Free Creative Writing Examples #18 Reading Book "for honor"

. . . She awoke to the sound of rustling straw and propped herself up on her elbows. A moment later, she put her hand on the hilt of her sword and looked around the interior of the stables. She swallowed several times as he calmed his racing heart.

There it was again. That was not a horse. Those were the footsteps of men trying to hide his approach. Easy, Laurel told herself as she quietly got to her feet.

Laurel took several stealthy steps and peeked around the corner to see the shadowy silhouette of three men. One of them turned to look back and pressed herself against the wall, biting her lip to prevent a sharp intake of breath that would reveal her presence.

When she was sure the men were once again focused on entering the inn, she groped inside her vest and drew out the small pistol that had once belonged to her mother. She reached inside her cloak again and pulled out a ball and a powder horn. Carefully, she readied her weapon and set off, noiselessly, in pursuit of the three uninvited visitors. Her mouth fell open as she watched them lean a ladder against the side of the building and next to the window. That was Athos’s room, wasn’t it?

Laurel awkwardly held the gun to her mouth and sent a quick prayer to the Almighty before testing her ability or lack of it to scale walls, especially with a gun in her mouth. Beads of sweat trickled down her forehead and she didn’t dare wipe them away, but she had to allow them to sting her eyes. Her arms trembled under the strain and her mouth trembled. She parbleu, the weapon was heavier and bigger than it looked, and she couldn’t afford to lose it and have it explode.

Finally, he dropped out of the second-story window and took the gun out of his mouth, panting. His hands were shaking as he primed the weapon again and looked for the servants’ entrance to Athos’s room, hoping he hadn’t thought to lock it. She had a bad feeling about this. Very bad.

As he opened the servants’ entrance, he heard the telltale movement of a wheel and propelled himself headlong into the chamber, yelling, “Athos,” at the top of his lungs.

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

Seeing that another assailant who had just entered the room was about to shoot the injured and helpless man, Laurel took aim, cocked her own gun and pulled the trigger.

This was a time when she was thankful that her mother had one of the first flintlocks. The man fell back with a cry of agony, clutching what was left of his face before he died. He tossed the empty weapon aside and drew the sword from him, quickly deflecting a second blade away from Athos.

Athos backed away and spun to meet his opponent’s attack, winning when the impact rocked his useless, bleeding shoulder. He wasn’t prepared to meet his maker tonight, he informed himself as he pushed his opponent away with a mighty shove. He spun and lunged, parrying and dodging as he fought nausea and the ringing in his own head. Carelessly, he deflected another blow, cursing the injury that prevented him from fighting with his usual brutal efficiency.

However, he had to finish it quickly before the man wore him down and killed him. Desperately he took a deep breath and sent a prayer to God, hoping that, as Aramis had once said in a similar situation, “You see there is a God.”

Athos screamed and charged at his opponent, catching him off guard, and felt the blade pierce through the man who fell to his knees, trembling as blood gushed from his gaping entrails. Fortunately, he lost consciousness before the blood loss killed him.

It was then that Athos turned to see his savior cut down the last assassin and wipe his sword clean before sheathing it. Athos made a clumsy attempt to retrieve his own sword from the dead man’s body, but only staggered.

Laurel’s head snapped up when she heard the musketeer stumble and she ran to his side, hooking her arm under his good shoulder and guiding him towards the bed. “Come on, Athos, help me,” she said, her words between gasps of air. “I have to get you to this bed before you collapse. I’m not strong enough to do it alone. Come on, help me, man. Help me! You are too heavy for me to carry alone.” At least when she was as tired as she was now.

From the corridor, a loud voice called, “Athos, are you okay? Answer me, are you okay? Open the door.” The door rattled but barely hit the lock.

Laurel glanced over her shoulder as she placed Athos on the bed, and Porthos bolted through what was left of the broken door, closely followed by Aramis and d’Artagnan.

The musketeers stopped in their tracks as they collected the three corpses and the young man standing over Athos’s motionless body. “Don’t just stand there,” Laurel ordered as she ripped the cloth from Athos’s shoulder to expose the ugly bullet wound. “Help me save his life or at least his arm.”