"Il Qui Vit, Combat" ["He Who Lives, Fights"]

[TheGuitarist]

Hello again all. It's taken a while, but I'm back with a second story. Hope you like it...

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"Il Qui Vit, Combat"
["He Who Lives, Fights"]

The sunlight was hot on the back of Jacques’ neck as he prodded a straggling horse along with his staff. The Rameau family sheepdog, Claude, trotted around the large, strong-smelling group of horses, yipping shrilly and guiding the animals toward the immense red barn.

Jacques looked back over his shoulder, taking in the sweeping vista of farmland and meandering streams and roads below the hill on which the Rameau farm stood. He could see the walls of Toulouse in the distance, above the green expanse of forest that separated the farms and mines of the fertile Valley from the bustling industrial cities on the eastern coast.

To his left was a massive mountain range, topped with dim white snow-peaks. On his right was the Lake, actually more of an inland sea, the afternoon sun sparkling on the dark blue waves. Beyond the Lake lay Paris, the political and military capital of France.

Though the city itself was not visible, Jacques could imagine the regiments of Musketeers that lived, trained, and fought there. He could see the shine of their rapiers, the immaculateness of their uniforms, and the drive and resolve inside them to defend the interests of France from those that would take them for themselves.

Jacques wanted, more than anything, to join them.

His mind was so focused on Paris that he lost his awareness of the here and now. His horses were wandering past the barn, Claude yipping furiously, and to make matters worse, his father Philippe was riding up on his own horse, back from his evening inspection of the farm.

“Jacques! Mon fils! Combien de fois ont je vous ai dit de garder votre cerveau sur votre travail!”

[“Jacques! My son! How many times have I told you to keep your mind on your work?”]

“Je fais des excuses, Pere. Je pensais à Paris et aux Mousquetaires.”

[“I am sorry, Father. I was thinking about Paris and the Musketeers.”]

“Paris prendra soin de lui-même, Jacques, mais les chevaux pas. Terminez votre travail.”

[“Paris will take care of itself, Jacques, but the horses will not. Finish your work.”]

“Oui, Père.”

Jacques ran to the front of the herd and turned the horses back toward the barn. Docilely, the animals clop-clopped through the doors. Having done the same thing many times before, they each made their way to their own stall and went inside.

Jacques picked up his pitchfork and scooped up some hay from the huge pile near the door. He distributed it in each stall, as the 15-year-old had done every day for seven years. After the deed was done, Claude ran to his straw pallet and Jacques closed the colossal barn doors.

He strolled past the barn and up the hill to the farmhouse. Carefully, he closed the gate and went up the path to the door. He opened it, and out wafted the strong aroma of roasting chicken. Jacques peered around the door to the kitchen, where his mother Marie sat in front of the stone fireplace, carefully turning a spit on which a plump chicken rotated above the flames.

Jacques went to the back of the house and looked in on his brother, Pierre. Only three years old, he was Jacque’s only living sibling. His sister Chloe had died of pneumonia at the age of six.

Although he was very young, Pierre looked up to Jacques a great deal, and Jacques knew this. He tried to be the kind of person he wanted his brother to be, and sometimes he succeeded. Often he did not.

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After dinner, Jacques and his father made their rounds about the farm. They rode out along the split-rail fence, past the rows of wheat and corn, among the cabbages and oats, and down to the shore of the Lake. It wasn’t until they were going back up the road to their house that Philippe spoke.

“Jacques, what is it you want to do when you become a man?”

Not expecting such a question, it took Jacques a moment to reply. “You know what I want to do, Father. I want to go to Paris and become a Musketeer.”

Jacques looked carefully at his father, but Philippe’s face betrayed no emotion. “Jacques, you know that I want for you what makes you happy. But this farm has been in our family for generations! You are my eldest son, Jacques, and it is my greatest wish to pass on this farm to you.”

Jacques knew of his father’s wish, and to refuse him made Jacques feel guilty, but he knew that working the farm was not his destiny. “Father, the farm is a beautiful and wonderful place, but it is not where I belong. I know that my destiny lies in Paris, with others who share my wish to fight for our country. It is the greatest dream I have, to be a Musketeer.”

“My son, your future is your choice to make, not mine. Having said this… I am concerned for your brother. You know that he loves you and wants to be like you in every way. If you go off to Paris and become a soldier…” Philippe lowered his head for a moment, then raised it and looked at his son with troubled eyes. “I do not know what will happen.”

His father turned away and rode on.

Jacques put his horse away and went back to the farmhouse. He climbed into his bed and lay there for a long time. At last, he felt the sorrow welling up in his eyes, and one quiet drop spilled over.

-----

To be continued…

[ChrisiusMaximus]

Tres bien,Good to see you start another story.

[dnassman]

Hope you keep going. Very good so far.

[Barfus]

Superb command of "les langues." Cuando linguas hablas? I dont even know if thats right. I learned my spanish in a non-traditional manner.

[TheGuitarist]

Well, I know a lot of Latin and a little bit of Spanish, but I must confess that I don't speak French. I translated a few sentences using an online translation site so the story would be more realistic.

[civman2000]

, pero yo lo prefereria si fuera en espanol

[Velociryx]

Superb beginning! Makes me long to get back to my story here and write the continuation....*sigh* Not enough hours in the day.

Ahhh, but Guitarist....when people compliment you on your language skills....all but outright telling you that you're a cunning linguist (shamelessly pulled from James Bond), just nod knowingly and smile....

-=Vel=-

[TheGuitarist]

Hope to get this story continued soon... but Thursday marks the beginning of a long and arduous journey through high school. I regret that I may not be able to update as often as I would like... but at least, when they come, the updates will not be boring filler.

I suppose I am a rather cunning writer.

[Verto]

And overwhelmingly modest, to boot

Good plot so far, although I was beginning to think all the story's dialogue would be bilingual

[TheGuitarist]

Verto - read the post before mine

Would you prefer that all the dialogue be bilingual?

[Datajack Franit]

Translating it in latin as well would be pretty stilish

[TheGuitarist]

Yes it would although it would clutter up the dialogue quite a bit.

I'm going to rent that movie The Musketeer soon, maybe I'll get some inspiration for the awesome upcoming fight scenes.

[TheGuitarist]

I'm finally back. Sorry for the delay, but the whole school thing throws a monkey wrench into writing this stuff.

On with the story.

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Jacques rose the next day feeling drained, even more tired than when he had gone to bed the night before. It was still dark outside, and he could hear the crickets chirping softly outside as he pulled on his clothes. He went softly outside into the crisp morning air, shutting the door behind him to keep out the chilly dawn breeze.

He traversed the path with long quick strides until he reached the barn. He opened the immense doors, and out scampered Claude. He ran around in circles, tail wagging frantically, and Jacques petted him until he calmed down.

Jacques went inside and made his way to the rear, where Clara (the family cow) and her calf had a small enclosure floored with hay. He filled a pail with Clara’s milk and left the barn, noticing the grayish light that had begun to glimmer in the east sky. Back to the house he went, into the kitchen where a small fire in the stove emitted a soft yellow glow. He gave his mother the milk, which she gladly accepted, and then Jacques crept to the back of the house.

Pierre was still asleep in his small bed. Jacques noticed how young and vulnerable he looked, as the warm rays of the sunrise penetrated the darkness of the room. He stood and watched his brother sleep until his father’s heavy footsteps approached from behind Jacques.

“Jacques, il est temps pour le petit déjeuner. Alors nous irons à la côte rencontrer le Cousteaus pendant un jour de la navigation.”

[“Jacques, it is time for breakfast. Then we shall go to the coast to meet the Cousteaus for a day of sailing.”]

Jacques’ heart leaped. He would see his friend Jean again! The Cousteau family had moved to Toulouse two years ago, when Jacques was 13. Jean’s father, Monsieur Cousteau, had acquired a job as a printer’s assistant in the busy industrial center on the seacoast. This would be the first time he had seen Jean in all that time.

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Jacques walked with his father beside the wagon that held Pierre and his mother. Philippe held the reins of their best packhorse as he towed the load of food and people down the bumpy dirt road.

It was not far to the coast, perhaps twenty miles, and the journey through the forest made it even easier. The wide leaves of the forest trees lent cool shade to the travelers as they made their way to Toulouse.

Soon the farmland near the forest gave way to mills and shops, leading the way to the sprawling city. They came upon large whitewashed buildings, holding shops on the first floor and living space on the second. Presently they passed through the old walls of the city, virtually useless now, since they contained only the oldest section of the city.

The travelers stopped at a tavern for lunch and then quickly arrived at the coast. The piers extended into the small harbor around the city, framed by the massive walls of the Coastal Fortress. Ships of all shapes and sizes floated in the sparkling blue water – tiny sailboats and rowboats, sleek caravels, and gargantuan frigates at anchor in the Fortress.

Suddenly a loud voice called out to them over the din. “Philippe! Jacques! Welcome, old friends!”

It was Jean and his family. They smiled and waved from the deck of their sailboat.

The Rameaus unloaded their wagon and climbed aboard, exchanging greetings and warm embraces.

“Jacques! You have grown two feet! I cannot believe it!”

“And so have you, old friend. No longer are we children.”

Jean’s skin had grown paler from working indoors, and his long limbs were cleaner than Jacques’ dirty farmer’s body. Their thick, dark hair was equally messy, however.

The families cast off and sailed into the harbor, eating their prepared meals and catching up on old times. The weather was beautiful, with light cloud cover and a salty sea breeze keeping the sun’s heat from reaching unbearable levels.

Jacques learned that Jean wanted to be a musketeer as well. Although he had always before wanted to become a doctor, he had realized that the massive amount of work necessary for that profession was simply too much.

As the afternoon turned to evening, and the sun sank closer to the waves, the old friends turned their ship around and sailed back to harbor. Just as they pulled in, Jacques chanced to turn and glance back at the horizon.

To his confusion, he saw a dozen small black shapes outlined against the sun’s orange twilight glow. He pointed them out to his parents and friends, and they perplexed them too. Philippe hypothesized that they were ships, but Jacques knew that no French ships would be out that far so late in the day.

As they clambered onto shore, they heard a sudden, muffled explosion from out across the ocean. They turned to see a wispy cotton thread rising from the side of what was clearly a ship. A high whistling noise drew their attention a fraction of a second later.

A man-sized black ball plummeted from the sky and landed in the middle of a docked sailboat. An instant later, a thunderous concussion shook the dock and the sailboat exploded into splinters and fragments.

In that instant, the busy shoreline of Toulouse erupted into chaotic pandemonium. Screams of terror and confusion filled the air, and soon everyone was running from the shore as more and more of the deadly cannonballs fell on the dock.

From the center of the city, a rapid clanging of bells could be heard. A large column of pikemen dashed from the main thoroughfare into the Coastal Fortress. Sailors and soldiers dashed back and forth, urging everyone away from the shore.

A crier stepped onto the doorstep of the Coastal Fortress and, in an authoritative voice, ordered everyone out of the area. “Flee the city! Leave your belongings and evacuate immediately! The ships fly German flags. It is an invasion! Evacuate immediately!”

Philippe grasped Jacques’ sleeve and urged him along the road. As the Cousteaus and Rameaus sprinted down the street, they heard the deep BOOM! of the Coastal Fortress’ answering cannons.

Shrieks filled the air as more fiery explosions claimed ships and people. Soon the German ships had filled the mouth of the harbor. Scarcely three hundred yards away, Jacques could see sailors running about on the decks of the frigates. He and the rest of his family and friends ducked into a shop on the main street to hide.

French sailors swarmed onto a docked frigate on the shore. Frantically, they cast off and moved out into the confined space of the harbor. An immense German frigate came to meet it, the two ships slowly presenting their sides to each other in order to bring maximum firepower to bear.

The muffled explosions of the Coastal Fortress’ guns and with the German bombardment were dwarfed by a colossal concussion when all twenty-four of the French frigate’s cannons fired at once. Fiery holes were ripped in the side of the German warship, and water poured into the hull. A small cheer went up from the fleeing French crowds as the German ship began to gradually sink.

The shine of metal drew Jacques’ eye as grappling hooks were thrown into the French frigate’s rigging. German sailors swarmed over the ropes and onto the French ship. Swords were drawn and fierce hand-to-hand combat began all over the frigate. The French sailors were lightly armed, no match for the zealous German shock troops that swarmed onto their ship.

As the German invasion fleet drew nearer, Jacques saw snipers kneeling at the ships’ railings. They lowered their long-barreled muskets, and the sharp crack of their weapons pierced the deep background noise from the cannons. French soldiers and civilians started dropping, musket balls embedded in their flesh.

A regiment of Musketeers came sprinting down the main thoroughfare, swords drawn, yelling directions to the civilians. Pikemen backed them up, establishing defensive positions along the road. Most of the remaining populace was either dead or fleeing down the road.

German galleons pulled up to the dock, taking heavy cannon fire, but disgorging load after load of German musketmen. The soldiers ran up to the Musketeers, firing their weapons once, and then drawing their swords.

Two masses of swordsmen joined in battle, metal flashing, battle cries permeating the BOOM! of artillery, and the screams of the injured ringing out loud above them all. Jacques saw man after man collapse to the earth, impaled by German or French blade. Swords met dozens of times per second, their sharp clangs filling the air.

As the swordsmen fought desperately for every inch of rotting pier, the snipers on both sides continued picking off targets. The cannons were ceasing, as the German fleet didn’t want to hit their own soldiers on shore.

When the battle drew dangerously near, Philippe urgently whispered to Jacques, “We must go! Quickly, run!”

Jacques, Clara, Philippe, Pierre, Jean, and his parents dashed out of the shop and sprinted down the road. German musket fire ricocheted from the cobblestones around them. They were almost to the French blockade when suddenly Clara uttered a cry and dropped to the road.

Philippe and Jacques turned back to see a crimson flower spreading from the bullet-hole in Clara’s back. She struggled to rise, and collapsed again, moaning in pain.

“Mama!” Jacques screamed in horror as his father dropped to her side. Tears streamed down Philippe’s face, and then he turned to his stunned son.

“Run, my son! Take your brother and run!”

Without warning, his face contorted in agony as a sword pierced his spine. He fell forward onto the road as the German colonel removed his blade and stepped forward toward Jacques. “Stupid boy,” he snarled. “Prepare to die, like your father before you.”

Jacques’ face twisted into a mask of rage. He snatched up a cobblestone and hurled it with all his might at the German leader’s face. The soldier easily dodged it and vaulted over Jacques’ head, cutting off his escape. Although Jacques had been taking fencing lessons from a neighbor, he was still a little shoddy in his swordsmanship. Besides, he had no weapon with which to fight his father’s killer.

Pierre clung to Jacques’ leg, tears spilling from his terrified eyes. Quickly, Jacques knelt and told his brother, “Run to Jean and his parents!” The boy dashed over to Jean, who scooped him up and handed him to his father.

“Run, Jean! Run with Jacques!” Jean’s father urged him. “We will care for Pierre! Go now – live to fight another day!” With that, Jean ran to Jacques’ side.

A pikeman stood, cleared the blockade with a hop, and drew his sword, engaging the colonel from the rear. The two men began a furious, lightning-quick exchange of blow and counterblow, parrying, thrusting, and dodging the flashing and sparking steel. “Go!” he yelled to the boys.

They shared a petrified look and then took off running flat-out on either side of the colonel. They leapt over the pikeman line and kept running, the heat of the battle searing itself into their memory forever.

-----

Outside the city, Jacques and Jean collapsed into a haystack. They covered themselves with itchy straw and caught their breath.

Hungry firelight sent a glow out into the rapidly darkening night from the burning French city behind them. They knew that their nation had been caught woefully off guard, and they knew the Germans had most likely captured or razed the entire east coast already.

“Jacques?” Jean whispered.

“Yes?”

“What do we do?”

“We do as my father said. We will run to Paris, warning everyone we see. We don’t know if anyone else made it out of Toulouse. The King must be told.”

“I’m sorry about your parents.”

A tear squeezed out of Jacques’ tight eyes. “I will avenge them. I swear it. If it takes the rest of my life, that monster will die. You and I both know what Joan told her soldiers so long ago when we faced the murderous Romans.”

“I know,” Jean said. With jaw set firm, he whispered,

“Il qui vit, combat. He who lives, fights.”

-----

To be continued…

[TheGuitarist]

Now that I've finally posted the next part, feedback would be appreciated.

[ChrisiusMaximus]

Brilliant!!!what more can I say,this is obviously going to be of epic proportions.

The way you have set up the characters here is inspiring,I'm not going to speculate on what happens next I'm more than happy to leave that to you and wait and see.

But you must promise to finish this no matter how long it might take.

[TheGuitarist]

Thanks, Chrisius.

Decided to add a map. Hope this works.

The red arrows are the German invasion paths.

Paris is the city just below the Lake.

[TheGuitarist]

After a very long period of time, I have finally completed the next installment. I really really hope you like it because it took like a month to get around to writing it.

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That night, ship after ship filled to the brim with German troops landed on the French shores from across the sea. The fleets of powerful German frigates quickly defeated the paltry few French vessels at sea that day. The rest of the French navy was at port in the coastal cities. No patrolling ships made it back to port to sound the alarm. And thus the invasion was a complete surprise.

Although a few scattered regiments of French pikemen and Musketeers were stationed at or near the coast, they could only delay the inexorable German advance. Scores of musketmen, supported by cannon, pikemen, and the occasional cavalry regiment, rolled over the unprepared and feeble resistance.

The wave of German troops washed over the countryside and burned everything in its path. Four villages were razed to the ground, and countless mines, farms, and fortifications fell victim to the raging flames. Refugees fleeing for their lives looked back toward the sea and saw great billowing clouds of smoke rising from the glowing inferno. And to this day, the French remember that terrible night as La Nuit Fumeuse – “the Smoky Night.”

The feeble rays of dawn sunlight that pierced the thick haze hovering over the French coast lit only three remaining cities on the occupied coast, surrounded by charred desolation. As the dawn crept over the land, it encountered Jacques and Jean, huddled inside the haystack in a field somewhere near the Reine. That river flowed into the Lake on whose shores lay Paris, as yet untouched by German annihilation.

Jacques stirred as bright sunlight invaded his sleep. At first he was baffled by the itchy hay in which he was encased – he wondered why he was not in his bed at home. Then the memories of the previous night rushed back to him in a wave of despair. Biting back his sorrow, Jacques nudged Jean, raised his head out of the disturbingly wet hay and glanced around.

The first thing he noticed was the unnerving silence. No birdsong or cattle lowing was audible – in fact, the faint rustling of the wind in the trees surrounding the field was the only sound that reached his ears. Jean, looking around as well, whispered cautiously, “Too quiet.”

Jacques agreed. “All the animals – they’re all gone.”

“But why?”

“Didn’t you see the blaze last night? They ran from it. And our people did as well.”

The boys rolled out of the haystack and tried in vain to remove the hay from their garments, although quite a number of maverick strands remained in their hair, giving them a wild appearance. They set off down the road in the direction they hoped led to the farmhouse, hoping for some breakfast from the residents.

They made their way down the dirt road, watchful, but the terrible silence continued for minute after minute. They passed a cornfield and a small orchard, but saw nothing.

Finally, Jean said, “Ah! Up ahead, past the barn – a farmhouse.”

It was a large cottage, gabled in the classic style, and with a quaint chimney rising from the rear. There was no smoke spewing from it, and no dogs meandered around the walk. The dirt road passed by the structure as though it were not there.

The apparent lack of life deterred them. Jacques turned to Jean and shrugged, and was about to suggest that they pass it by when suddenly a harsh German bark pierced the air.

“Stoppen Sie, Französische!”

Jacques’ head whipped around and spotted four Germans rushing at him, muskets leveled, shouted wildly in their grating language. Just our luck, he thought, to run into a patrol.

Jean nudged him and, in a heartbeat, the young men were steps from the farmhouse door. As Jacques reached for the handle, the porch column beside him exploded into splinters. A minor explosion reached his ears from the muskets behind him.

Jean tackled him and they tumbled through the door onto the hard planks inside. Jacques disentangled himself from Jean, turned around toward the house’s darkened interior –

And saw a razor-sharp blade inches from his nose.

His eyes traveled along the edge of the thin sabre, past the handle, to the wielder, and took in his features in a fraction of a second. A young man with thick, wild black hair like Jacques’ own held the sword in a fencer’s en garde stance, the muscles in his sword arm taut. The most remarkable thing about the unlikely assailant was his piercing pale blue eyes.

He questioned the assailants in French with a cold but subtly shaking voice. “Do you favor the Germans?”

Jacques reacted first. “Never! They killed my parents in cold blood, and forced my brother into hiding.”

Jean added, “We could ask the same of you. Your features indicate as much.”

The teenage swordsman lowered his weapon and responded, “My father married a German, but neither he nor I harbor sentiments for such as they. I am alone here, and you must understand I can take no chances. I heard German being shouted outside.”

Jacques’ mind jolted back to the threat as pounding footsteps approached outside. “The Germans! We were coming to your house for food, but we encountered a patrol. They are coming – four men with muskets. Have you arms?”

The blue-eye spun and retrieved two epees (thicker fencing blades) from a shelf behind him. They took them gratefully and just in time.

A ferocious crash resounded from the door as the Germans forced their way in. The first two burst in and leveled their weapons. All three boys dove and rolled in different directions as the muskets went off with a thunderous BOOM!, magnified many times in the confines of the dark farmhouse.

The blue-eye came up at the side of one of their attackers. His sabre flashed faster than the eye could see, and the German screamed in pain and dropped his weapon, blood leaking from his slashed hand. In a fraction of a second, the blue-eye had landed four blows on the German’s head and torso.

Finally the German ducked and lunged at the blue-eye. He nimbly sidestepped, pivoting on his left foot, switched his grip, brought the sword arm around –

the German’s comrade yelled a sharp warning, made a desperate lunge –

The blue-eye drove his deadly blade between the German’s shoulders. His back arched in agony and he collapsed to the floor. The time elapsed from the beginning of blue-eye’s attack to the killing blow was scarcely more than four seconds.

The German’s comrade straightened, pulled his musket into line with the blue-eye’s head; Jacques saw his finger tightening on the trigger, the blue-eye realizing his danger, pulling his blade from the German’s back agonizingly slowly –

too far away to move –

BOOM!

An unintelligible blur of motion engulfed the remaining German – blue-eye stumbled, caught himself, looked down and clutched his chest –

Jacques gasped as the blur resolved into Jean, standing with his foot on top of the German’s musket, and the German lying on the ground fingering the dark bruise on his temple –

Blue-eye’s hand came away clean.

Jean had disarmed the German and struck him to the floor in one fluid motion lasting a fraction of a second. He finished the job with a swift kick to the head, and the German’s body went limp with unconsciousness.

Jacques was standing up when yet another explosion reached his ears. The wall beside Jacques combusted, showering him with smoke and splinters. They had forgotten about the two Germans left outside!

Jacques moved toward the door the blue-eye stepped smoothly around the doorframe. Jacques watched as the blue-eye saw the bayonet on the end of the fourth German’s musket, not yet fired. He brought up his sabre and forced the barrel down and to the side with two stroked of his blade. He caught the German’s desperate punch with his free arm and used the leverage to pull his opponent’s body toward him. At the same time, he punched the German’s firing hand with the hilt of his sword.

The German’s blade-tipped gun clattered to the porch floor, ending the two-second assault.

Jacques marveled at the blue-eye’s lightning speed and efficiency. But his admiration was cut short as the third German, who had fired at Jacques, tackled the blue-eye from behind.

Jean and Jacques each grabbed a leg and pulled the German off the blue-eye’s back. He rose and pulled a combat knife from his bandolier. Jacques was immediately relieved, having assumed that his opponent was removing a pistol.

The Romans had encountered the French a few hundred years previously. In hand-to-hand combat, when their legionary long swords were too cumbersome to use effectively, the Romans relied on short, razor-sharp daggers. Jacques’ swordsmanship tutor had spent a couple of the few lessons Jacques had on sword-dagger combat.

The German attempted a feint at Jacques’ face but switched his grip and brought the dagger back around to Jacques’ side. The boy instantly reacted with a quick parade de foudre, (“lightning parry”), a fast parry near the hilt that kept his sword hand safe from the dagger’s small cutting arc.

Realizing his opponent’s skill, the German switched tactics and charged at Jacques, deflecting his thin blade and aiming a quick left at Jacques’ jaw. Jean, who had been standing ready, caught his arm and stepped over the German’s leg, locking his elbow under the German’s and pulling him off balance. The German fell to the floor but rolled and leapt up again.

Jacques was becoming frustrated and began a furious attack sequence that kept the German’s dagger moving. Finally a blow got through and grazed the German’s side. Jacques took advantage of his opponent’s distracted weapon and spun on his right heel, bringing the epee around to the other side (while keeping his balance perfect; Instructeur Maximilien would have been proud) and running the German through near the shoulder.

Meanwhile, the blue-eye had spun to engage the last German. Like his comrade, he drew a dagger and aimed a lunge at the blue-eye’s chest. Blue-eye easily parried it to the side and whipped the sabre back, extended further, and grazed the German’s sword arm.

With a bellow of pain, the German switched his weapon to the other hand and began a clumsier attack. Blue-eye kept the dagger from his body with the large hand guard on his sabre and aimed counterattacks at the German, keeping him moving. Finally, the German tried a thrust at blue-eye’s midsection, but he met it with his sabre’s hilt and, in a textbook riposte, lunged for the German’s face. He ducked instinctively and blue-eye was expecting it. He brought his knee sharply up into his opponent’s face. Stunned, the German stumbled backward and squinted in bewilderment.

Blue-eye stripped the dagger from his opponent’s hand and stepped up to the German, drawing his blade horizontal, and punched him solidly in the temple with his sword’s thick hilt. He dropped like a stone.

Wiping the sweat from their brows, the three Frenchmen met on the porch, surrounded by their opponent’s prostrate forms. Blue-eye met Jacques’ gaze. “You fight well with the epee. And you,” he said, turning to Jean, “are death on two legs. Seldom have I heard of a Frenchman so comfortable with aikido.”

“There are a few Japanese in Toulouse willing to share their skills,” Jean said with a mirthless smile.

His face growing somber, blue-eye said, “You were in Toulouse?” Turning to Jacques, “And you?”

They nodded.

“My father was in Toulouse. His regiment of Musketeers was stationed on the only frigate in the harbor. The smoke-covered refugees that passed this house told me they saw it burn.”

Jacques replied, his French blurred by a lump in his throat, “Although we escaped from Toulouse, my parents did not. We are trying to reach Paris – the Musketeers need all the help they can. And I hope to avenge their deaths.”

It occurred to Jacques that he did not know the blue-eye’s name. “By the way, I am Jacques and this is my friend Jean – my brother remains with his parents, although I know not where they are. Who are you?”

The blue-eye responded, “I am Christophe, son of Raimond the Musketeer. I too wish to reach Paris to fulfill my father’s wish for my future. Perhaps we could travel together?”

Jacques and Jean replied at once, “Of course! Such a warrior as you would be invaluable for the journey.”

Smiling, Christophe said, “A fencer, an aikido fighter, and a swordsman. On our way to Paris, we three shall make a formidable trio indeed.”

With a chuckle, Jean pronounced, “Oui, les trois pas tout à fait Mousquetaires.”

[“Yes – the three Not-Quite-Musketeers.”]

-----

To be continued...

[ChrisiusMaximus]

Great stuff and about time too!!

Cracking idea to bring a third character into the frame, much anticipation of your next installment, cant wait.

[TheGuitarist]

Thanks, Chrisius. Anyone else have something to say?

Anybody?

[ChrisiusMaximus]

Dont get disallusioned mate, its been a while since you updated this and probably means people will have to start again to refresh their memories. Also its been very quite the last couple of days.

Rest assured this an excellent tale and Im sure others will soon say so.

[vovan]

Great story. Looking forward to the next part

[TheGuitarist]

I know it's imtimidatingly long, but I'd really appreciate additional feedback from other people even if you have to go back and read the whole freakin' thing.

[ChrisiusMaximus]

Hey just because youve changed your flag doesnt mean you dont have to write
Just remember theres more people reading this than bothering to comment. Its the same for all the stories, dont let this one die.

[vovan]

Yes, please continue the story of les trois pas tout à fait Mousquetaires. It is quite interesting, and I hope you are enjoying writing it as much as we do reading it. Keep it coming

[TheGuitarist]

It sure took me long enough, but here it is.

---

They spent the night holed up in the basement of Christophe’s farmhouse. Their supper was a meager meal of cheese and coarse bread, with what little ale was left in the scullery.

At sundown, Christophe extinguished all the candles in the house’s aboveground floors. He and Jacques barred the door with a large chest of drawers they found in a bedroom. Christophe brought some straw pallets and blankets down to the cellar, and the trio huddled under them against the chill of the approaching night.

Their talk was not as heavy as one would expect. The full weight of their predicament had barely registered as of yet; they did not worry about their future. Their conversation was full of planning for the day to follow, but they mentioned a serious subject only once.

It was long after the last light had faded from the cellar door. Jacques asked a question that had been anchored in the back of his mind. “Christophe… where is your family? Why is the house empty?”

Christophe’s blue eyes dropped to the floor and he said quietly, “They were forced to flee when word of the German attack reached us. You see… my father was a German soldier. He arrived here on a diplomatic mission, but when he met my mother, he decided to resign and settle down in France.”

Christophe looked up and continued slowly. “My father’s commander disagreed. In fact, Raimond was given direct orders to return to Germany immediately – and so my father was forced to desert. He changed his name and hid in my mother’s house until his unit finally left. If my father were to encounter any Germans, he would face grave charges in a military court. The German government tolerates no cowardice within the military – if he were caught, Raimond’s life would be in danger.”

“But you are still here.” Jean’s tone was puzzled.

“My father told me to stay here and hide until he returned. Then we could fight together – then I could be a Musketeer like him before me.

“I cannot hide in this house while my father runs for his life! You have been taken completely off guard; it may be days before any resistance can be mounted. And meanwhile, the Germans advance tirelessly. We must get to Paris. We MUST help the Musketeers, for… for only then will my father be safe.”

Christophe looked at Jacques, and Jacques felt as though his piercing blue eyes saw right through him and focused in on his soul. “And… and only then will your brother be saved, and your parents’ deaths avenged!”

His gaze turned to Jean. “And only then will your parents be safe! Only then can every man, woman, and child in France sleep content in their beds! Only then will we be able to stand together as one nation, all of us with our differences standing in unity, free from tyranny and violence and oppression!

“You know I speak the truth! It is our duty – nay, our obligation – to realize this dream. You know the adage – il qui vit, combat. Yes, indeed, he who lives MUST fight!”

At this, the room fell silent, and the air remained still for a long while. Jacques felt an immense pride within himself; he was full of a warmth and a spirit that one can only feel for one’s own country. He knew it was good.

And yet…

And yet, as he dropped off to sleep, Jacques was not quite sure what it was he felt at the deepest part of his being. It was… it was a confusing thought.

He could only say that… it was as though he had just heard a dog meow.

-----

To be continued...

[unscratchedfoot]

I'll give your story a perusal when I have a minute...uh... a few hours. Today I'm gonna cook up a new Christmas special story and when I'm done I'll check out these goods. I hope you will read my new story too.

This is frogface warming up to write a new story.

[vovan]

Well, TheGuitarist, I must say that it was well worth the wait. (Which is not to say you will get away with another such break. ) Although this part is a little lacking on action, unlike the previous one, it sets the 'scene' nicely for the next installment, which after such a great introduction by Christophe, absolutely has to include some nasty germans getting their behind beat. (by the way, was Christophe meant to be a fictional counterpart of one Chrisius here? )

The only thing I found a little 'over the board' if you will, was the final couple of sentences about Christophe's speech. Especially the "At this, the room fell silent <...>" one. To my ear, this one would have been appropriate in the scene, where Christophe, having won a battle, becomes the leader of the musketeers, and encourages them all. You know, it seems like there should be great masses of people listening. Well, maybe it's just me any way. The rest is very well-written.

Other than that, you know the drill: Thumbs up, good job, keep the goods coming, etc.

[vovan]

Originally posted by unscratchedfoot
I'm gonna cook up a new Christmas special story

Aha, Scratchy pulls out his trusty pen again (well, maybe he is just cracking his fingers in preparation for a long day's typing exercise). Goody goody, I'm looking forward to another creation of yours. Up to now, all of your stories featured a very original plot, so I can't wait to see what frogface comes up with next.

[ChrisiusMaximus]

AT LAST!!! for a minute there I thought it would never happen, Oh ye of little faith did you not know the guitar man would rise up from the darkness that is the block of the writers. Did ye lose sight of that which is the glory of this mans written word. Fear not for he is back and he hath defeated the darkness of that dark place on a very dark day, very dark indeed darker than a very dark thing in a dark place etc etc blah blah blah!

Thanks for returning to this friend, I hope you can now deliver the rest of the story. Very much looking forward to more and glad your block has gone.

[unscratchedfoot]

And behold!! *with fervorous religious zeal* The knowledge and wisdom so yearned for by the forefathers has come down upon you like the hammer of Thor itself! The sacred dove of heavenly lore beckons you yonder to the Guitarist's story! Ye that desist shall lack the great one's abundance and foresight!

Are these rantings a pile of nonsense or what? Chrisius you had to get me going like this didn't you? We should make a rule against this drivel.

Oh ya, I finally read your story Guitardude. Very epic indeed. I checked myself for sword wounds after reading the duel scene. Now I can see why your story drives us into divine utterances.

Now frogface hopes you will read my Christmas special.