. . . “Come now, be a good young lad. You wouldn’t want us to have to hurt you now would you?” one of them taunted.
Laurel felt the urge to break into hysterical laughter, but squelched it. They’d not take her alive. What a time and way to put her rusty fencing skills to the test. She put her hand to the hilt of her sword, and one of the men scoffed, “Looky here, the boy’s got a fancy sword. Best put that away before you hurt yerself.”
Her newly drawn blade only wavered an instant at her side before she raised it. As she charged towards them she yelled “en garde” at the top of her lungs. Her sudden attack and the fact she went after them in the left-handed style caught them off guard for a moment, and they stepped back and then drew their swords and approached their prey, circling her.
“You know it seems rather unfair?” someone commented from the sidelines.
“You’re right, my young friend, it does hardly seem fair that four big strong men are attacking one young boy.”
“Perhaps we should even up the odds a bit,” his younger companion suggested.
“One moment,” said the older man as he turned to address the nearest of the youth’s assailants. “Sir, this young lad is hardly worth your time. Why don’t we all leave this place and have a nice drink on me?”
“Why don′t you bugger off and mind your own business?” the assailant replied and lunged at the youth, who deflected the blade with a graceful parry riposte.
“No need to be rude and vulgar now.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Do not say I did not warn you, sir,” he countered calmly, and he and his younger companion entered the fray, deflecting sword strokes from Laurel and allowing her precious moments to regroup her defenses and parry the next few slashes that came her way, nearly penetrating her guard.
Laurel twirled away from her assailant and then took a tiny step forward and, dipping the tip of her blade, nicked the man’s arm with the tip of her sword. Her own breath came in gasps grating harshly in her ears.
Well, this was what she got for being out of practice, she scolded herself as she jumped away from the slash to her side, but not quite quickly enough. For her attacker’s blade drew a very fine line of blood along her rib cage. Laurel stifled her gasp at the stinging pain and backed up a step or two, bumping into one of her rescuers who was driving his sword through the man’s gut for the third time and then withdrew it quickly, saying, “Go with God,” as the man ceased breathing.
Even as she backed into one of her rescuers she caught sight of another of her rescuers and nearly lost her concentration completely as she recognized D’Artagnan. “Huh, comment?” She gasped, jumping away from another of her opponent’s lunges.
D’Artagnan parried his own opponent’s slash and looked up to see Aramis maim another opponent by encouraging the assailant to rush him and at the last moment side-stepping to reveal the wall. The attacker had no time to alter his course or slow his forward momentum, so he rammed his head into the wall, knocking himself senseless. D’Artagnan smiled. Aramis the tactical genius. D’Artagnan focused his mind on fighting again and taunted his own opponent. “Sloppy, sloppy,” he criticized as he made a reckless lunge of his own and speared his enemy up through the ribs piercing his heart.
Half out of breath, D’Artagnan came to Aramis’ side and pointed his sword towards the two remaining fighters, Laurel and her attacker. “What do you say? Shall we help him out?”
Right at that moment the youngster in question feinted and lunged upward, and her sword tore through flesh and sinew from gut to neck with more force than she thought she had.
“Actually,” Aramis responded, “I think he’s got the situation well under control now.”
“Mon Dieu.” Laurel panted after sheathing her sword and leaning over to clutch her knees.
“Mon Dieu, indeed,” a voice interrupted her chaotic thoughts, calling her politely to account for her irreverance. “There is most certainly a God, and He seems to have looked favorably upon you today. However, I suggest that we do not linger here longer than necessary.” Seeing that the boy was bleeding, Aramis reached out to help support him, but he jerked away like he was being stung.
“No,” Laurel said, her dark blue eyes flashing. “I′m quite all right. It’s not very deep. I can walk without assistance.”
Startled, D’Artagnan took a closer look at the boy, unable to stop staring at his face. He could have sworn he knew that face and that voice. By all that was holy! It couldn’t be, but he had little doubt of it. It was the lady who had given his party shelter from the storm–the lady who called herself Christophe. “You will at least come with us and have that wound tended?” D’Artagnan addressed Laurel with mounting concern.
For a moment he thought the youth was going to refuse to join them for any reason, refuse to have anyone look at the slash. “How could I turn down such a skilled escort?” Laurel replied as she indicated she would accompany them. Matters could, after all, have been worse. If she weren′t doubly careful, those agents sent by her father’s enemies would again be upon her.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The mismatched trio entered the inn and mounted the stairs to D’Artagnan’s room. “I’ll go find a doctor,” D’Artagnan said, but before he could, Laurel stubbornly insisted, “No doctors. I don’t like them, and I don’t trust them. At any rate, it’s nothing. Just give me a little privacy, and I can take care of the wound myself.”
The young musketeer appeared ready to argue when Aramis broke in. “This is not really an appropriate place to debate the issue.” As usual, he was right. Already the trio that had stopped on the stairs was attracting the eyes of other patrons. D’Artagnan continued on the path to his room, and the three entered.
“Well, what do we have here?” Porthos inquired as his friends entered with the stranger in tow, a stranger who did not appear at all pleased to be there. Athos winced at the sound of Porthos′ voice as he glanced up to see what Porthos was asking about.
“We found this young lad being set upon by a rather unsavory group, so D’Artagnan and I decided to lend our assistance,” Aramis smoothly and succinctly explained.
“A rescue operation I see,” Porthos commented as he stood. “Always a musketeer’s duty to defend those less fortunate or able than himself. Well done.” . . .
Kat Jaske www.forhonor.com ©2006 All rights reserved.
Kat Jaske is an English and French teacher in Las Vegas. Her high school selected her award-winning, swashbuckling novel, “For Honor”, as the featured book for the 2006 Reading Incentive Program. This is an excellent example of creative fiction writing. You can order the book from web site forhonor.com forhonor.com The more click-throughs you make to any of the “read excerpts″ pages, the faster the author will make the next posting of the story.
