Traitor's Chase (8 page)

T
HE FOREST SEEMED TO GO ON FOREVER.

The Musketeers had been traveling for four days now, and they'd seen almost nothing but trees.

The other boys weren't surprised by this, but Greg found it astonishing. The world had changed far more than he could have possibly imagined over four hundred years. Back in modern times, he'd stared at this land from the window of a plane on approach to Paris. There had barely been any forest at all. The entire swath from Paris to the Rhône River had been a giant patchwork of tilled fields dotted with hundreds of towns and crisscrossed by a thousand roads.

But now, in the past, it was all forest—thick, dark, primordial forest. Many of the trees were staggeringly large, with trunks as big as houses and branches that soared high above and blotted out the sun. The underbrush was an impenetrable tangle of bushes and vines. There was only one route through it, a thin path that meandered between the huge trees.

“This isn't what I thought it'd be,” Athos confided to the others on the fourth day. They were riding their horses single file along the narrow path. Even in the middle of the day, the woods were so dark it seemed like twilight.

“And what
did
you expect?” Aramis asked.

“I don't know, exactly. I'd heard the woods went on a long ways, I just didn't think it'd be
this
long.” Athos gave Aramis an accusing look. “Perhaps we made a wrong turn somewhere.”

“We didn't,” Aramis said curtly.

“You don't know that for sure,” Athos argued. “We might all be riding in circles.”

“If we were riding in circles, the sun would be moving around us,” Aramis told him. “But it's not. It's rising on our left and setting on our right. Therefore, we're heading south, which is the correct direction.”

Athos considered this a moment, then shook his head. “That can't be right. These woods are too big. We must have made a mistake.”

“We didn't!” Aramis snapped. “Athos, I know what I'm doing. The world is simply much larger than your tiny brain can comprehend.”

Porthos laughed. Athos recoiled, offended, although he didn't say anything in response. Instead, he glowered at the others, angry with Aramis for the insult—and with Porthos for laughing at it.

Greg turned away, doing his best to hide his concern. He'd expected the journey to be long and dangerous, but something had arisen lately that worried him even more: His fellow Musketeers weren't getting along.

Greg had assumed that the one good thing about this trip would be the camaraderie. He'd imagined Porthos regaling them with funny stories, Athos relating his adventures in the King's Guard, Aramis pointing out the constellations around the campfire every night. Instead, Athos and Aramis had been at each other's throats since the first day, while Porthos had spent most of the time complaining. They simply weren't working as a team.

“D'Artagnan, you're the best traveled of us all,” Athos said, unwilling to let his disagreement with Aramis drop. “Is it truly possible that these woods could be this large? Or are we going in circles?”

Greg winced. “Well, like I've said, I haven't been through
these
woods before....”

“Yes, we know.” Aramis looked at Greg expectantly. “But you have traveled great distances and know how big France is, correct? So answer Athos. Who is right?”

Greg looked to Porthos for help, but his fellow Musketeer deliberately avoided his gaze, staring off into the woods.

Greg reluctantly turned back to Aramis. “You're right,” he said.

Athos shot him a wounded look, as though Greg had betrayed him.

“It's the truth,” Greg tried to explain. “France is a very big country. It could take us several
weeks
to get to Spain on horseback.”

“What?” Porthos asked, suddenly jolted into the conversation. “Several weeks just to get there?”

“I told the king this would be a very long journey,” Aramis chided. “Exactly what did you think that meant?”

Porthos lowered his eyes, embarrassed. “A week or two.”

“We'll be lucky if we make it to Arles in a week or two!” Aramis said. “We don't merely have to get to Spain. We have to track down Michel and Dominic and find out what they're up to. After which we'll have to get all the way back to Paris. How on earth did you think this would only take fourteen days?”

“Math isn't exactly my strong suit,” Porthos admitted.

“
Thinking
isn't your strong suit,” Athos muttered. “What do you think we packed all this gear for?” He waved a hand at the four horses behind them, heavily laden with food and supplies.

Porthos shrugged. “I thought we were just being over-prepared.”

The horses carried food and water, which the boys were supplementing by hunting and gathering. There were also some coarse blankets to sleep on and fashion crude shelters from, weapons ranging from crossbows to broadswords, emissary notes, a small bit of silver to purchase additional supplies, and a cage with five homing pigeons to send messages of their progress back to the king. That was the extent of their supplies. They didn't even have so much as an extra set of clothes. After four days in the heat, everyone's uniform already stank of sweat and horse.

“Porthos,” Greg said, “I don't want to alarm you, but it might be
months
until we return to Paris.”

Porthos gasped in horror. “Months? Maybe this mission wasn't such a good idea. I have things to do back in Paris, you know. Family matters. Dances I have agreed to attend. Women to woo …”

“I'm sure we'd
all
like to be back in Paris, but we have things we
must
do in Spain.” Aramis spoke with surprising confidence. “The king himself chose us to find out what Michel and Dominic are plotting. If we turn our back on our responsibilities, who knows what trouble they will wreak?”

“Yes, but one of our responsibilities is to protect the king,” Porthos said. “So perhaps one of us should go back. Just to make sure he's safe.”

“If you don't want to continue with us, you're welcome to go.” Athos pointed behind them at the path through the dark woods. “It's only four days back through this forest.
Alone
.”

Porthos swallowed. It was obvious he hadn't thought that part through as well. “On second thought, maybe I'll stay with all of you.”

“I suspected as much.” Athos snapped his reins and rode on. The others obediently followed.

Porthos pulled up alongside Greg a few minutes later and confided, “I don't know if I can do this. This trip was daunting enough when I thought it would only take a fortnight. But now …” He glanced around the forest warily. “I hate these woods. I'd rather face Michel and Dominic than spend another day in them.”

“Why's that?” Greg asked. He was dreading the moment when he'd have to confront Michel and Dominic again.

“Because the woods are dangerous!” Porthos said emphatically. “They're crawling with thieves, bandits, and vagabonds who'll happily slit our throats in return for all our gear.”

Athos laughed mockingly. “Don't worry yourself about that. No band of thieves stands a chance against me.”

“While you're awake, maybe,” Porthos shot back. “But you have to sleep sometime. And that's when they get you. They lurk in the woods, waiting for the chance to kill you.”

“The stories about the woods being full of thieves are merely rumors,” Aramis chided. “They're not true.”

“Really?” Greg asked, feeling better to hear this.

“Really,” Aramis said. “What we
need
to worry about are the wolves.”

“Wolves?” Greg suddenly felt worried again.

“Yes. They surround men, hunting as a team, and pick off people one by one, ripping open their gullets and feasting on their entrails.”

Porthos gulped. “Thank you, Aramis. I was only worried before. But now I'm downright terrified.”

Aramis shrugged. “Ignorance of the truth is a recipe for disaster.”

“I'm not worried about any wolves.” Athos unsheathed his sword and slashed at imaginary beasts. “They are only flesh and blood. I can handle them. We have nothing to fear on this journey.”

“What about the assassins?” The words just slipped out of Greg's mouth. He couldn't control it; the assassins had been weighing on his mind for days.

He could tell from the looks in the others' eyes that the same held true for them. Even Athos seemed concerned, though he tried to cover it with his usual bravado. “We took care of them last time. I think they've learned not to mess with us.”

“We got
lucky
last time,” Aramis countered. “If D'Artagnan hadn't realized they were about to ambush us, we'd all be dead. They know that. They're not going to give up because they failed to kill us once. Especially not with Valois commanding them.”

Porthos and Greg nodded agreement, though Athos remained unswayed.

“If they're targeting us, where are they, then?” the swordsman asked. “I haven't seen hide nor hair of them over the last four days.”

“You're not supposed to see hide nor hair of them,” Porthos muttered. “That's what makes them assassins.”

“I don't know,” Aramis told Athos. “Perhaps we left Paris so quickly, they didn't notice. But if that's the case, it won't take Valois long to figure out that we've gone—and where we're going. Or maybe they're well aware of what we're doing and are just waiting for the right moment to attack.”

“Are we all
sure
we shouldn't just turn around and go home again?” Porthos asked weakly.

“We can't turn back,” Greg said as the others shook their heads. “This mission is far too important.” He caught Aramis's gaze as he said it. Of all the Musketeers, Aramis was the only one who knew enough about Dinicoeur and the Devil's Stone to fully comprehend how much was at stake.

“D'Artagnan's right,” Aramis agreed. “We swore to protect the king and France, and that is what we must do now, no matter how daunting. We have a duty to learn what Dinicoeur is up to and send word of it back to the king.”

“And what if it's not that simple?” Porthos asked. “What happens if we go all this way, and finally track down Dinicoeur and Richelieu—and find that their plans are already well under way? What if there's no time for us to send a pigeon back to Paris and wait for reinforcements to arrive? What are we supposed to do then?”

Greg grimaced. This thought had occurred to him plenty of times along the way. Now he could see in the others' faces that the same concern had plagued them as well.

“I pray that such a situation will not arise,” Aramis said finally. “But should it, I have faith in our abilities. We rescued Greg's parents from a prison everyone believed was impenetrable—and defeated our enemies to boot.”

“That doesn't mean we can handle
anything
that comes our way,” Porthos shot back. “What if—”

Athos suddenly raised a hand and signaled him to be quiet.

Greg listened to the woods, which were surprisingly silent. Save for the faint chirr of an insect now and then, there was virtually no noise. It was so quiet, Greg could hear his own heart beating in his chest.

And there, faintly in the distance, came the sound of hoofbeats.

“Three horses,” Athos said. “Coming quickly. Take cover.”

The boys quickly guided the horses off the narrow trail and into the darkness of the woods. Greg found himself gripped by fear.

Athos took the point, watching the trail through a gap in the trees. Greg and the other boys were too far back in the thick underbrush to see anything.

The thundering of hooves grew closer and closer, then suddenly stopped. Greg listened as hard as he could; he thought he could pick out the faint sound of the horses now proceeding slowly, trying to be as quiet as possible. Their pursuers must have realized something was wrong.

Athos tensed in his saddle and tightened his grip on his blade.

The sound of the approaching horses came closer and closer. Through a gap in the underbrush, Greg saw the other party emerge from behind a tree. There were two riders, both shrouded in heavy cloaks; one had a thin sword in hand, the other a loaded crossbow. The third horse was being used to haul gear.

The riders suddenly went rigid, as though they had sensed the Musketeers' presence. They spun toward the place where the boys were hidden, raising their weapons.

But Athos had already sprung into action. His horse charged onto the road, and as it did, Athos leaped from the saddle. He knocked the first rider's sword away as he flew through the air and slammed into the second. Both Musketeer and rider tumbled off the horse. The crossbow discharged. The bolt whistled above Greg's head and embedded itself harmlessly in a tree.

Athos and the rider crashed to the ground in a heap. The rider yelped in pain, then snapped, “Athos! Get off of me, you idiot!”