. We have uncovered grand scheme, he continued, information which, in the wrong hands could lead us all to ruin.
I realize that, Porthos had replied, only half listening, these gypsies are truly exceptionally good at tunneling. And something, possibly in his tone, had given D’Artagnan pause.
Then D’Artagnan had then emitted a sound between a shrill and fart, and launched himself at Porthos, all the while continuing to whisper furiously. How, D’Artagnan hissed, could Porthos be so exceptional at anything having to do with fighting and strategy, and…feeding himself and yet so obtuse in every other way imaginable? Why was he so…so single handedly exceptional? Couldn’t he spare some small acknowledgement for what he, D’Artagnan, had just uncovered?
Well yes, Porthos had answered, baffled, and I agreed with you. These gypsies are very good at tunneling. And then he had been subjected to a sudden onslaught of fists jabs and elbow blows, as D’Artagnan was wont to do when he felt himself particularly maligned. Porthos, feeling at a loss as to how to resolve this dispute, and wanting some relief from the fists and elbows, parried and backed away. However, that meant they were walking away from the light cast by their lanterns and soon were enveloped in darkness, with D’Artagnan, being young and fit, in no mood to stand down. Looking around, Porthos thought he saw a light coming down from above, and although there was something in the back of his mind that told him to stay away, he could not remember why this was such a bad idea when the alternative was currently pummeling his midsection. He bumped into a ladder in the dark. He did not want to continue fighting with his friend. In the dark he might actually crush the boy. There was no other choice; he began ascending.
“What are you doing?” D’Artagnan hissed below, grabbing the lower rungs to steady the wood against the shock of Porthos’s sudden weight.
“I’m going up,” Porthos hissed in return, not remembering why it was they had to keep quiet.
“Wait - they’re up there - remember? We had a plan to -” D’Artagnan continued hissing, but it was too late, because Porthos, displaying amazing agility for someone so wide, had already emerged from the opening to meet a deafening silence. For a brief moment, the shape of Porthos’s shadow lay comfortingly across the opening, and then it moved and there was nothing but open sky.
Chapter Fifteen: Battle Without Honor
There were men wandering restlessly across his gardens and there were men trimming hedges with swords, and what had started as a fighting exercise was quickly descending into mutiny. Henri knew that he had to impose order, or any further plans would come to a sticky end.
“Gather in the center of the lawn, between the two young trees there, or rather, in front of the entryway. I have something to say to all of you.”
Most of the men gathered, but with less than the usual deference. If he did not say something inspiring now, they would likely leave, taking their knowledge with them. He could already hear his sister behind him, particularly because she was speaking out loud.
“As I told you,” she said from behind his left shoulder, “you should have ordered that they draw you a map of the underground tunnels and then left them alone. None of this fighting business. Only a few are actually meant to handle swords. I talked with each and every one of them. They are not good soldiers. They are loyal to a fault, but they do not take orders well.”
He did not want to turn around to address her, he could not abide her eyes, but he turned because he instinctively knew that her anger needed addressing as much as the men dissolution below, and moreover he was coming to realize that her judgment was often correct even if her delivery was cutting.
“I am not wrong, Marguerite. Just because the men are restless does not mean that the two musketeers will not appear. If we simply wait, everything that I have predicted will come to pass. They are taking their time getting here, so my timing is off, but that was my only flaw.”
He looked up. Her eyes spat at him out of her pale face. She looked as though she were going to say something more, but he turned away.
“Now,” that fire being quelled, he could return to his other more pressing problem. The men at his service were gathered near the opening, their swords were drawn and in their midst was a hugely impressive man, who was smiling at them.
“What do you want?” Henri called down, assuming a tone of command. He knew that from this angle, at this time of day, the sun lay directly behind him, and the man would look up to hear his voice and be blinded.
Porthos could not see who was speaking to him with such a pretty voice. When he tried to follow the voice with his eyes, Henri gave a pre-arranged signal, and the men were immediately upon him.
This time, at least, then men did not appear from thin air. They were in front of him, in back, and on either side, and they attacked from every angle, simultaneously. If there had been possibly a foot less of space for him to maneuver, Porthos might not have survived. However, he knew his size, and he had enough space for a decent charge at the men directly in front of him. The maneuver of using his size to intimidate smaller men into freezing up had always come naturally to our Hero, as the opposing man’s natural instinct to use his sword are a shield to protect himself came to him. In that way, Porthos broke unharmed from the first circle of attackers, only to face a second armed circle of men. The first man thrust immediately - there would be no break, it seemed - and Porthos found him running that man through on instinct alone. Where his mind could no longer process, years of training immediately engaged. If he stopped, if he did not guard his back as well as his front, if he did not turn right and block left, if he was not four men fighting as one man, then he was as good as dead. In short, Porthos was thoroughly enjoying himself.
When he finally broke through the second circle, there was a pause, and then a man stepped out wearing a coat of rich green brocade, and it was Oliver, and he was smiling, and his smile was a strange facial contortion, where all beauty retreated and in its place was left only Hatred and its bastard cousin, Malevolence. In his right hand, Oliver swiveled an elegant sword, which flashed with a long, polished blade. In that simple movement, Porthos could see the practiced ease with which Oliver handled his instrument. Then, somewhere behind him, Porthos heard a second, identical movement and he turned his head only halfway, so as to keep Oliver within his line of vision. He knew now that these men fought with no sense of honor, they would stab him in his back and in his foot before they would face him directly, and he was now to witness the full extent of that dishonor, because standing behind him, in identical green brocade, and smiling, was Oliver. Porthos was completely taken aback, and while he was so engaged, Oliver attacked.
Running on instinct alone, Porthos ducked and rolled away in time to see two blades meet in the spaces that his heart and lungs had vacated seconds before. Even so, the twins recovered quickly, following him, and then he saw their strategy. Each twin positioned himself opposite the other, and directly at the periphery of Porthos’s vision. He silently cursed. He should never have allowed them to get into position, which put him at the worst possible disadvantage. He should have attacked one of them to throw them off balance. In fights such as these he was sometimes allowed to make only a single mistake, sometimes less, and he thanked his hindsight for being such a spiteful whore.
The twins set upon him, and this would be a recurring theme, simultaneously. Because their timing was so precise, Porthos found he could only deflect one blow while dodging the other, and every time he moved, the twins followed in unison, dancing continuously outside his line vision, attacking when he wasn’t looking, and it was heavily disorienting to see one man appear to jump through space and time to appear at both sides of you, ducking and slicing at the same time. He could feel the rhythm of their movements, and that was his one saving grace, but when he lost it, he felt the warm rush of blood running down his left arm, followed quickly by sharp, throbbing pain, and though this did not disable him, it threw off his timing, and he immediately felt a blunt blow to the side of his knee, which should, if he knew their plan, be followed by a rain of continuous blows and cuts now that they had found an opening, because they were being delivered by two men acting as one. He fully expected that the offense would continue until he was stone dead. However, the finishing blows did not fall, they had retreated, and Porthos looked up into the smiling face of D’Artagnan.
“I cut him in the back!” D’Artagnan announced.
“As well you should have.” Porthos brightened, and stood up. Oliver and his twin were both nursing gashes. On their backs. “Bind up my arm, and we will finish this.”
But other men were swarming in to fill the space, and soon both men were heavily engaged. However, these men served to block the men who followed, and who did not come armed with swords, but with muskets.
Up above, even Henri was astounded. “Who ordered -” Henri looked at his sister, realizing his mistake. “Is this your doing?”
Her expression showed neither apology nor deference. “Yes. I have let you ruin two perfectly good young…boys. I have watched you play at leading, and that is enough. It’s time I ended this.”
“They could still win!”
“You played Musketeers against men who lack experience in battle. You do not know your own hand.” She looked down to watch Porthos push back five men at once. “That large one is virtually indestructible.”
Then she continued, “these men all loved and respected you without question. Look at them now.” She gestured down at the scene below.
That is when Henri made a fatal error. He looked down at the men, fighting there, fighting on his behalf, really, and saw that they were losing. They were vastly outmatched, especially now that the second Musketeer had joined the first.
“I befriended one of the women, Jeanne, I believe, is her name,” Marguerite said from behind him. “She has been very useful in helping me to draw up a map of the tunnels. She has also introduced me to many other of her people who can be similarly useful.”
He did not care a bit about the tunnels. He wanted to be a military man, a leader of other men, like his father. If it didn’t happen this time, he had the resources to try again.
He watched his men dropping on the ground below, and felt nothing save a mild disappointment. Then he felt Marguerite lay a consoling hand upon his shoulder, a gesture which did not comfort so much as irritate him. He was going to tell her to take her hand away, when the offending palm moved quietly to his back, before pushing hard and shoving him off the balcony. As intended, the fall would not kill him.
Chapter Sixteen: The Reunion
In the midst of fighting, Porthos and D’Artagan found that the men around them had suddenly stopped trying to kill them, which in their experience meant that something much worse was on its way. They were not to be disappointed, because as the men around them parted, and the men further behind them stepped aside, four men carrying muskets, in close range, became visible.
As our two friends watched, the four men prepared to fire, took aim, and then fell to their knees, landing on their faces to reveal Athos and Aramis holding their swords aloft and smiling with triumph, like devils.
“What are you doing here - and how did you find us?” This time Porthos beat D’Artagnan to ask the obvious question.
For a fuller response to this question, which is likely to be met solely with an enigmatic smile, the reader should consider a few possibilities. It is possible that Henri the Second’s parental origins were something of an open secret, which only the dignity and social station conferred by the Rohan name prevented from becoming outright gossip. It is possible that Athos made a connection between Oliver’s initial capture and the bored antics of a pampered nobleman who bore such similar features and who owned a rather large and ostentatious residence on the border of Paris. It is further likely that this inference, however correct, was not shared with our two friends who form the heart and brawn of this story. Finally, it is possible that Athos and Aramis had lain together - in wait - for their two friends to appear and in this way, to guarantee their safe passage out of the young Rohan’s grasp.
In response to this query, Athos offered an enigmatic smile, knocked the sword immediately of the hands of the man on his right, and said nothing. Then men closed in on the four of them and slowly drew them away from each other, breaking them apart along natural lines, with Porthos fighting alongside D’Artagnan on the one side, and Athos and Aramis on the other.
While fighting these lesser men, it occurred to our Hero that there had to be a way to end this. He could tell that he was not fighting among experienced men, and it did not feed his conscience to harm fighters of such a lesser caliber. Mid parry, he looked around to get a better sense of his surroundings, possibly something he should have done earlier, and saw a man watching him from a tower dressed in deep burgundy brocade. Even from this distance, he could see the red of the man’s hair, and the dark eyes, which reminded him of…well, a woman. When he looked again, he could make out the design of a simple flower, pinned to the man’s lapel, comprised of five symmetrical petals, before distraction in the form of a sword again claimed his immediate attention. Then the answer came to him. First, as breath, and then as a voice that came creeping up his shoulder before gliding smoothly in his ear, and settling deep into his subconscious until they could have been mistaken for his own thoughts.
This time, Athos chose to be direct. “We must kill the Anus of Hades,” his voice said, and then everything fell sweetly into place. As Porthos looked, Henri de Rohan appeared to leap from the height of his tower and land roughly onto the bushes below, where he emerged looking a great deal less regal and much more vulnerable. Each of the Musketeers in turn shouldered aside the man he had been engaging and made directly for this new development.
Henri emerged with a mouthful of leaves, gasping for air. The air had been completely knocked out of him, and landing on his own topiaries had not been a pleasant exercise, compounded as it was by the taste of betrayal. He looked up in a raging fury to meet Marguerite’s direct and unflinching gaze. Even this was a test on his resolve, and he was the first to look away.
Then, to his left side, he could hear men approaching, but there was something inside him that told him that they would not be allies. He looked up to see four men moving casually towards him, and his own men parting to let them pass. From this distance, he could make out their faces clearly. One had the face of an Angel, while the man on his side had the expression of the Devil, there was a small, but that one…was really was not worth the bother of describing, and the large one brought up the rear. That larger one appeared two times the size of the Angel, and at least five times as large as his small friend.
Henri could only stand there, transfixed, as the Musketeers approached him, and watch as the Porthos’s bulky form slowly eclipsed the sun until he stood entirely in the shade. Now, Henri could truly appreciate how large this man was, both tall and broad with a steadying amount of muscle in between. The expression on the man’s face was jovial, almost pleasant, which was also disconcerting. Henri unleashed his sword and wielded it, and found that his hand was surprising steady; he was, in fact, an excellent swordsman. However, he also knew these to be futile gestures, minor obstructions in the face of unassailable tides, the actions of a desperate man, because he knew, in his heart, that he was done.
END
Epilogue Here:
http://watercrescent.livejournal.com/2104.html