A/N: Thank you guests Laureleaf and Jmp for reviewing! Last chapter here.

I've been making some art to go with these stories and will be posting them to my tumblr (aini-nufire) if anyone's interested.

Chapter 3

D'Artagnan folded his arms over one of the wooden posts as Athos strode into the contest area to face his opponent. The red guard sneered at him but wiped his expression clean when they turned to bow before the King. Then they pivoted toward each other and raised their blades.

Having fought against Athos himself, d'Artagnan knew how good he was. He hadn't wanted to admit it to himself earlier, but the musketeer had been going easy on him when d'Artagnan had tried to kill him. He couldn't be too sore over it though, considering how things had worked out. As Athos launched himself toward the red guard, d'Artagnan got a glimpse of just how fierce the musketeer was, his moves swift and fluidic like the rapier was an extension of his arm rather than a tool to be wielding.

Aramis emerged from the tent and came to stand with them, his heavily bandaged hand tucked close to his chest. He was looking much better than before. When that musket had exploded, d'Artagnan had thought for sure the marksman had been gravely wounded. He may have only just made friends with the man, but the thought of another loss so soon after his father had stolen the breath from his lungs.

But Aramis had been lucky.

And speaking of acts of sabotage, d'Artagnan roved his gaze over the audience on the Red Guard side of the grounds, searching for that man with the mirror. He'd been wearing a hood over his head so d'Artagnan hadn't gotten a good look at his face. He kept an eye out for the glint of the mirror instead.

A series of rising murmurs from the crowd had him turning his attention back to the ring. At first he looked to see if there was a spot of reflected light from somewhere he'd missed, but there wasn't. Athos, however, was stumbling around the arena almost drunkenly.

The red guard surged forward with an attack, which Athos clumsily parried, nearly losing his balance in the process. He lurched to the side and twisted around, swaying where he stood.

Across the ring, the red guards began to laugh and point in derision.

"Looks like the Musketeers' resident drunk forgot to sober up for the fight!" someone said loudly.

"This is the King's best?" another jeered.

D'Artagnan glanced at the musketeers. Porthos's cheeks were puffing lividly and he looked ready to march right across the field and deck one of those mocking soldiers. Aramis, in contrast, was watching Athos with a furrowed brow.

"Something's wrong," he said.

Athos swung haphazardly and his opponent merely sidestepped to avoid the blow. Now there were snickers in the stands as Athos continued to humiliate himself and the red guard proceeded to obviously toy with him. D'Artagnan didn't understand what was wrong; Athos had been fine minutes before.

"Shouldn't we stop the fight?" he asked.

"We can't," Aramis said tightly. "It's against the rules."

"This is ridiculous!" d'Artagnan hissed.

Aramis's expression was pinched in equal anger. "Yield," he urged under his breath. "Just yield."

A round of titters went up in the stands as Athos tripped and went sprawling on his back, seemingly too dazed to get up. D'Artagnan tensed as the red guard moved in and pointed the tip of his blade to the musketeer's throat. But instead of drawing first blood, he shifted his rapier and gave Athos a playful whack on the top of his head, earning even more uproarious laughs.

"Your Majesty!" Captain Treville finally intervened. "I think we can declare the victor in this match."

Louis's face kept scrunching up between bursts of laughter and annoyance that it was his own man being disgraced. "Yes, you're right," he said quickly, and waved a hand at the red guard. "Another round for you, Cardinal."

The pompous man didn't even bother trying to hide his smirk.

"Get Athos out of there now," Aramis said urgently to Porthos.

The large musketeer hurried out into the ring and hauled Athos to his feet, slinging an arm over his shoulder and dragging him away.

Captain Treville stormed over. "What in God's name is wrong with him?"

Aramis ducked in front of Athos and lifted the man's chin with his non-bandaged hand. "His pupils are dilated," he announced in alarm. "He's been drugged."

D'Artagnan's brows shot upward. Drugged?

He hurried after the others as they carried Athos into the same tent they'd brought Aramis earlier. This time the marksman—or medic, d'Artagnan supposed—went rifling through his bag in the back while Porthos eased Athos into the chair. The swordsman swayed, seeming not at all aware of what was going on around him.

"Dammit, I need castor oil and mustard!" Aramis cursed.

"Are those at the garrison?" Porthos asked.

"Yes, in the infirmary. Second cabinet from the door."

Porthos spun and went barreling out of the tent. D'Artagnan quickly moved in to catch Athos before he could fall out of the chair.

"How did this happen?" Treville demanded.

D'Artagnan shook his head, at a loss. "I don't know. He hasn't eaten anything that I've seen. And he only had a sip of wine from a bottle kept in the next tent over."

Aramis took d'Artagnan's place supporting Athos. "Go get it."

D'Artagnan turned and darted over to the neighboring tent. He spotted the wine bottle sitting on the ground just outside where Athos had left it. Snatching it up, d'Artagnan rushed back to Aramis.

The marksman immediately took the bottle and uncorked it, then took a long whiff. After a moment's consideration, he knocked back a drag, only to crane his head and spit it right back out. "It's been tampered with." He set the bottle aside and turned back to Athos, tapping the man's cheek in an effort to get him to stay awake.

D'Artagnan turned to the captain. "Shouldn't the tournament be cancelled now?"

A muscle in Treville's jaw ticked. "No. That will only disgrace the Musketeers further, which is the point of all these mishaps."

"Mishaps?" d'Artagnan repeated incredulously. "Aramis could have been killed. Athos's been poisoned!"

"Did you see anyone suspicious near the tent earlier?" Treville countered. "Anyone you can identify?"

D'Artagnan huffed in agitation and shook his head, as did Aramis.

"Then without proof, there's nothing we can do except spout wild accusations that I'm sure the Cardinal will turn around to embarrass us further."

D'Artagnan spun away and paced to the other side of the tent. This was unbelievable. The Red Guard was going to get away with this?

Porthos returned then with two bottles, presumably the items Aramis needed. The marksman barked at him to pour one into the other and mix it together. Porthos hurried to do that, then handed it to Aramis, who tipped the contents right into Athos's mouth. The swordsman tried to jerk away and Aramis clamped his good hand over Athos's lips to prevent him from spitting it out.

"Bucket!"

Captain Treville grabbed one full of tools and dumped them out on the ground before quickly passing it to Porthos, who barely got it under Athos's face in time for the emetic and wine to make a reappearance.

D'Artagnan wrinkled his nose and turned away. This was unacceptable. He wasn't going to just stand by and let the Red Guard get away with blatant murder attempts.

The others didn't seem to need his help taking care of Athos, so d'Artagnan quietly slipped out of the tent and made his way around the field to the Red Guard side of the grounds. Since he wasn't a musketeer and didn't wear the uniform, none of the soldiers there should accost him.

He slunk around the back of one of their tents, trying to stay inconspicuous. Fortunately, a lot of them were gathered at the edge of the contest area where another round of marksmanship was to commence. D'Artagnan wondered whether they were eagerly awaiting another misfire, though surely that would have to arouse suspicions. Though, given what he'd heard thus far, d'Artagnan supposed the Cardinal could easily make an argument that all of the Musketeer regiment simply took poor care of their weapons.

D'Artagnan leaned his head around the edge of the tent flap to see if it was empty, and then slipped inside. He roved his gaze over the supplies and weaponry. All he needed to do was find evidence of the drug given to Athos, as that would surely be definitive enough to call a stop to these stupid games. He hurried over to a crate of wine and looked it over, but it appeared normal, maybe their own stash. He uncorked a bottle and took a whiff, just in case.

Unfortunately, he wasn't versed in poisons like Aramis was. He took a tentative sip and spit it out to be safe, but it didn't taste odd to him. Turning around, he swept his gaze over the supplies in search of a smaller bottle or vial.

Shadows passed over the outside of the canvas and d'Artagnan quickly ducked down behind a rack of muskets. Three red guards entered the tent. D'Artagnan grimaced and tried to make himself as small as possible, praying they'd be in and out—and weren't here to pick up a musket.

"You're going up against the mongrel," one of them said.

The guard in the middle snorted. "And I'm gonna put him down like one." He reached into the fold of his red uniform and pulled out a small vial.

D'Artagnan stiffened and tried to shift quietly so he could see better between the lined up muskets.

"The other stuff was just to bring that Athos down a notch. This stuff will have a more permanent effect."

The men sniggered as the guard poured the clear liquid in the vial over his parrying dagger, coating the steel as evenly as he could get it. D'Artagnan clenched his fists in anger and wanted nothing more than to leap out and dispatch the lot of them for such dishonorable treachery. But he'd likely get himself hanged that way. So he gritted his teeth and waited for the men to leave.

The moment they were gone, he was on his feet and sprinting toward the tent flap, barely taking the time to check that the coast was clear before darting out and hurriedly making his way back toward the Musketeer tents. He arrived just as the next match was announced to the spectators—and it was Porthos.

The large musketeer was already stepping into the contest area.

"Porthos!" d'Artagnan shouted, skidding to a stop at the edge of the post line.

Porthos threw a look over his shoulder, brows furrowing. "What?" he asked in a low voice as his opponent was announced. D'Artagnan's eyes widened when he recognized the man from the other tent.

He crossed into the ring and grabbed Porthos's arm. "You can't fight him," he hissed. "He's got a poisoned blade."

"What? What are you talkin' about?"

"I snuck over to their side to look around," d'Artagnan explained. "I saw him coat his parrying dagger with something. You can't fight him."

Porthos glanced over his shoulder toward his opponent, who looked far too confident for someone about to go head to head with a man of Porthos's stature.

"Is there a problem?" the King called impatiently.

Porthos's jaw visibly tightened and he turned toward the royal box. "No, Your Majesty. No problem."

D'Artagnan gaped at him. "Porthos…"

"If we try an' call this off, it'll look like an excuse," he hissed.

"This isn't a game. That guard means to fight to the death."

Porthos's eyes hardened. "Then that's what he'll get. Now get outta the ring."

D'Artagnan sputtered as Porthos broke away and went out to the center of the arena.

"D'Artagnan!" Captain Treville snapped.

Letting loose a frustrated growl, d'Artagnan spun around and jogged out of the ring.

"What was that about?" the captain demanded.

"Porthos's opponent has a poisoned blade, but he's going to fight him anyway."

Treville frowned and shifted his gaze to the men, who had begun to circle each other. The red guard had both rapier and parrying dagger at the start, and d'Artagnan felt his stomach coiling into knots. Porthos had his broader blade in one hand and the other free.

They sidestepped through one full circle before the red guard attacked first. Porthos blocked and pushed back, forcing the guard to stumble back a step. Then he brought his blade down hard with a resounding clang that d'Artagnan thought would cut the red guard's sword in two. But with their blades crossed, he slashed out with his parrying dagger. Porthos wrenched away at the last second, avoiding getting cut.

D'Artagnan ran a hand down his mouth. He didn't want to watch and yet he couldn't look away. The spectators watched with enthusiastic grins and "oohs" and "aahs." They had no idea the stakes involved in this duel.

Porthos deflected a few more strikes and the red guard's cheeks puffed with apparent annoyance. The man suddenly feinted right, triggering Porthos to cross his sword across his body to block, but at the last second the guard twisted left and drove his dagger toward Porthos's arm. D'Artagnan's heart seized.

Porthos dropped his sword and threw his hand up to catch the red guard's wrist. With a deft twist, he wrenched the dagger from his grip and retaliated by scoring a slice across the man's collar bone instead.

The man's eyes blew wide in realization and he stood frozen for a suspended moment. Even d'Artagnan had forgotten how to breathe.

And then the red guard stumbled backward, hands flying to his throat as he began to cough and choke. Within moments, he crumpled to the ground, sightless eyes staring out at nothing. Stunned silence settled over the onlookers.

The Cardinal surged out of his chair. "Treachery!" he declared, jabbing an accusing finger at Porthos. "This musketeer has cheated by coating his blade with poison!"

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. D'Artagnan was so incensed that he was ready to storm out there and challenge the Cardinal himself to a duel, but Treville strode out first.

"Your Majesty, Porthos disarmed the red guard and used his own blade against him. Which means it was the Cardinal's man who was attempting to cheat."

Louis blinked, appearing to shake himself out of a stupor. "Quite right," he said. "The musketeer Porthos has won this match."

"Your Majesty," Treville quickly inserted. "There is evidence that there were other attempts at sabotage."

The Cardinal scoffed. "And now Captain Treville tries to paint his men's failures as though they were victims."

"Your man did bring the poisoned blade, Cardinal," Louis pointed out. He shook his head and tutted, "I am most disappointed. Here you were boasting the superiority of your men and they've resorted to acts of sabotage."

"One's man dishonorable actions does not reflect upon the whole regiment," the Cardinal quickly deflected.

Louis canted his head in a considering moue. "Still, I believe the tournament is over and the winners are clear. Congratulations, Treville."

The captain of the Musketeers bowed, as did Porthos, and then they began to make their way off the field as the King retired from his box.

D'Artagnan shook his head at Porthos but still smiled, relieved that he was all right. "You're either extremely brave, or extremely stupid."

The larger man grinned.

"I would say it's a bit of both," Treville interjected with the exasperated tone of one who was used to such stunts.

D'Artagnan glanced across the yard at the red guards. "Is that really it? We know there was more than one cheating."

"No doubt wit' the Cardinal's approval," Porthos scowled.

Treville sighed. "It wouldn't surprise me. But that is a wasp nest we do not want to poke. And at least their efforts were thwarted before they could do serious harm."

D'Artagnan wasn't sure about that as they entered the tent to check on Athos and Aramis. Athos was still sitting in the chair, but was upright on his own now. There was a rancid stench in the tent that matched his sickly green complexion.

Aramis was soaking a towel in water, which he wrung out and placed on the back of Athos's neck. "What's going on?"

"The tournament is over," Treville informed them. "The Musketeers won."

Aramis beamed at that.

"You should get back to the garrison," the captain added, then excused himself.

D'Artagnan gave Athos a worried look. "You all right?"

"Fine," he mumbled. His lolled his head back to look at Porthos. "I hope your duel went better than mine."

D'Artagnan let out a soft snort, which earned him a pointed glare from the large musketeer before Porthos just grinned at Athos and shrugged.

"It went alright."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes.

Aramis was throwing them both suspicious looks but seemed to decide to hold off questioning them until later, as he ordered d'Artagnan and Porthos to help Athos up so they could get out of there.

.o.0.o.

After getting Athos settled in the garrison infirmary and watching Porthos force Aramis to sit so his hands could be cleaned and treated again, d'Artagnan finally headed back to the Bonacieux residence. He was exhausted after the stress of the day, and he hadn't even participated in the tournament.

As he walked into the dragon compound, he found Constance in the yard saddling a dragon.

"How was the tournament?" she asked when she saw him.

D'Artagnan opened his mouth to answer, only to shake his head and smile wearily. "The Musketeers beat the Red Guard," he settled for answering. "But it turns out those tournaments are a lot more dangerous than one would think they are."

Constance huffed. "I don't doubt it." She paused and gave him a sober look. "Was there anything serious?"

D'Artagnan thought about it for a moment. He'd call it serious, but Athos and Aramis were going to be fine. "Nothing they all didn't walk away from."

Constance narrowed her eyes like she could tell he was holding back but didn't pursue it. "Would you like to come for a ride?" she asked instead.

D'Artagnan perked up at the invitation. "Yeah? Um, sure."

Smirking, she went around and climbed up into the saddle, her skirts bunching up in the back. She didn't seem to care. D'Artagnan tentatively pulled himself up behind her.

"Here," she said, holding out an anchor line, which he quickly took to attach to his belt. He noticed her attaching one to a belt around her waist.

After a moment, Constance threw a pointed look over her shoulder. "You might want to hold on."

"Oh, right." He awkwardly slipped an arm around her waist, his cheeks flushing warm as the position had them pressing right up against each other.

His discomfort was forgotten a second later when the dragon leaped into the air and thwacked its wings to rise into the sky.

"Where are we going?" d'Artagnan asked.

"I'm just giving Dragor some exercise," she shouted over the gusts of air. "But I like going this late in the day. You'll see why in a bit."

The dragon eventually leveled out and they flew east for a short distance. D'Artagnan let himself simply enjoy the sensation of the wind currents through his hair and the heady rush he got from soaring so high above the ground.

Then they turned around to head back west, just as the sun was touching down on the horizon, splashing the countryside in gold. D'Artagnan found himself mesmerized.

"Told you," Constance said, shooting him a grin over her shoulder.

"It's breathtaking," he agreed, but then his gaze shifted to the side profile of her face as she looked straight ahead, which he suddenly found equally captivating. And so are you, he thought.

With Constance the one flying the dragon, she didn't notice that he stared at the back of her head for the rest of the journey home. They landed in the yard and unhooked their anchors before sliding out of the saddle.

"Could you teach me how to ride a dragon?" d'Artagnan asked.

Constance pursed her mouth in consideration. "Well, technically these are the King's dragons, and you're not a musketeer yet. But…" She gave him a sly smile. "I think we can work something out."

D'Artagnan grinned back. He would look forward to it.

And to spending more time with Constance Bonacieux.

NEXT TIME

When Aramis is poisoned by a trap meant for Athos, it becomes a race against time to find a rare cure that's just as treacherous to obtain.