It's been a crazy day today... Thank you again everyone!

Grimaud stood at the window and overlooked the battlefield. He extended his scope, chuckled lightly, and then slowly lowered it to the windowsill. The sun was up, and the early morning air brought with it a sky free of clouds, and a subtle breeze that caused the branches of the trees to gently bow to its grace.

"Is something humorous to you?" General Raboin asked as he adjust the armor at his right shoulder. He looked at Gale, who held his weapons belt, quickly grabbed the item from him, and buckled it around his waist. With a slight wave of his hand, he dismissed the boy. Raboin adjusted his sword, his pistol, and the dagger he wore on his belt. His gold powder tin was decorated in a hammered fashion with the head of a tiger. His leather armor, stitched with gold-colored thread, was buckled at the sides and over each of his shoulders. It wrapped tightly around his chest and silver chain-mail hung from his flanks to his hips.

"If you go out there," Grimaud said as he turned from the window and leaned against the frame, "you will end up dead." He crossed his arms over his chest. His long, dark doublet slapped the sides of his thighs, and his wide sleeves exposed the leather straps that protected his arms. The sun reflected off the gold rings on his fingers.

Raboin huffed and shook his head. "By whom?" He looked in the mirror, adjusted the collar of his armor, and then dusted his right shoulder with the tops of his fingers. "You've said that before." He cocked an eyebrow and looked disbelievingly at Grimaud. "It hasn't happened yet, and I have made a living as a general. My men protect me, and I them."

Grimaud paused, rolled his eyes, and then removed a long smoking-pipe from the breast pocket of his doublet. He tapped the bowl on the window sill, knocked the old tobacco remnants from it, and then carefully packed fresh tobacco inside the chamber with the tip of his finger. "Why would the king order his finest regiment to the northeastern front when he could have moved Thorell?"

"Perhaps it's because the king is faithful to family, Grimaud, something you fail to recognize?" Raboin turned, raised his eyebrows, and looked critically at him. "Besides, Thorell is busy to the south." He chuckled to himself. "It would appear the Spanish have shifted their focus elsewhere."

"Or he's smarter than you believe him to be and the Spanish know he's moving north and has shifted their military before he arrives here to assist you?" Grimaud shifted uncomfortably, crossed his arms over his chest and gripped his biceps. He moved his lips around the mouthpiece of the pipe. Grimaud squinted and looked across the field once more. He grabbed the bowl of his pipe with the cup of his hand and said, "I still believe King Louis has sent them here for a reason."

Raboin grunted and shook his head as he returned to look at himself in the mirror. "King Henri loved me," he said, squared his shoulders and looked himself in the eyes. He glanced at Grimaud in the mirror and said, "King Louis adored his father — he would never betray him… even in death."

"King Louis has sent his finest soldiers to assist you in your efforts against the Spanish. They report to the Minister of War who is not a fool, and if you're not careful," he motioned with a tilt of his head toward the battlefield, "you'll find out why. What would it take for you to see the ledge you're so close to falling from?"

"What are you implying?" Raboin turned and looked at Grimaud. "Or better yet. What have you seen?"

Smoke filtered upward as Grimaud exhaled. It shadowed his face, and he looked out the window toward the battle in the distance. "In the heat of battle, the Spanish never fired their cannons — and are still are not firing them, General. The men are retreating to their camps — your time of comfort," he raised his eyebrows, "is at an end. Otherwise it would have been you that met with General Sanchez and not your captains."

Raboin spun and looked at Grimaud in question. "Say that again?"

Grimaud shook his head and puffed on his pipe. "You heard me."

"I hired you to do a job, Grimaud—"

"A job that I have done and I have yet to receive payment for the other," he responded and pushed himself off the wall. He held the pipe in the cup of his hand and pointed the mouthpiece toward Raboin.

"If it's gold that you want, it's gold that you'll receive," Raboin sputtered.

"If you go out there…" Grimaud walked across the room toward the door, "you will not come back. Captain Athos and his Musketeers are here, General, to stop you. Their captain has defied you at every turn. He even sent his injured men back to Paris while you sat in your library and studied the actions of generals who have been dead for decades." He grasped the doorknob and paused. With his back to Raboin, he turned his head and looked at him. "You have lost this battle and your men… your captains, are looking to Athos for answers because you have underestimated the king, the musketeers… and me."

"I wanted him dead," Raboin said, "or have your forgotten my request?" He stepped away from the mirror and glanced toward the window. "I have trusted you to do a job — I have payment, Grimaud," he turned angry eyes toward him, "but you will not receive an ounce until the job is done in its entirety."

"You should never have allowed the king to send them here," Grimaud said. He opened the door and left.

General Raboin watched the door close and listened to the latch click. He swallowed, looked at the window, and then walked toward it.

The fighting had stopped, and the Spanish were slowly retreating across the fields. Many carried their dead, the injured, and a few helped each other. The fields, trenches, and tree lines framed the lifeless bodies of those who gave their lives. Too many to count.

Raboin swallowed, watched the refugees slowly leave the safety of their refuge, and walk toward the fields to help those who suffered. Wounded Musketeers helped each other as they slowly returned to camp. Horses were hitched to wagons and, men too injured to walk, were loaded onto the beds.

Raboin squinted against the early light of the morning sun and caught sight of his captains walking through the field, encouraging their men to get to their feet, seek the attention they needed, and congratulating them on their duty. There was not a clear winner. None that Raboin could see. But what concerned him was the fact that the cannons were no longer being fired, and an army half the size of the Spanish had withstood their strength.

Whatever inspired his men, his soldiers, his army… was the same as what inspired the Musketeers to fight for their king no matter the challenge.

Raboin clinched his jaw and quickly scanned the grounds and squinted as he tried to find the man that had led them to battle. Whether he did it willingly or reluctantly, the results were the same.

Perhaps Grimaud was correct.

Maybe the king knew Raboin was not the man he once was and his devotions no longer belonged to France, but the country of his wife and his children.

Spain.