Traitor's Chase (21 page)

Greg's heart sank. “We have to steal it?”

“Don't worry,” Aramis said with a smile. “As usual, I have a plan.”

TWENTY-TWO

A
S
M
ICHEL
D
INICOEUR STORMED THROUGH THE ARMY
camp, word of his approach rippled ahead of him. “
El general! El general!
” the soldiers whispered, then scrambled to present themselves as he passed. Normally Dinicoeur appreciated the respect, but tonight he was in a foul mood. He blew past the soldiers without as much as a glance, homing in on his tent.

The army was camped on a wide plain on the south bank of the Gard River, two miles short of the Pont du Gard. Dinicoeur would have preferred to have made more progress before stopping for the night, but beyond this point the river valley narrowed sharply and there would have been no space to accommodate so many men.

Dinicoeur commanded over two thousand soldiers. The army camp was bigger than most cities in France. The size of it surprised even Dinicoeur himself. When he had first approached Philip III about fielding an army to overthrow Louis, Dinicoeur had expected a few hundred soldiers at most. But Philip had sparked to the idea of conquering France with even more relish than Dinicoeur had anticipated. He'd originally offered well over a thousand men, and the ranks had kept swelling as the army had progressed north. Of course, Philip had supplied three generals as well, not trusting his soldiers to be led solely by a Frenchman, but they were now dead and buried, thanks to Dinicoeur. He and he alone was in control of the largest army to invade France since the Roman times.

He reached his tent, which sat in the middle of the camp. The camp was laid out in concentric rings, with the least important soldiers on the outside and the leaders in the middle.

Two soldiers stood guard on either side of the entrance. “
Mi general!”
they said in unison, then pulled aside the tent flaps so he could enter.

The tent was quite well furnished, given the circumstances. There was a desk, a chest for clothes, and even a small bed. Demanding some luxury might have been a bit decadent, but it also commanded respect.

Valois was waiting inside. He had made himself at home, sitting at the desk and honing his sword with a whetstone, though he snapped to his feet when Dinicoeur arrived. “Michel. This is quite an army you've amassed.”

“Keep your voice down, you fool!” Dinicoeur snapped. He came to Valois' side and hissed in his ear. “As far as anyone knows, I am Dominic Richelieu.”

“But …” Valois began.

“Dominic and I decided it would be less confusing if there were only one of us here. He commanded the army for the first few weeks, while I attended to some other business in Madrid. Then I caught up to the army and we switched places. None of these idiot Spaniards has even noticed … as long as I've kept
this
hidden.” Dinicoeur held up his right arm. He had a glove pulled over the stump where his hand had been.

“Where is Dominic now?” Valois asked.

“He is monitoring our progress from a safe distance.” Though Dinicoeur didn't say it, there was another reason he wanted Richelieu separated from him. It was dangerous to be in an army. As an immortal, Dinicoeur could handle anything that came at him—but if his younger self died before they got both halves of the Devil's Stone, then Dinicoeur's existence would be negated as well.

Valois looked around at Dinicoeur's furnishings and chuckled. “This looks pretty safe to me. You're surrounded by an entire army, living better than a king. What do you have to be afraid of?”

Dinicoeur looked at Valois pointedly. “The failures of my underlings.” He suddenly lashed out with his good hand and seized Valois's arm. “I am already tired of your insolence. You haven't earned the right to talk like that to me. I hear the Musketeers are still alive.”

“It's not my fault!” Valois pleaded, his eyes wide in fear. “It was those so-called assassins who failed, not me!”

“Philip assured me they were his finest men,” Dinicoeur said.

“Then that speaks poorly of Philip's army. I handed those boys to them on a silver platter—twice—and both times they failed to kill them.”

Dinicoeur suddenly threw Valois to the floor. “Any failure of a team is a failure of its leadership,” he said, seething. “They are only four boys! You had four assassins at your disposal!”

“They are not mere boys.” Valois staggered back to his feet. He looked meaningfully at the spot where Dinicoeur's right hand had once been. “You learned that yourself, did you not?”

Dinicoeur stared at the stump of his arm and felt rage course through his body. “Yes, I did. That is one of the many reasons I want them dead. Now, no more excuses. Tomorrow, at first light, you will take
ten
men, you will leave this camp, and you will not return until you have the heads of all four Musketeers.”

Valois nodded. “I shall do as you desire. But I must ask, are the Musketeers worth so much trouble? You have an entire army at your disposal. Soon France will fall and Philip will install you as king. What can the Musketeers possibly do to stop you?”

“I don't know,” Dinicoeur admitted. “But I don't intend to give them the chance.” As he spoke, he became aware of a strange sensation in his chest. It took him a moment to realize it was the half of the Devil's Stone, which he now wore as Philip had, beneath his clothes. It was pulsing softly, as though releasing energy.

Dinicoeur almost reached for it, but then caught himself before revealing the amulet to Valois. The stone was one of the many secrets he kept from Valois. No one knew about it except Dominic Richelieu …

And Greg Rich.

At the thought of Greg, the stone's pulsing increased slightly. Dinicoeur had felt the stone act like this only once before, when he'd faced his younger self, although this time was different. The pulse was more muted, the energy altered.

Dinicoeur couldn't explain it, but somehow, he suddenly understood what it meant. The stone, even just half of it, could sense his blood. Richelieu was his blood. Richelieu was
him
. And Greg Rich was his blood, too. A descendant four hundred years removed from him, but a descendant nonetheless.

“He's close by!” Dinicoeur said.

“Who?” Valois asked.

“Greg Rich!” Dinicoeur snarled. “And wherever he is, the other Musketeers must be with him. Find them now!”

Valois nodded. “If they are indeed close by, then they will be dead by daylight,” he said, then exited the tent to assemble a new team of assassins.

TWENTY-THREE

T
HE SIZE OF THE
P
ONT DU
G
ARD WAS STARTLING
.

The Musketeers had ridden ahead of the Spanish army to inspect it.

Greg had expected it to be a rather small bridge, given that it had only been designed to support water and the occasional horseback rider. Instead it was massive: sixteen stories high and nine hundred feet long, stretching between the steep, forested slopes of the valley. It was actually three bridges, each stacked atop the other. The lowest level was the largest, widest, and sturdiest, with five giant arches; it was on this level that the Roman road crossed the river. The middle level was just as tall, but longer, since the valley grew wider as it rose. The topmost level, which had carried the water, was significantly smaller, but the longest of all, with over twenty arches. The Gard River churned angrily beneath it all.

“We're going to need a big explosion to take that out,” Greg said.

“Yes,” Aramis agreed. “But if we set it off at just the right spot, everything will come crashing down. Right there.” He pointed to the central bridge piling on the lowest level, which sat in the middle of the raging river. “We can detonate the charge on the road right above that.”

“We'll have to do it from a distance,” Athos cautioned. “Otherwise, we'll get blown up along with the aqueduct.”

“Of course,” Aramis said. “That's where
you
come in.”

He then explained Athos's and Catherine's jobs to them. Athos was disappointed to learn he wouldn't be part of the force infiltrating the Spanish army, but Aramis pointed out that Athos would be of little help there with his wounded thigh.

“You're not going to be of much more help with your wounded shoulder,” Athos said testily. Although everyone had agreed to work as a team, that didn't mean everyone had completely set aside their differences. “A fat lot of good that will do you in battle.”

“If all goes well, there won't
be
a battle,” Aramis countered.

In the end, Athos reluctantly crossed the bridge to the far side of the river with Catherine and the horses, while Greg, Aramis, and Porthos headed back down the valley toward the Spanish army on foot.

It was well into the night by the time they arrived. The tent city was surprisingly large, and Greg was daunted by the size. To make matters worse, Aramis's plan called for them to walk right into it.

Greg wasn't sure everything would work out as well as Aramis hoped. For one thing, he had no idea how they'd fit in when none of them spoke Spanish. But then, he had no other plan to suggest—and
something
had to be done. The future of human history hung in the balance. “How will these men know we're actually on their side and not just infiltrating their camp to undermine them?” Greg asked.

“Because sending three men to undermine an entire army is either stupid or insane,” Porthos replied.

“Thanks,” Greg said. “I feel so much better about our mission now.”

“Just follow my lead,” Porthos told him.

The boys shed their tunics with the fleurs-de-lis, which marked them as servants of the king, and tossed them into the woods. Then they came straight down the road toward the camp.

The Spanish sentries snapped to attention as the trio approached. Half a dozen loaded crossbows were suddenly aimed at the Musketeers.

Porthos immediately dropped his sword and raised his hands over his head. “Don't shoot!” he cried. “We want to join you! Long live Philip, king of Spain!”

Greg and Aramis raised their hands as well. “Long live Philip, king of Spain!” they echoed.