Valois’ eyes went wide with fear as he saw what was happening. He reined in his horse, but the rest of the army was right behind him. Their horses slammed into his, which reared to its feet and pitched Valois to the ground.
The flaming powder keg slammed into Valois—and exploded.
The other kegs went off as well, a chain reaction of explosions that decimated the front ranks of the army. The ground trembled and the stones of the Roman road soared into the air. A wave of fire rose up, scorching the earth.
Freed from the weight of all the gunpowder, the horses pulling the wagon suddenly gained speed, racing onto the lowest level of the bridge. But the concussion from the explosion lifted the wagon off its wheels and flipped it on its side. Porthos and Aramis were catapulted onto the horses, which bucked and whinnied in terror as the overturned wagon skidded wildly behind them, finally smashing into one of the arches and shattering into pieces.
Porthos and Aramis were thrown to the ground while the horses raced onward.
The two Musketeers sat up, singed from the explosion, dazed from their falls. The bridge was still trembling from the blast, but it was well built and remained standing. The kegs had detonated too soon, leaving nothing but a wall of fire at the end of the bridge—and even that was already dying down. A few Spanish horses leaped through it, carrying their riders safely onto the bridge. And behind the flames, the Musketeers could see hundreds more soldiers amassing, ready to bear down upon them.
“We failed,” Aramis gasped. “What do we do now?”
Porthos shrugged and shook his head. “The only thing left. We pray.”
At the aqueduct on the top of the bridge, the sluice cut through the highest level of arches, though it was roofed with stone to protect the water supply. Where the bridge met land, the sluice continued on, carved into the rock. The service road came to a dead end here. Greg had just reached this point when the explosion occurred below.
His horse was already skittish, and now the shock wave from the blast combined with the deafening roar made it rear up in fear. Greg lost his grip on the reins and tumbled onto the sluice.
His horse retreated, slamming into Michel’s, which reared as well. The madman leaped from it before he was thrown, and both horses fled back down the hillside.
Dinicoeur tumbled but came up on his feet again, sword in hand. He charged toward Greg, the fire from the explosion gleaming in his eyes.
Greg’s sword had skittered farther down the bridge. Now it teetered on the edge above the abyss. Greg ran and dove for it, snatching it just before it dropped. He rolled over, blocked Michel’s sword as it swung down at him, then snapped to his feet to face his enemy head-on.
The bridge was wide at the top, so there was room to maneuver, but there was no safety railing and the drop over the edge was sickeningly steep. Greg knew that, if he fell, he’d either land on the road across the first tier of arches, which would no doubt kill him on impact—or he’d plunge into the rushing river, which would most likely drown him. Neither seemed like a very good option, so Greg tried to put the fear of falling out of his mind and focus on the swordfight instead.
“Why don’t you just admit defeat?” Dinicoeur snarled, slashing with his sword. “You’ve already lost. My army is about to annihilate your friends—and in a few weeks we will do the same to France.”
“Not if I can help it,” Greg said, although he could feel his strength fading. He couldn’t even manage an offensive move now; Dinicoeur was coming too hard and fast. Greg was getting pushed farther and farther along the bridge. Soon he and Dinicoeur were at the dead center, where the edifice was at its highest, sixteen stories above the raging river below.
Dinicoeur laughed. “I have two thousand men at my disposal. What do you have? Nothing! You’re just boys playing with swords.”
“We defeated you once,” Greg said.
“That was a temporary setback,” Dinicoeur snapped. “And besides, you actually did me a favor. If it wasn’t for you, I might have been content to stay in the king’s court—but now, I will depose that foolish king and rule all of France!”
“It won’t mean anything to you without the other half of the Devil’s Stone,” Greg told him. “Once we beat you to the other half, you won’t be able to make Dominic immortal. And when we take him out, you’ll die, too.”
“There’s just one problem with that plan,” Michel taunted. “You don’t know where the other half is—and I do.”
“I know exactly where it is,” Greg retorted. “It’s back in Paris.”
It was a bluff on his part—but it paid off perfectly when he saw Michel’s reaction. The madman’s eyes went wide in surprise, proving Greg’s hunch was right. The other half of the stone was in Paris.
Greg took advantage of Michel’s astonishment and lunged for his heart.
Dinicoeur easily sidestepped the attack. He’d seen it coming; he was a far more formidable opponent than anyone else Greg had faced—perhaps even better than Athos. And he didn’t even appear to be tired. Although the Devil’s Stone wasn’t complete, it still seemed to be giving him strength.
“Why are you even bothering to fight?” Dinicoeur taunted. “I’m immortal, you fool! You know you can never defeat me!”
The words rang in Greg’s ears. For a moment, he was daunted by them … but then, an idea came to him. He glanced down at the lowest tier of the bridge. The Spanish army was advancing onto it now, skirting the remnants of the fire. Then he looked back at Dinicoeur. The madman had made a mistake, Greg realized. His greatest strength was also his greatest weakness.
Greg dodged another attack—and retreated across the top of the bridge. As he’d expected, Dinicoeur came after him, seized with bloodlust, determined to kill him. As Greg ran, he spotted Athos and Catherine on the road at the far side of the river. “Athos!” Greg yelled. “Light the arrows! Light them up and shoot Dinicoeur!”
Far below, the Musketeers heard the shouts. Porthos and Aramis were running as well now, racing across the bridge before the Spanish riders could bear down on them. The army had temporarily been in disarray, as Valois and several other leaders had been blown to bits, but now it was surging forward.
On the far side of the bridge, Athos whipped an arrow from his quiver and held it out. Catherine set the torch to it and the resin ignited. Athos quickly set it in the bow, aimed, and let it fly. Within a second, Catherine had another arrow ready. And then another. Athos shot them as fast as he could, sending bolts of fire racing through the air.
The first few missed Dinicoeur, but the fourth found him as Athos adjusted his aim. It struck the madman in the chest.
It barely pierced Dinicoeur’s armor, however. Michel emitted a tiny grunt of pain, then used his sword to snap off the flaming shaft and swat it away. He had to stop running to do it, however, which finally gave Greg a good target.
Greg lunged with his sword, slashing Dinicoeur across the chest.
Dinicoeur spun around with surprising speed and punched Greg in the jaw with such strength that it sent him flying.
Greg tumbled toward the edge of the aqueduct, catching hold an instant before tumbling off the bridge. His legs dangled over the void.
Dinicoeur stormed toward him. “You have failed!” he snarled. “Failed once again in your miserable attempt to destroy me.”
“I wasn’t trying to destroy you,” Greg said defiantly. “I was trying to get this.”
With his free hand, he held up the half of the Devil’s Stone, displaying the links of the chain he had severed with his sword.
Dinicoeur gasped. His hand reflexively went to his neck, confirming the Devil’s Stone was no longer there. For a moment, he stood there, frozen in shock....
Which was all the time Athos needed.
The flaming arrow struck Dinicoeur in the shoulder. The madman roared and snapped the shaft off, but the pitch was already on his shirt, which caught fire. He screamed and spun, trying to swat out the flames.
The next arrow from At
hos caught him in the leg. The one after that hit him in the arm. Dinicoeur’s anger turned to panic. Even though he was immortal, he could still feel pain—and as the fire engulfed his body, it was agony. He desperately tried to peel off his blazing clothes....
That was when Greg body-checked him. He caught Dinicoeur by surprise and sent him flying off the bridge.
The madman fell, screaming—and slammed into the lowest level.
He landed right in front of the advancing army. The lead riders reined in their horses in surprise.
But just as Dinicoeur had said, he couldn’t be killed. Instead, he rose to his feet, screaming in fury.
Everyone gasped in horror at the flaming, raging, seemingly indestructible beast before them.
Greg shouted one of the few Spanish phrases he knew to those below him. “El Diablo!” The Devil.
A murmur of fear and horror rippled through the Spanish army.
“That is who you serve!” Greg shouted to them. “That is who has led you here! The Devil himself!”
“Don’t listen to him!” Dinicoeur yelled. “I am no such thing!”
But his appearance meant more to the soldiers than his words did. The men were superstitious and terrified of the unknown. They turned and fled, racing back the way they had come.
“No!” Dinicoeur shouted. The fall and the pain were taking their toll on him. Even his hair was on fire now, framing his burned face in flame and making him look even more devilish than before. “I am not the enemy! They are!” He staggered toward Porthos and Aramis, his sword raised, in one desperate final attempt to lead the charge.
Porthos screamed in horror. As far as he knew, Dinicoeur truly was the Devil. And even though Aramis knew Dinicoeur was immortal, he was still terrified as well.
Then, a final arrow from Athos caught Dinicoeur in the chest. Now, from close range, it was enough to send him reeling backward. The madman toppled over the side of the bridge and plummeted into the river, which quickly whisked him away.
Greg scrambled down the hillside from the upper tier. He raced onto the Roman road to rejoin his friends. “Is everyone all right?” he asked.
“No we’re not all right!” Porthos gasped. “Did you see that? Dinicoeur is the Devil! We’re fighting the Devil!”
“We’re not,” Greg said reassuringly. “I only said that to frighten everyone else. Dinicoeur isn’t the Devil—although he is immortal.”
Porthos and Athos turned to Greg, looking shocked and betrayed. “You knew that was going to happen?” Athos asked.
“Yes,” Greg admitted.
“How much else is there that you haven’t told us?” Porthos asked.
Greg hesitated, unsure what to say—and in that moment, he saw something change in his friends’ eyes. They don’t trust me, he thought.
Suddenly, a woman’s cry echoed through the woods. “Athos! Aramis! Help me!”
The Musketeers all stiffened at the sound, recognizing the voice at once.
“Milady!” Athos cried. Then, despite his wounded thigh, he spun and raced headlong into the forest.
TWENTY-SIX
“ATHOS! WAIT!” GREG SCRAMBLED UP THE WOODED HILLSIDE alongside the Pont du Gard. Ahead of him, Athos was moving with surprising speed, given his injured thigh. Greg guessed the swordsman wasn’t even aware of the pain; he was too focused on helping the girl he loved.
“Look out, D’Artagnan!” Aramis sprinted past Greg, desperate to save Milady as well. The scribe didn’t seem to be bothered by any of the wounds he’d suffered, either.
Only Porthos seemed to be as fatigued as Greg. He came last, lumbering through the woods, gasping for breath. “She has to get herself into trouble now?” he gasped. “She couldn’t wait ten minutes to let us catch our breath?”
Greg suspected the timing wasn’t random at all, however. Everything seemed much too convenient; Milady just happening to show up way out here, at this moment, when the boys were exhausted and battered from battle. He called after Athos and Aramis again. “Stop! I don’t think we can trust her!”
The boys each looked back his way for a second, then continued on.
Greg turned to Porthos, desperate. “Maybe you should call to them. They’re not listening to me.”
“Why should they?” Porthos asked harshly. “You’re the one who hasn’t been honest here.” With that, he trudged on ahead after the others.
Greg hadn’t gone far—just a bit above the point where the top tier of the aqueduct met the mountainside—but he was wiped out from the night’s adventure. His legs ached and his lungs burned. He watched helplessly as his fellow Musketeers disappeared over a small rise ahead.
Behind him, on the far side of the river, he could see the last of the Spanish army retreating. It seemed he should feel some joy about this—or at least a sense of relief. After all, he and the Musketeers had managed to repel the Spanish and save France. They’d prevented Dinicoeur from altering the course of history. And he had retrieved half of the Devil’s Stone, which he now clutched tightly as he staggered uphill. But still, all Greg felt was a sense of foreboding, as if he wasn’t out of this yet.
“They may not trust you, but I do.” Catherine was suddenly at his side, steadying him as he struggled to climb.
Greg turned to her and saw that she meant it. “We need to stop them,” he said.
“Why? What do you think she’s up to?”
Before Greg could answer, there was a commotion ahead. He heard the shouts of his fellow Musketeers, the clang of swords, a scream of pain from Aramis. Catherine started to race in that direction, but Greg caught her arm. “No,” he said.
“But they’re in trouble.”
“And if we go that way, we’ll be in it with them.” Greg tucked the Devil’s Stone away and withdrew his sword. “We’ll circle around to get the jump on them.”
He had only gone a few steps, however, before Milady’s voice rang through the forest. She no longer sounded as though she was in danger. Instead, her voice was almost taunting. “D’Artagnan and Catherine, we know you’re out there. If you show yourselves, your friends might live. Try anything foolish … and they’ll die.”
Greg shared a concerned look with Catherine.
“What do we do now?” Catherine asked.
“Exactly as she says.” Greg sighed. He lowered his sword, and clutching Catherine’s hand, came over the top of the rise.
He found himself in a large clearing. Milady stood at the far side of it. She wore a clean new dress and a devious smile.
The Musketeers, on the other hand, were in considerably worse shape. They had been ambushed. Six swordsmen had laid them flat on their bellies in the center of the clearing and now stood over them, the blades of their weapons resting on the boys’ necks.
“Apparently, we should have listened to you,” Porthos told Greg.
Aramis and Athos were too stunned to speak. Both just stared at Milady, confused and stunned by her betrayal. Aramis appeared heartbroken, while Athos seethed with anger.
“Drop your sword,” Milady told Greg.
Greg saw he didn’t have a choice. He let his weapon clatter to the ground. More men emerged from the trees behind him, their blades aimed at him and Catherine.
“D’Artagnan has something else with him,” Milady told them. “A magic item of some sort. Check him carefully for it.”
Two men forced Greg to the ground. While one pinned him, the other patted him down and quickly came across the Devil’s Stone. He held it up to Milady. “Is this what you mean?”
“No, but that’s very interesting.” Milady crossed the clearing and took the stone. Her eyes glittered as she stared into it. “This must be one half of that Devil’s Stone everyone wants so badly. The other half is somewhere in Paris, correct?”
Greg looked to her, surprised.
“Yes, I know all about it,” she told him. “I keep my ears open, you see.” She tucked the Devil’s Stone into the folds of her dress, then spoke to the soldier who’d foun
d it. “The item I’m looking for is a small metal box with strange powers.”
Her stooge dutifully frisked Greg and found the phone. He stared at it curiously until Milady demanded, “Bring it to me.”
“That’s of no use to you!” Greg protested. “Please, I need it....”
“I’m sure you do.” Milady took the phone, inspected it curiously, then slipped it into her purse.
“There’s no point to any of this,” Greg told her. “Face it, Milady, your plans have failed. We’ve repelled the Spanish army and defeated Dinicoeur. The French army is on its way. You and this small group will be powerless against them.”
Milady burst into laughter. “Oh, D’Artagnan, you’ve been much more alert than your fellow Musketeers. You almost caught me that day at the waterfall. In fact, you would have if you’d realized I wasn’t leaving a message for the enemy. I was retrieving one.”
Greg winced, thinking back to that day at the falls. Milady hadn’t taken anything out of her boot. She’d been putting something into it. If only I’d thought to search her, Greg thought.
“You were right,” Milady continued cruelly. “I was plotting against all of you. But not with Dinicoeur. With him.”
A young man stepped into the clearing. He was around twenty, with curly blond hair and a devilish smirk. He was startlingly handsome, and Milady knew it; she stared at him in the way most men stared at her. “Well done, Milady,” he told her. “That went even better than you’d predicted.”
He then turned to face the boys, revealing the white rose emblazoned on his tunic. “I suspect you know who I am?”
“Condé,” Athos snarled.
“The Prince of Condé,” he corrected. “The rightful heir to the throne of France.”
“We merely took advantage of Dinicoeur’s scheme to distract you,” Milady explained. “Now, because of the message you sent King Louis, the entire French army is on its way here, leaving Paris vulnerable to attack.”
“And you have your own army,” Greg said. He felt as though he was standing at the edge of a chasm. He’d just repelled an entire army, defeated Dinicoeur, and regained half the Devil’s Stone … only to find himself facing another enemy and losing the stone again.