. . . She awoke to the sound of rustling straw and propped herself up on her elbows. A moment later she eased her hand to the hilt of her sword and glanced around the interior of the stables. Gulped for several breaths as she calmed her thudding heart.

There it was again. That was no horse. Those were the steps of men trying to hide their approach. Easy, Laurel instructed herself as she gained her feet without a sound.

Laurel took several stealthy steps and peered around the corner to see the shadowy silhouette of three men. One turned to glance back, and she pressed herself against the wall, biting her lip to prevent a loud intake of air that would reveal her presence.

When she was sure that the men were once again focused on entering the inn, she fumbled inside her vest and extracted the small pistol that had once belonged to her mother. Reached inside her cloak again and took out a ball and powderhorn. Carefully, she primed the weapon and set off, without making a sound, in pursuit of the three uninvited visitors. Her mouth fell open dumbly as she saw them lean a ladder against the side of the building and next to the window. That was Athos' room, wasn't it?

Laurel awkwardly held the gun in her mouth and sent a quick prayer to the Almighty before she tested her ability or lack thereof to scale walls, especially with a gun in her mouth. Beads of sweat trickled down her forehead, and she did not dare flick them away but had to allow them to sting her eyes. Her arms shook under the strain and her mouth trembled. Parbleu, the gun was heavier and bigger than it looked, and she couldn't afford to lose it and have it go off.

Finally she dropped in through the window of the second story, and snatched the gun from her mouth, panting for breath. Her hands were still shaking as she re-primed the gun and searched for the servants' entrance to Athos' room, hoping that he would not have thought to lock it. She had a bad feeling about this. Really bad.

As she opened the servants' entrance she heard the tell-tale spanning of a wheel lock, and she propelled herself headlong into the chamber, yelling, "Athos," at the top of her lungs.

Athos roused just in time to see a man pointing a loaded gun at his head, and he rolled away as the gun shattered the tranquility of the night. He was quick enough to save his life, but not quick enough to avoid the bullet as it impacted with the flesh of his right shoulder, narrowly missing the bone. He howled in agony even as he grabbed his sword with his left hand.

Seeing that another assailant who had just entered the room was preparing to fire on the injured and defenseless man, Laurel took aim, cocked her own weapon and pulled the trigger.

This was one time she was grateful her mother had owned one of the first flintlocks. The man fell back with one scream of agony, clutching what remained of his face before he died. She threw aside the empty gun and drew her sword, quickly deflecting a second blade away from Athos.

Athos stepped back and twirled to meet his opponent's attack, wincing as the impact jarred his useless and bleeding shoulder. He was not prepared to meet his maker tonight, he informed himself as he shoved his opponent away with a mighty push. He swiveled and lunged, parrying and dodging as he fought against nausea and the buzzing in his own head. Sloppily, he deflected another blow, cursing the injury that prevented him from fighting with his normal brutal effectiveness.

Nevertheless, he had to end it quickly before the man wore him out and killed him. Desperately, he gasped for air and sent a prayer to God, hoping that as Aramis had once claimed in a similar situation, "You see there is a God."

Athos screamed and charged towards his opponent, catching him off guard, and he felt the blade impale the man who sank to his knees, shaking as blood poured from his opened guts. Mercifully, he lost consciousness before blood loss killed him.

It was then that Athos turned to see his rescuer cut down the final assassin and clean the sword before sheathing it. Athos made a clumsy attempt to retrieve his own blade from the dead man's body but only staggered.

Laurel's head shot up as she heard the musketeer stumble, and she rushed to his side, thrusting her arm under his good shoulder and guiding him back towards the bed. "Come on, Athos, help me," she said, her words coming between gulps of air. "I've got to get you to this bed before you collapse. I'm not quite strong enough to do it on my own. Come on, help me, man. Aidez-moi! You're too heavy for me to lug on my own." At least when she was tired as she was now.

From out in the corridor a loud voice called, "Athos, are you all right? Answer me, are you all right? Open the door." The door rattled but hardly budged against the lock.

Laurel looked over her shoulder as she laid Athos on the bed, and Porthos came hurling through what remained of the broken door, Aramis and D'Artagnan following closely behind him.

The musketeers stopped short as they took in the three dead bodies and the young person standing over Athos' still form. "Don't just stand there," Laurel commanded as she tore the fabric away from Athos' shoulder to reveal the nasty bullet wound. "Help me save his life or at the very least his arm."