Traitor's Chase (14 page)

“It's only an image of him. Like a painting,” Greg explained.

“Painted in a mere instant?” the scarred thief asked. “That's not possible.”

“I told you,” Greg said. “It's magic.”

“I don't like it,” the middle one said. “I hear sorcerers can do things like that. Steal men's souls.”

While they were still in awe, Greg flipped to the music function and hit play, cranking the volume as high as it would go.

The phone picked a song at random and blasted it. It happened to be a noisy thrash metal song, and the sudden blare of electric guitars caught the thieves by surprise. As Greg had hoped, the cacophony of modern sounds was disorienting to them. Even better, none of the thieves could comprehend that the music was actually coming from the phone. Instead, they spun about, frightened, desperately looking for the musicians. The youngest one dropped his guard, relaxing his hold on Greg's neck.

Greg knew he wasn't going to get another chance. He grabbed the thief's fingers and yanked them back while simultaneously twisting free of his grip. While the younger thief howled in pain, Greg spun around and drove his knee into the thief's crotch, doubling him over. Then Greg snatched the thief's sword from his belt.

Catherine also snapped to action. Even though she was just as stunned by the music as the thieves, her survival instincts kicked in quickly. She pulled away from the middle brother and fled into the bushes.

Greg spun toward the middle thief, but the scarred one blocked Greg's sword with his own. “Go get her!” he ordered. “I can handle this one!”

The middle one did as he was told, plunging into the woods, as the scarred thief charged at Greg with his sword. The youngest thief staggered back to his feet, a knife in his hand. He was now moving gingerly, but he was still dangerous.

Greg parried their attacks, putting everything Athos had taught him to use. He was frightened, but he forced himself to calm down and remember Athos's instructions:
Stay in the moment. Focus. No matter how hard he tries not to, your attacker will always signal what he's going to do next. Predict, prepare—and counter
.

As their blades clanged against one another, Greg discovered something: He'd become quite good at sword fighting over the last two months. He hadn't realized it, because he'd been fighting Athos, who was as good as they came. But compared to the thieves, he was a pro. He saw their moves coming far in advance. Thus he deftly sidestepped each attack and kept them at bay.

He soon spotted an opening with the youngest thief, who was far less experienced than his brother. Greg brought the sword down across his arm, cutting a deep gash. The thief yelped in pain, dropped his knife, and abandoned the battle to stanch the bleeding.

Greg snatched the knife before the scarred one could, then took him on with both blades. Now that it was only man to man, he quickly overwhelmed the thief. He spun quickly, caught the blade of the other man's sword with his own, and sent it flying from his hand. As the scarred one gasped in surprise, Greg whacked him on the head with both hilts at once. The thief collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

Greg glanced at his phone. There was barely any battery left. He quickly flicked it off to save what little power remained.

The song on the phone ended abruptly, and the woods went silent again, allowing Greg to hear Catherine's screams for help in the woods. He went after her.

She hadn't made it far. The middle thief had caught up to her in a clearing and tackled her in the grass. She was doing her best to fend him off, but he was overwhelming her with his sheer bulk. He stopped immediately, however, when Greg placed the blade of the sword against his neck.

“Get up,” Greg ordered.

The thief spun around, surprised to see Greg there and not the others. “What did you do to my brothers?” he asked.

“I let them live,” Greg said. “Though I might not be so understanding with you. Get away from the girl.”

The thief stood quickly, his hands raised in surrender. Even though he was twice Greg's size, he now looked upon Greg with fear and respect. “We didn't mean nothing,” he whined. “Please don't kill me.”

“I'll think about it.” Greg kept the sword against the thief's neck.

Catherine stood. Greg turned to her, expecting that she might throw herself into his arms, thankful for his valiant rescue.

But instead she looked even more afraid of him than the thief did. She glanced warily at the phone in Greg's hand, then fled—as though
he
was the dangerous one.

“Catherine!” Greg called. “Wait! I can explain!”

“Stay away from me, sorcerer!” she yelled as she disappeared into the woods.

The thief took advantage of the distraction to flee himself, running in the opposite direction. Greg didn't have the heart to chase him. Instead he stared after Catherine, realizing that he couldn't explain this at all. Anything he said would probably only frighten her even more.

There was a rustle from the bushes nearby. Greg spun around, sword raised, expecting another attack. Instead, he saw a glimpse of golden hair—Milady de Winter.

She vanished into the woods, leaving Greg to wonder why she was there, how much she'd seen—and what she was going to do about it.

FOURTEEN

A
FTER THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE THIEVES
, G
REG
couldn't get Catherine to talk to him again. He could barely get her to
look
at him—and when she did, he saw fear in her eyes. When the six travelers sat down to meals, she always made sure she was seated farthest away from Greg.

On the other hand, Milady now seemed to be keeping an eye on him. She was subtle about it, though. Greg would suddenly have the sense that she was watching him, although when he spun around, she was always looking somewhere else, albeit with a slight, knowing smile on her lips. Greg was tempted to just march up to her and demand to know what she'd seen, but he figured she'd somehow manage to turn that around and embarrass him in front of the other Musketeers again.

As for the Musketeers themselves, relations between them grew more and more strained as their travels continued.

Thus, Greg could barely contain his relief when, twelve agonizing days after first setting out on the river, the forest suddenly fell away from the riverbank, revealing a city in the distance.

“Arles,” Aramis said. He—and everyone else—seemed to be thrilled that their time on the boat was finally at an end.

As they drifted toward the city, however, Greg's relief turned into astonishment. For a moment, he wondered if they'd somehow ended up in Italy. Arles looked nothing like Paris—or any of the small villages they had passed on their journey. Instead, it looked like a smaller version of Rome.

It was far larger than any other city they had encountered, more than twice the size of Paris itself. Many buildings were constructed in Roman style, featuring thick columns and intricate bas reliefs. The riverbanks were buttressed with stone and the roads were paved. An elaborate bridge crossed the Rhône, far more impressive than even the Pont Neuf in Paris, built upon pontoon boats so that it actually floated on the water, with towers and drawbridges at both ends. But most startling of all was the Arena. Perched on a hill above the river, it looked like a slightly smaller version of the Colosseum in Rome. Five stories tall and several blocks wide, it loomed above every other building in the city.

“This doesn't look like France,” Greg said.

“Until recently, it
wasn't
France,” Aramis explained. “It was founded by the Greeks over two thousand years ago. Then the Romans took it over and built it into what you see today. After that, it became the capital of its own country, the Kingdom of Arles, for a few hundred years. The area was only ceded to King Charles of France about a hundred fifty years ago.”

Greg shook his head in amazement. He'd never had any idea that there were Roman cities in France. But then, Athos, Porthos, and the girls seemed surprised as well—and they
lived
in France. If anything, they were
more
astonished by the city.

“I'd always thought Paris must be the most beautiful city in the world,” Milady said as they tied up the boat. “But now, compared to this place …”

“It looks like a cesspit,” Porthos finished.

“That's not what I was going to say,” Milady chided.

“Well, Paris certainly
smells
like a cesspit,” Porthos taunted. “Whereas this town smells incredible.” He inhaled deeply, relishing the smell—or lack of it—in the air. “There's no latrines in the streets! Where on earth do they put all their waste?”

“Underground,” Aramis replied. “The Romans built a series of underground pipes, known as sewers, which use water to convey all human waste to the outskirts of the city. From what I understand, they also have an intricate system of pumps and aqueducts to bring fresh water to all the towns in this region.” He pointed to a marble fountain that sat at the end of the pier. Fresh, clean water spurted from the mouths of carved fish and cherubs into a wide basin, where residents filled buckets for their daily use. It was a beautiful structure—and Greg couldn't help noticing that the residents of Arles looked considerably cleaner and healthier than those of Paris.

“It's a shame we won't be able to stay here long,” Catherine said sadly.

“Well, we might be here at least a day or two,” Porthos said. “We have to acquire horses and provisions—and it might be wise to seek some information while we're here as well. If this is the jumping-off point for Spain, then it's likely that this is where Dominic jumped off.”

“I agree with Porthos,” Aramis said.

“Then you're both fools,” Athos snapped. “We can't afford to squander a day or two in our pursuit....”

“Seeking the correct information isn't wasteful,” Aramis shot back. “We have no idea which route they took from here. Starting our pursuit quickly means nothing if we head in the wrong direction.”

“We know the right direction,” Athos snarled. “Toward Spain. We don't need to waste precious time figuring that out.”

“There are other things we ought to learn besides the mere direction they went,” Aramis said. “Anyone with half a brain should know that.”

Athos began to argue, but Milady stepped between the boys before he could. “You know what's
really
wasting our time? Your bickering. So Aramis and I are going to go find out if anyone has seen Dominic....”

“Why the two of you?” Athos asked, failing to hide his jealousy.

“Because he speaks the most languages and I'm the most persuasive. The rest of you, find horses and supplies.” Milady wheeled around and stormed down the pier.

Aramis shot Athos a gloating grin, then scurried after her.

“I wasn't saying that asking for information was a bad idea,” Athos muttered. “Only that we shouldn't waste too much time doing it.”

Porthos put a friendly arm around Athos's shoulders. “What say you and I take care of the horses? Greg and Catherine can handle the supplies.” With that, he gave Greg a sly wink.

Greg could feel himself turning red in embarrassment. At the same time, Catherine went white. “Oh,” she said. “I don't think that's such a good idea.”

“Of course it is!” Porthos told her. “Athos and I are best suited to acquire horses. Athos knows the most about horses—and I know how to get the best bargain.”

“You?” Catherine asked. “You traded our horses for a boat!”

“And now, I can probably trade that boat for some horses.” Porthos leaned in to Greg and whispered, “Figured I'd give you both a little alone time to work out whatever's gone sour between you two. You can thank me later.” Then he dragged Athos down the pier before anyone else could protest.

Catherine studied Greg for a moment, then bolted up the pier herself, as though afraid to be left alone with him.

“Catherine, wait!” Greg raced after her and caught her arm. “I can explain everything.”

“I
understand
everything.” Catherine struggled to pull away from him. “You can do magic, which is a dark art....”