The Three Musketeers - 1. Porthos & Chapter 1 (1/5)

Porthos

The warm afternoon breeze smelled of soil and dried grass—likely from the nearby wheat field being harvested. Branches swayed and creaked under the wind, rustling with each gust.

Clutching a handful of acorns against my chest with one arm, I gripped the branch beneath me tightly with the other, terrified that even the slightest distraction would send me falling.

“Young master,” came the voice of the white shepherd, Klaus, who always forgot that I was no longer his student. His lecturing tone returned once again. “If you want to play with them, why don’t you go down and introduce yourself? Spying from up here isn’t exactly the best way to make friends…”

“Shh,” I interrupted him, unwilling to sit through another one of his sermons. “You’ll make me miss the good part!”

Thankfully, Klaus knew better than to press further. My status as the heir to a count’s estate still held some weight, after all.

With distractions cleared, I perked up my drooping ears and turned my full attention to the two dogs roughhousing near the base of the tree.

“…Looks like you didn’t eat today, Porthos!” barked a yellow dog, swinging a branch as if it were a sword.

From his features, it was obvious he was a Labrador–golden retriever mix—pretty common around these parts.

“I just had afternoon tea with your mom, thanks for asking!” Porthos, a white dog with black spots—likely descended from a Dalmatian or Queensland heeler—parried the blow and jabbed back with his own branch.

“They’re going to hurt themselves like that…” Klaus muttered quietly behind me.

Risking discovery, I made a louder shushing sound to silence him—I'd heard enough lectures like that during our first hundred lessons where I couldn’t even touch a sword, just practice stances.

“Surrender, Porthos!” the yellow dog shouted, knocking the stick from the spotted dog’s paw. “I have the high ground!”

“I don’t remember this part being in the story,” Klaus murmured again, clearly determined to keep bothering me.

I waved a paw at him, motioning him to keep quiet.

“Does a musketeer surrender? Never!” Porthos growled, seemingly to hype himself up, then lunged at the yellow dog.

The two of them tumbled across the ground in a chaotic scuffle.

I couldn’t help but smile, secretly hoping Porthos would win. Still, I made sure not to get too emotionally invested—it could compromise my objectivity. For now, I simply continued watching their all-or-nothing duel, occasionally breaking into a sweat for Porthos’s sake.

Chapter 1

The muddy road squelched unpleasantly with each step I took, occasionally spraying foul water that made the experience even worse. Coupled with the stench of rotten eggs so thick it seemed to cling to my tongue, the air itself was enough to wear down what little willpower I had left.

I heard the sound of internal combustion engines behind me. Turning to check, I saw a convoy of six armored vehicles.

I stepped aside and continued trudging forward. I was too exhausted to notice at first, until a rancid sour odor—strong enough to overpower even the stench of the swamp—crept into my nose. That was when I realized something familiar was mixed in the air.

I abruptly raised my head. I had already guessed what I would see, but the sight still made my chest tighten.

Tattered scraps of cloth—barely worthy of being called rags—hung from a coat of filthy, greasy, matted fur, doing nothing to conceal the myriad wounds scattered across the body. Some had long since scarred over, warping and whitening the surrounding fur; others were swollen and red, as if the sound of flesh being torn open still echoed from them. Worse still were the ones oozing sickly yellow-green, the unmistakable signs of festering infection.

But what truly unsettled me was not the grotesque injuries, but the lifeless, hollow eyes. All the varying shades of green were drowned in despair, looking like something rotten from the inside out.

Most of the red foxes inside the cage dragged by the middle vehicle were adult males, though there were also females and cubs. But they were all in similarly wretched condition. Whether sitting or lying, some leaning against the metal bars with limbs hanging through, their stillness made it easy to mistake them for corpses—if not for the occasional weak, breathy moan that confirmed otherwise.

I didn’t even realize I was clutching the clasp of my cloak brooch until I felt the sharp sting in my palm. I quickly let go and used the excuse of adjusting my clothes to brush myself off, trying to hide my unease.

Perhaps it was because they were my kin, even if it was all in my head, those imagined eyes full of blame nearly consumed me with guilt—or maybe, I simply knew deep down that this was wrong.

With a sudden loud squelch, one of the vehicle’s tires ran over something, splashing a wave of mud that drenched half my body.

I spat out a curse and tried to wipe it off before it could soak into my clothes.

Perhaps my outburst drew their attention, because the convoy began to slow down and then came to a stop. Behind the glass of the armored vehicle, I saw figures moving inside—likely preparing to disembark. I was about to step forward and protest when a much softer squelch interrupted me.

A red fox had fallen face-down into the mud, paws bound with hemp rope, the other end tied to a large cage mounted on the rear of the vehicle.

Due to the angle, I hadn’t noticed him earlier. Judging by the wet, mud-soaked fur on his bare feet and trousers, I was certain this fox had been walking like that all day—an experience I could personally relate to.

His chest still rose and fell, but he was clearly too exhausted to stand.

I wanted to move closer and check on him, but it felt like something had gripped my legs and locked them in place.

“…Sorry for the inconvenience, but we need your identification.” I forced myself to refocus on the maned wolf who had spoken.

“What?” I hadn’t recovered from the barrage of horrific sights and could only respond with confusion.

“Identification,” he repeated, more slowly this time, his voice deliberately measured, as if trying to project patience. He extended a paw toward me, and I noticed the other paw slowly drifting toward his waist, where a pistol hung.

Not wanting to escalate the situation, I slowly reached into my cloak and retrieved the terminal strapped to my arm for him to scan.

“Lieutenant Santiago, how can you be so rude?” another maned wolf said as he approached, flashing a grin that revealed the tips of his canines. “Take a good look—you’re speaking with a war hero.”

Resisting the urge to reach for my brooch again, I took my terminal back from Santiago.

“Juan Pablo, the maned wolf,” the higher-ranking maned wolf introduced himself, holding out a paw. “May I have the honor of knowing…?”

“Zorro Viera,” I said, stating my family name as I shook his paw. He was stronger than he looked; that uniform likely hid a solid frame.

“To meet the fire fox from the renowned Viera House in person—today truly is my lucky day!” Juan said with a laugh, elbowing Santiago in the ribs. The latter didn’t react much, but I noticed the quick, downward flick of his eyes—enough to make me subtly adjust my belt and pull my sword further under the cloak. “My apologies again for the trouble,” Juan said, gesturing at the mud splattered across me. He removed his cap and bowed. “If you’re willing, perhaps we could offer you a ride, as a form of compensation?”

I glanced between the grinning Juan and the expressionless Santiago, weighing my remaining stamina.

“You’re headed for Matamoros, right?” There really wasn’t anywhere else one would take this road. Santiago nodded, confirming my assumption. “Then I’d appreciate the lift.”

“Excellent!” Juan clapped his paws, and I thought I saw some of the foxes inside the cage flinch. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty of fascinating stories to make this trip more enjoyable!”

“Probably not that many…” I muttered, unsure who I was talking to. “But what was that all about?” Before getting in, I gestured with my snout toward the red fox still collapsed in the mud. I was still wrestling with the thought of whether I should at least help him up.

“Death row inmate,” Juan said as he opened the door for me. We both sat down in the surprisingly spacious back seat.

“I thought participating in combat itself wasn’t grounds for prosecution,” I said, finally finding some relief as the plush seat cushions eased my aching legs.

“He wasn’t a soldier.” Juan shrugged. I heard the doors open and shut as Santiago returned to the driver’s seat, and the armored vehicle resumed its motion. “He was a camp administrator.”

I had seen the reports online about the liberation of the camps and watched the live streams of the trials for the banality of evil, but even so…

“Even so, that just seems… excessive.” I realized too late that I’d spoken my thoughts aloud.

“The mob nearly tore us apart just for not handing him over right away. You should’ve seen how terrifying it got—and I fought in the Siege of Pittsburgh.” Juan shuddered and rummaged under the seat. “But I suppose for a war hero like yourself, that sort of thing must be routine?”

“Not quite as… routine as you’d think,” I deflected, making it clear I didn’t want to talk about it.

“We’re just following orders. The higher-ups want to calm the public, so they’re sending him to Matamoros for a public hanging.” Juan pulled out a metal flask and two glass cups. He poured and handed one to me. “You know how politics works.”

“Higher-ups?” I accepted the cup gratefully and nodded my thanks.

“The age of warlords is ending. A new government is rising on some little island far to the east, about to crown a beloved ruler and usher in the next era… that kind of thing.” Juan waved vaguely in the air, took a sip from his own cup, and glanced at my sword. “If I may be so bold—I imagine you know exactly what I mean.”

“What about the other foxes?” Everyone knew the Senate had invited every sword-wielder across Gaia, but I didn’t like talking about it. I changed the subject more directly this time. “I saw some cubs in there. Surely they’re not part of the evil too?”

“Transitional justice,” Juan said, tilting his head and shrugging. “Beneficiaries of criminal acts. Beyond reclaiming ill-gotten gains, there’s also restitution for the victims—and for society.” He refilled my cup when I finished it.

“Even the cubs?” I asked, sipping the cool water. “And how do you even compensate that? How much is enough?” Images of the camps flashed through my mind. I doubted any amount of restitution could ever be enough.

“I killed for the first time when I was twelve. Some grass-eating bastard burned down my home,” Juan said, turning his gaze toward the brooch on my chest. “Besides, I’m just a soldier. It’s not my job to think that far. You get that, right?”

“Maybe…” I murmured, not planning to give a real answer.

“In the end, the only truth that matters is this—they are them, and we are us. Never end up on the wrong side.” Juan raised his cup in a toast.

I clinked my glass against his without a word. He didn’t seem bothered by the silence and gave me a sly smile.

The rest of the journey passed with light, inoffensive talk—mostly about the weather. All the while, I tried my best not to think about them—my kin, locked away behind metal bars.