"Il Qui Vit, Combat" ["He Who Lives, Fights"]

[ChrisiusMaximus]

You grab his arms vovan and Ill get the whip off Easthaven.

[SKILORD]

Write more

[SKILORD]

erk! that came off a bit random.... even after what those two have done.....

I'll fix it.

[ChrisiusMaximus]

Come on Tom you cant keep us waiting forever we demand more PLEASE.

[TheGuitarist]

At LONG last

So stunned was Jacques that he barely registered his body hitting the packed dirt of the road. His mind was stuck on the image of Jean’s face displaying that terrible sneer. He lay there as the Germans bound up his hands and feet. His mind would only show that horrible image as the Germans dragged him to a tree and left him tied to it.

It was many minutes later that Jacques raised his head and saw that Germans were still there. They were all sitting around on the ground, at least a few hundred of them, looking very much on edge. Jean sat on the bridge with his officers, discussing something.

Looking around, Jacques saw only the River and the forest beside it. His gaze wandered past the ranks of German soldiers to the tree next to him. He noticed a rope tied around it, like the rope by which Jacques himself was bound. Curious, Jacques leaned forward and looked around the tree trunk. He saw a small figure, a young French boy – too young to be Christophe. The boy rolled over…

In a flash of utter horror, Jacques saw that it was Pierre.

“PIERRE!” Jacques screamed, leaping toward him. When the rope snapped taut, Jacques strained against it like a dog against a leash. He held his arms out to Pierre and shouted his name; Pierre turned toward him but could not reach his brother.

Jacques heard heavy footsteps approaching. He turned to see Jean and three of his officers coming toward him. Jacques felt the rage flare up in his gut. “You lying dog! You snake! Release my brother, you scum!” In fury, he spat on Jean’s boots.

One of the soldiers caught Jacques squarely on the side of the head with a sharp blow from the butt of his musket. Jacques was knocked over; he clutched the side of his head in pain and felt a thin trickle of blood seeping through his fingers. “Silence, foolish boy!” the German spat.

Jacques knew no more until he awoke again at the sensation cold droplets of water on his face. Carefully he sat up and saw that it was beginning to rain.

Jean began to bark hoarse German orders to his troops. They gathered their muskets and packs and formed into rather sloppy lines along the dirt road. Jean pointed to the tree to which Jacques was tied, and two soldiers began trotting over, presumably to retrieve the prisoners.

A soft rustling in the woods on Jacques’ left drew his attention. He squinted through the mistiness and saw a filthy, bedraggled figure creeping towards him. As it drew closer, Jacques saw two piercing blue eyes and drew a sharp breath. “Christophe!” he whispered. In a flash of realization, Jacques saw that Christophe had never been his enemy. Jean was the traitor all along.

“The one and only,” the boy replied.

Jacques wanted to apologize profusely, but more pressing matters had to be attended to. “Stay there! I think the Germans are leaving; they must be heading to Paris. But two of them are coming to get me and Pierre.”

“Pierre is here? Isn’t that your brother?”

“Yes. And you’ll never guess who’s commanding the troops – it’s Jean.”

The two Germans’ footsteps approached Jacques’ tree. Shouldering their muskets, they stopped next to him, and one (apparently the higher-ranking) stepped forward. Beginning to untie Jacques, he asked disinterestedly, “Wer waren auf Erden Sie, der mit spricht?”

[“Who on Earth were you talking to?”]

He got his answer in the form of a muddy boot to the side of his head. Christophe’s flying form knocked him solidly to the ground before he could make a sound. Landing on his feet, Christophe drew his rapier in an eyeblink, and with one decisive blow, ran the second German through. He slumped to the ground without so much as a grunt; Christophe withdrew his sword and used it to slice through Jacques’ bonds.

Accustomed by now to Christophe’s lightning-quick combat style, Jacques got up and saw that the German column was marching across the bridge. No one glanced toward the prisoners, confident that their soldiers had done their job.

Christophe released Pierre’s bonds as well, and Jacques swept his brother into a tight embrace. Then, Christophe whispered, “We should get under cover before they realize you have escaped.”

The three began to glide slowly toward the forest, but they had barely taken five steps before a shrill German yell rang out on the bridge. Turning, Jacques saw at least ten soldiers break formation and run towards them. The ones in front drew their muskets. Jacques, Pierre, and Christophe broke into a dead run.

Shots rang out and the ground exploded beside Jacques’ pumping legs. “Keep running!” Christophe shouted. Drawing a dagger from his pocket, he spun and hurled it at the nearest musketman, more than thirty yards back. Glancing back over his shoulder, Jacques watched as the dagger embedded itself in the soldier’s chest and the German collapsed.

Suddenly a chain of concussions rocked the ground behind the running Frenchmen. They spun around again and saw that the German column had reached the end of the bridge and met a regiment of Musketeers. Musket smoke filled the air on that side of the River, and Jacques saw as men on both sides dropped quickly.

“Reinforcements!” hissed Jacques. “We have to get to them. Have you another sword, my friend?”

In answer, Christophe tossed Jacques an epee from his pack.

The German soldiers approached rapidly, and now their muskets were no use at such close range. They drew their swords, fierce looks in their eyes, ready to avenge their comrades’ deaths.

It was nine versus two. Jacques gave Pierre a pointed look; the boy ran to the sparse wood cover and hid. Jacques glanced at Christophe. He looked back and his mouth rose in a rather impudent grin. Jacques grinned back, and then the soldiers were on them.

[TheGuitarist]

With a scream of rage, one soldier threw a desperate blow at Jacques’ head. Jacques’ sword flew up and deflected, then whipped around toward the German’s torso. The man dodged and brought his weapon around to Jacques’ side, but the Frenchman was too fast, bringing his own sword down across its path. He leaned away and caught the German’s solar plexus with a solid kick, knocking him backward, them leapt in pursuit and pierced his opponent’s sword arm.

He spun instinctively just in time to deflect a blow from another soldier’s sword. Keeping the man’s blade down and to one side, Jacques swung his elbow in a vicious arc and hit the German in the temple. With both hands, he brought his epee down, slicing the soldier’s weapon from his grasp. He collapsed.

Christophe was battling three Germans at once, his sword a blur of gray metal, his body in constant motion. He parried one soldier’s blow, then leaned into his counterattack, scoring hit after hit. He turned and beat one of the other soldiers back, then immediately spun and parried the oncoming blow from the first. He dispatched that opponent with three thrusts, then vaulted over the other two and came down on his feet, sweeping one soldier’s sword to the right and kicking the other’s weapon out of his hand. He crouched and spun, coming up between the Germans and launching one foot into the side of the disarmed German’s knee; in a fraction of a second, he had run the other German through and was turning to engage more.

The soldier Jacques had kicked in the gut was rising, reaching for his fallen comrade’s blade; Jacques stomped on it and brought his blade down into the man, but was knocked to the dirt by two furious blows from behind him. Rolling forward, he came up and saw two more soldiers advancing. Jacques backed up until he hit something behind him; turning quickly, he saw Christophe had backed into him. He was facing two enemies of his own.

Back to back, the two Frenchmen fought furiously for their lives. One of Jacques’ enemies charged him, but Jacques held his ground, keeping the man’s blade away from his own body. When the soldier made a particularly forceful thrust, he swept the blade firmly to one side, brought his left boot up – sending the man’s weapon flying though the air. Quickly he stepped into his kick, spun to his right, and used his momentum to send the hilt of his sword into the man’s face.

He dove forward and came up between Christophe’s opponents. One was bleeding from a deep wound on his right arm; Christophe himself had many scratches on his face and chest. Jacques brought up his blade and parried one of the soldier’s hurried strikes, then reversed his sword’s direction to catch his second. Dodging to the right, he drew this opponent away from Christophe and engaged him with an energetic attack. He kept the man on the defensive, looked for an opening – got one when the man tried a counterattack. Jacques was faster, scoring a hit the soldier’s sword arm. The man yelped, dropped his sword; Jacques stepped around, swung his foot up into the man’s side. He collapsed and Jacques turned to help his friend.

Christophe was tiring fast. His present enemy was an excellent swordsman and was giving him a run for his money. The Frenchman was glad to see Jacques coming to help; Christophe began a swift series of thrusts to distract his opponent. To his surprise, the man dodged them all and spun to his side, bringing his sword out and slashing the onrushing Jacques across the chest. With a howl, Jacques stepped forward to land a blow on the German’s exposed face, but the soldier was too quick. He sidestepped between the two Frenchmen, parried a desperate blow from Christophe, brought his free arm around and caught Jacques right between the eyes with his elbow.

Jacques dropped to the mud and stayed there.

Enraged, Christophe launched himself onto the soldier. His first blow landed on the man’s sword arm while he was still facing toward Jacques; then he spun, switched sword hands, parried the next of Christophe’s furious blows, but Christophe had had enough. He pushed the soldier’s sword arm back, punched the weapon into the air, aimed a kick at the German’s groin, but the man caught his foot with his free hand, pushed it back, and brought his own boot across into Christophe’s supporting leg. Christophe buckled and landed on the ground and his sword flew into the air; the German jumped on top and began punching him in the face.

Jacques sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes, groggily looking around for his sword. Suddenly he heard a child screaming – he looked toward the woods and saw the last German soldier with Pierre over his shoulder, running toward the bridge.

Jacques snatched up his sword and sprinted after them, ignoring his throbbing forehead. The man was going slower than normal because of the slippery mudhole that was once a dirt road. It was raining even harder now, the water coming down in sheets.

Their boots thudded solidly on the old wooden boards as they dashed across the Seine, at least fifty yards wide. Jacques could hear explosions and cries from the other side of the river as the larger battle raged on. Desperately he urged his burning muscles to work faster; the German was almost halfway across the bridge.

He could barely see his brother’s eyes, looking right at him, silently pleading with him to hurry, to save him – but Jacques was slowing down, he couldn’t run anymore, blood was seeping into his vision from the nasty wound on his forehead. His breathing was so labored that he sounded like a panting dog; his body was covered in dirt, mud, and blood, most of it not his own. He slowed to a trot.

But then he looked up and saw that he was there. He was on the edge of the musket lines – he could see the French soldiers through the mist and the thick smoke. He could see the gleam of their epaulets, the shine of their weapons – even drenched by the driving rain, he could see their faces set firm and strong, he could see their resolve and their courage. He knew they were prepared to give everything for their country, to protect their people and their king. He knew that with such determination, they could not lose.

He remembered that a long time ago, in a quaint country farmhouse, there was a small boy who wanted to be one of them.

Jacques brought up his sword and ran.

He launched himself onto the German’s back, knocking his brother to the side and solidly punching the German in the temple. He stood up and hurried with his brother to cover behind a small stone wall near the German lines, which weren’t but a few yards from the bridge.

Jacques slowly stood up and looked over the wall, his sword at the ready. He looked among the German ranks for the commander.

Suddenly he was jerked backward onto the ground. He looked up into Jean’s face.

“You!” he spat. Quickly he rolled over, but Jean planted a foot in his back, pinning him to the ground. “You scum! Let me up and fight like a man!”

With a scowl, Jean ground his foot harder into Jacques’ back. “You always were entirely too concerned about fairness, weren’t you?” he sneered.

Anger flowing through his veins, Jacques swung his sword and slashed Jacques across the leg that pinned him to the ground. With a growl, Jean jumped back and drew his own weapon. Jacques came up and charged his friend turned traitor with a cry of rage, his legs trembling but his sword arm ramrod-straight. With a great clang, their blades met in a flash of sparks.

Jacques felt the adrenaline flowing through him as he began the fiercest attack of his life. His sword moved faster than the eye could see, drilling at Jean’s torso, slashing at his face, cutting through the air with a crisp hum. But Jean was prepared for his friend’s rage and kept his sword moving efficiently, keeping every stroke away from his body and counterattacking every so often. Jacques was forced to slow down, but he managed to drive the traitor onto the tight confines of the bridge.

Jean stepped back faster, his parries becoming slower. Jacques pressed his advantage, slashing at his friend’s head, then switching his grip and spinning to thrust at his midsection. He was getting closer and closer, his next thrust might pierce the German’s heart –

CRACK!

Jacques’ feet broke through a rotten board, his legs sliding through the bridge, his sword flying over the rail into the choppy water. He looked down through a knothole and saw the gray waves far below him.

Panicking, he pushed at the boards below him, trying to get leverage. Jean was stepping forward, his sword in the air – Jacques pushed with all his might and finally his legs flew up beneath him. He leapt over Jean’s outstretched sword and came down behind him.

Jacques aimed a punch at the back of Jean’s neck, but he ducked and rolled between Jacques’ legs, coming up and kneeing him in the groin. Jacques fell to his knees and rolled forward, coming up in a weak stance, grimacing in pain.

“Now we’ll see how good you are without a sword, eh, my friend?” said Jean with an ironic grin as he tossed his own sword into the water.

Jacques came forward and aimed a kick at Jean’s midsection, but the German caught his leg easily and attempted the same move the other German had used so successfully earlier in the battle. Jacques leapt into the air, Jean’s leg passed under him, and he yanked his pinned leg toward him, bringing Jean off balance. He struck Jean with both his fists, pulled his leg free, and landed behind the stumbling German. But Jean recovered himself quickly, spun, and landed several blows on Jacques’ side and back before Jacques could roll forward again.

He came up facing the German and the two began a fury of punches and kicks. Eventually, Jean trapped one of Jacques’ hands and pulled the Frenchman toward him, striking him on his already injured forehead. He collapsed to his knees and Jean beat him to the wooden floor. When he landed on the boards, Jean started to drag him to one edge. His head cleared the low railing and he looked down again through the misty depths to the rough whitecaps of the Seine far below him.

Jean’s voice hissed in his ear. “You can never win, my French friend. Your pitiful people will never be able to resist our conquest. Your land is ours now. There’s nothing you can do. It is inevitable. Your parents knew it. Your brother knows it. And soon, Jacques, you will also know it.”

His eyes narrow with disgust, Jacques replied, “The only thing I know is – thirty pieces of silver couldn’t save Judas from his fate.”

Jean’s eyes became slits and his jaw tightened as he lifted Jacques from the deck by his muddy, bloody tunic. Jean swung him backward, then forward, released him, Jacques fell, saw the deadly water beneath him –

And they both hit the wooden planks of the bridge.

A blur of motion and faces – Christophe’s boots hitting the boards, slipping on the puddles – Jean howling in pain as he rolled over plank after plank – Jacques scrambling to his feet, falling to his knees – Christophe’s face rolling to the edge – Jacques sprawling headlong on his face – Jean’s long scream – Christophe catching the edge of the boards –

Finally Jacques looked up and crawled to the edge of the bridge. He felt a great shudder as a massive wave hit the bridge’s supports; the structure began to waver ever so slightly.

He looked down and saw Christophe holding on by his fingertips, and a small dark figure sprawled on a rock formation far below, the water rushing past in torrents.

“Thank you,” said Jacques hoarsely, lying exhausted on the bridge.

“It was nothing,” Christophe grinned. “Now, run, the bridge is about to give. Run to your brother. Be free.”

Jacques opened his mouth, but Christophe’s hands slipped off the bridge and his thin frame seemed to drift into the river, buffeted by the wind.

Scrambling to his feet, pushing the grief from his mind, Jacques ran like a madman toward the Parisian shore. The bridge shook as though in an earthquake – Jacques heard loud cracks behind him – his legs pumped for all he was worth, carrying him toward shore –

He dove onto the dirt as the old wooden bridge gave a great SNAP! and toppled into the Seine.

Then he was embracing his brother, running through the rows of German bodies, past the death and destruction and into the ranks of Musketeers. Men clapped him on the back, shouted in victory, the whole company around Jacques and Pierre. They were heroes among heroes, the entire group screaming their triumph. They went down the muddy road, past the puddles, past the destruction, and there, spilling over a hill, was beautiful Paris.

They were in Paris – Pierre, Jacques, and the Musketeers. They were finally there, and yet Jacques felt that, in his heart, he had been there his whole life.



THE END

[ChrisiusMaximus]

Well well well! what can I say. No goods for months then such an outpouring of genius Tom.

Your ability to write about close quater one on one combat is truly outstanding, and the action in those last two posts was seriously intense.

I know when you started out on this little venture you were planning an epic and I know you got bogged down by the dreaded writers block a couple of times in the early posts. On one hand I think its a shame you have cut the story short but I stand and applaud you firstly for managing to complete this and secondly for the brilliance with which you have delivered this conclusion. BRAVO !!!


BTW got your PM it was good to hear from you, you simply must write for us again one day my good friend, when your ready of course.

[TheGuitarist]

Thanks Chrisius. I've started playing Civ a lot more lately and I bet I'll have something to write about soon.

[SKILORD]

SUPERB.

I salute this, it is beautiful.

So I seconded it in the contest. Masterful.

[unscratchedfoot]

Yes, like skilord, i salute it with a one-finger salute!

Very violent, dude. You need more peace & love in your story like in my stories.

[TheGuitarist]

Thanks, scratch, ski.

Bumpity bump.

[vovan]

Guitarist, I got your PM, as well, and I would like to say thanks for bringing this story to my attention.

I remembered enjoying this story immensly back when you just started it, but I was forgetting the plot. So, now, as I returned, I read through the whole thing again, and I am lost for words to express the true magnificence of this piece. Not only has it not faded in its style and appeal during the course of the thread, and after the second reading, but further, got more and more exciting and engaging as I read on. The plot doesn't seem so special or original, yet there is something about this story that just has you reading on and on, on one breath. It may be the sheer brilliance with which the combat is described, as Chrisius has pointed out, or just the great writing style, I don't know, but this here story deserves the highest of praise. You can sleep assured: you have just finished a true classic!