Traitor's Chase (24 page)

As they watched, the fire suddenly blossomed, tripling in size. It flamed around the hole where a cork stopper held the gunpowder in.

“The powder's starting to catch!” Aramis warned. “It's going to blow!”

The first arch of the bridge was just ahead, but they needed to get to the middle for their plan to work. “There's not enough time,” Porthos admitted sadly. “There's only one thing to do.” He whipped out his sword and slashed through the rope that held the kegs to the wagon.

The taut rope snapped like a broken rubber band, freeing the powder kegs. They tumbled off the back of the wagon and into the road.

Valois' eyes went wide with fear as he saw what was happening. He reined in his horse, but the rest of the army was right behind him. Their horses slammed into his, which reared to its feet and pitched Valois to the ground.

The flaming powder keg slammed into Valois—and exploded.

The other kegs went off as well, a chain reaction of explosions that decimated the front ranks of the army. The ground trembled and the stones of the Roman road soared into the air. A wave of fire rose up, scorching the earth.

Freed from the weight of all the gunpowder, the horses pulling the wagon suddenly gained speed, racing onto the lowest level of the bridge. But the concussion from the explosion lifted the wagon off its wheels and flipped it on its side. Porthos and Aramis were catapulted onto the horses, which bucked and whinnied in terror as the overturned wagon skidded wildly behind them, finally smashing into one of the arches and shattering into pieces.

Porthos and Aramis were thrown to the ground while the horses raced onward.

The two Musketeers sat up, singed from the explosion, dazed from their falls. The bridge was still trembling from the blast, but it was well built and remained standing. The kegs had detonated too soon, leaving nothing but a wall of fire at the end of the bridge—and even that was already dying down. A few Spanish horses leaped through it, carrying their riders safely onto the bridge. And behind the flames, the Musketeers could see hundreds more soldiers amassing, ready to bear down upon them.

“We failed,” Aramis gasped. “What do we do now?”

Porthos shrugged and shook his head. “The only thing left. We pray.”

At the aqueduct on the top of the bridge, the sluice cut through the highest level of arches, though it was roofed with stone to protect the water supply. Where the bridge met land, the sluice continued on, carved into the rock. The service road came to a dead end here. Greg had just reached this point when the explosion occurred below.

His horse was already skittish, and now the shock wave from the blast combined with the deafening roar made it rear up in fear. Greg lost his grip on the reins and tumbled onto the sluice.

His horse retreated, slamming into Michel's, which reared as well. The madman leaped from it before he was thrown, and both horses fled back down the hillside.

Dinicoeur tumbled but came up on his feet again, sword in hand. He charged toward Greg, the fire from the explosion gleaming in his eyes.

Greg's sword had skittered farther down the bridge. Now it teetered on the edge above the abyss. Greg ran and dove for it, snatching it just before it dropped. He rolled over, blocked Michel's sword as it swung down at him, then snapped to his feet to face his enemy head-on.

The bridge was wide at the top, so there was room to maneuver, but there was no safety railing and the drop over the edge was sickeningly steep. Greg knew that, if he fell, he'd either land on the road across the first tier of arches, which would no doubt kill him on impact—or he'd plunge into the rushing river, which would most likely drown him. Neither seemed like a very good option, so Greg tried to put the fear of falling out of his mind and focus on the swordfight instead.

“Why don't you just admit defeat?” Dinicoeur snarled, slashing with his sword. “You've already lost. My army is about to annihilate your friends—and in a few weeks we will do the same to France.”

“Not if I can help it,” Greg said, although he could feel his strength fading. He couldn't even manage an offensive move now; Dinicoeur was coming too hard and fast. Greg was getting pushed farther and farther along the bridge. Soon he and Dinicoeur were at the dead center, where the edifice was at its highest, sixteen stories above the raging river below.

Dinicoeur laughed. “I have two thousand men at my disposal. What do you have? Nothing! You're just boys playing with swords.”

“We defeated you once,” Greg said.

“That was a temporary setback,” Dinicoeur snapped. “And besides, you actually did me a favor. If it wasn't for you, I might have been content to stay in the king's court—but now, I will depose that foolish king and rule all of France!”

“It won't mean anything to you without the other half of the Devil's Stone,” Greg told him. “Once we beat you to the other half, you won't be able to make Dominic immortal. And when we take him out, you'll die, too.”

“There's just one problem with that plan,” Michel taunted. “You don't know where the other half is—and I do.”

“I know exactly where it is,” Greg retorted. “It's back in Paris.”

It was a bluff on his part—but it paid off perfectly when he saw Michel's reaction. The madman's eyes went wide in surprise, proving Greg's hunch was right. The other half of the stone
was
in Paris.

Greg took advantage of Michel's astonishment and lunged for his heart.

Dinicoeur easily sidestepped the attack. He'd seen it coming; he was a far more formidable opponent than anyone else Greg had faced—perhaps even better than Athos. And he didn't even appear to be tired. Although the Devil's Stone wasn't complete, it still seemed to be giving him strength.

“Why are you even bothering to fight?” Dinicoeur taunted. “I'm immortal, you fool! You know you can never defeat me!”

The words rang in Greg's ears. For a moment, he was daunted by them … but then, an idea came to him. He glanced down at the lowest tier of the bridge. The Spanish army was advancing onto it now, skirting the remnants of the fire. Then he looked back at Dinicoeur. The madman had made a mistake, Greg realized. His greatest strength was also his greatest weakness.

Greg dodged another attack—and retreated across the top of the bridge. As he'd expected, Dinicoeur came after him, seized with bloodlust, determined to kill him. As Greg ran, he spotted Athos and Catherine on the road at the far side of the river. “Athos!” Greg yelled. “Light the arrows! Light them up and shoot Dinicoeur!”

Far below, the Musketeers heard the shouts. Porthos and Aramis were running as well now, racing across the bridge before the Spanish riders could bear down on them. The army had temporarily been in disarray, as Valois and several other leaders had been blown to bits, but now it was surging forward.

On the far side of the bridge, Athos whipped an arrow from his quiver and held it out. Catherine set the torch to it and the resin ignited. Athos quickly set it in the bow, aimed, and let it fly. Within a second, Catherine had another arrow ready. And then another. Athos shot them as fast as he could, sending bolts of fire racing through the air.

The first few missed Dinicoeur, but the fourth found him as Athos adjusted his aim. It struck the madman in the chest.

It barely pierced Dinicoeur's armor, however. Michel emitted a tiny grunt of pain, then used his sword to snap off the flaming shaft and swat it away. He had to stop running to do it, however, which finally gave Greg a good target.

Greg lunged with his sword, slashing Dinicoeur across the chest.

Dinicoeur spun around with surprising speed and punched Greg in the jaw with such strength that it sent him flying.

Greg tumbled toward the edge of the aqueduct, catching hold an instant before tumbling off the bridge. His legs dangled over the void.

Dinicoeur stormed toward him. “You have failed!” he snarled. “Failed once again in your miserable attempt to destroy me.”

“I wasn't trying to destroy you,” Greg said defiantly. “I was trying to get
this
.”

With his free hand, he held up the half of the Devil's Stone, displaying the links of the chain he had severed with his sword.

Dinicoeur gasped. His hand reflexively went to his neck, confirming the Devil's Stone was no longer there. For a moment, he stood there, frozen in shock....

Which was all the time Athos needed.

The flaming arrow struck Dinicoeur in the shoulder. The madman roared and snapped the shaft off, but the pitch was already on his shirt, which caught fire. He screamed and spun, trying to swat out the flames.

The next arrow from Athos caught him in the leg. The one after that hit him in the arm. Dinicoeur's anger turned to panic. Even though he was immortal, he could still feel pain—and as the fire engulfed his body, it was agony. He desperately tried to peel off his blazing clothes....

That was when Greg body-checked him. He caught Dinicoeur by surprise and sent him flying off the bridge.

The madman fell, screaming—and slammed into the lowest level.

He landed right in front of the advancing army. The lead riders reined in their horses in surprise.

But just as Dinicoeur had said, he couldn't be killed. Instead, he rose to his feet, screaming in fury.

Everyone gasped in horror at the flaming, raging, seemingly indestructible beast before them.

Greg shouted one of the few Spanish phrases he knew to those below him.
“El Diablo!”
The Devil.

A murmur of fear and horror rippled through the Spanish army.

“That is who you serve!” Greg shouted to them. “That is who has led you here! The Devil himself!”

“Don't listen to him!” Dinicoeur yelled. “I am no such thing!”

But his appearance meant more to the soldiers than his words did. The men were superstitious and terrified of the unknown. They turned and fled, racing back the way they had come.

“No!” Dinicoeur shouted. The fall and the pain were taking their toll on him. Even his hair was on fire now, framing his burned face in flame and making him look even more devilish than before. “I am not the enemy! They are!” He staggered toward Porthos and Aramis, his sword raised, in one desperate final attempt to lead the charge.

Porthos screamed in horror. As far as he knew, Dinicoeur truly was the Devil. And even though Aramis knew Dinicoeur was immortal, he was still terrified as well.

Then, a final arrow from Athos caught Dinicoeur in the chest. Now, from close range, it was enough to send him reeling backward. The madman toppled over the side of the bridge and plummeted into the river, which quickly whisked him away.

Greg scrambled down the hillside from the upper tier. He raced onto the Roman road to rejoin his friends. “Is everyone all right?” he asked.

“No we're not all right!” Porthos gasped. “Did you see that? Dinicoeur is the Devil! We're fighting the Devil!”

“We're not,” Greg said reassuringly. “I only said that to frighten everyone else. Dinicoeur isn't the Devil—although he
is
immortal.”

Porthos and Athos turned to Greg, looking shocked and betrayed. “You knew that was going to happen?” Athos asked.

“Yes,” Greg admitted.

“How much else is there that you haven't told us?” Porthos asked.

Greg hesitated, unsure what to say—and in that moment, he saw something change in his friends' eyes.
They don't trust me
, he thought.

Suddenly, a woman's cry echoed through the woods. “Athos! Aramis! Help me!”

The Musketeers all stiffened at the sound, recognizing the voice at once.

“Milady!” Athos cried. Then, despite his wounded thigh, he spun and raced headlong into the forest.

TWENTY-SIX

“A
THOS
! W
AIT
!” G
REG SCRAMBLED UP THE WOODED HILLSIDE
alongside the Pont du Gard. Ahead of him, Athos was moving with surprising speed, given his injured thigh. Greg guessed the swordsman wasn't even aware of the pain; he was too focused on helping the girl he loved.