Chapter Five: Twist of Fate

Hours earlier, Jacques, Siroc and d'Artagnan tried to dissuade Ramón from being a part of the counter charge. It was true the medic had cleared him, but ever since rescuing Ramón from the clutches of the dark order, his friends had been a mite over protective. Siroc had warned that he might experience blackouts after all he had been through…but he had not. Ramón was touched by their concern, of course…but he WAS a musketeer. Musketeers took risks; it was part of the job. He did not need Siroc to tell him that what he had been through had been traumatic. It was. But sitting back while his comrades risked themselves in the king's cause just wasn't his style. When faced with darkness…it was a de la Cruz trait to fight with everything they had. To Ramón's mind, this was no different.

And so it was, the stalwart Spaniard had found himself together with a wedge of blade-bound, driving deep into the enemy forces. Siroc was stationed deeper in the fens with the artillery, but he had started out with Jacques and d'Artagnan beside him. They were determined to watch his back, but in the tide of battle such plans last only until blades are drawn. Ramón sent a silent prayer to the heavens for the safety of his friends and the souls of his enemies, and then urged his stallion into the battle tide.

His blue tunic stood out alongside his companions in black and grey. His blade cut deep. Advance and strike, thrust and cut—it was as if his arm reacted on its own. The battle was fierce, though the blade-bound clearly outclassed their enemy. Ramón had never imagined such consummate warriors in the flesh. Each fought as a hero right out of legend; these were men larger than life. His poet's mind told him that Ares fought beside him, and there was Thor to his left… Romulus and Remus there before him… and who but Hercules could turn the foe with such ease? Atlas, perhaps? Ramón suspected he too could have been counted among the blade-bound. Battle Glory…and death too, for even the old gods could die.

And the enemy…they did not see one Condé…they saw a dozen—hacking, cursing, probing for weakness and finding none. The battle was so fiercely joined and the strand was so narrow that soon much of the fighting was hand to hand, steel against steel… musket and harquebus fired at point blank range. At some point, Ramón had lost his horse. Sweat and grit ran into his eyes, but he did not let that deter him. The Prince le Condé had been thrown from his mount as well and he barely had a hold on the beast's reins.

Ramón dodged other foes, sword in one hand, a dirk in the other, wading through the fray. The man tried unsuccessfully to remount. But the horse danced away. His sides were already bloody from the cruel spurs of the rebel Prince. Ramón thought it would serve the Condé right if the splendid gelding kicked him in the head. Rather than have such a rider, the horse reared and leapt off the strand into the water and began swimming toward the far shore.

The rebel prince drew a pistol and took aim on the beast. And that was when Ramón plowed into him. The musket ball flew wide. But he met the irate Spaniard blade to blade. And that was when Ramón got a very good look at the weapon that tangled with his own. It was long and straight…an archaic design. The crosspiece was shot with gold and a great emerald was set into the pommel. "That is my father's blade," the Spaniard hissed through grit teeth.

"Is it now?" the noble sneered back, and then appeared to look thoughtful for an instant. His eyes unfocused and with a voice accustomed to command he said, "Come to my tent, tonight…alone. Tell no one. I expect we may have something to talk about." Having said that he grabbed hold of Ramón's belt and bandolier, and tossed him into the water after the fleeing horse. Ramón wasn't the best swimmer but like the horse, he thought it best to make his way to shore.

Siroc was there, standing in the cattails. He had been among a dozen sharpshooters crouched behind woven blinds. With his musket resting on his hip, his other hand stretched to help his friend to shore.

"Did you get him?" the Spaniard gasped. "Did you get Condé?"

"No." The inventor sighed. "Just after he tangled with you, he killed one of his own men, stole his horse and was off before I could get a proper shot."

Ramón ground his teeth together, knowing it was his fault. Though Siroc had not said as much, Ramón knew the inventor had purposely held his shot until he knew his friend was clear. "What about—" he began, but Siroc chose to finish the Spaniard's sentence for him.

"—the horse is fine." He motioned to the Prince's former mount tied to a tree farther back into the wood. "A Spanish thoroughbred by the look of him, don't you think?" the inventor asked, carefully leading his exhausted companion deeper into cover.

The gelding was skittish at first, but after some soothing words and an offering of fresh apples, he permitted he them to examine the gouges in his sides. "Not as bad as I'd feared," Ramón whispered to the gentled creature.

"I think he should be yours," Siroc offered. "Seeing how you saved his life." Siroc smiled and clapped him gently on the back.

"I-I don't know." The Spaniard frowned. "He saved his own life, I think. I just helped a little."

The triple blast of a horn indicated the battle was ended. The enemies were fleeing and the royal forces were to fall back to the king's position on the hilltop. They had been victorious.

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"Tell no one…" Ramón could not help but think he may have been a bit premature earlier that day when he had prided himself that Siroc had been wrong about the black outs, for apparently, he must have had one. He recalled nothing after the call to retreat. Now he found himself alone in the woods. Night closed around him and he had no idea which way led back to camp.

The trees all seemed the same and the overcast sky was starless. He had no idea how long he had wandered aimlessly in the darkness when his nose brought him to a halt. He sniffed expectantly just to be sure he had not been deceived, but no, that delectable fragrance could be none other than the most succulent Andalusi chicken, sliced with celery, cucumber, and tomato. His mouth watered…and the rest of him practically trembled with eagerness to trace out the source of that tantalizing smell.

He was in the midst of the camp before he even knew it. No one made a move to stop him, and he barely glanced at the soldiers seated around various campfires or those sleeping in tents nearby. He supposed he must not have wandered as far as he had thought, and that he merely got turned around in the darkness. The royal pavilion was situated at the top of the knoll and surely that must be where the feast was set.

He did not recognize the guards on duty outside the pavilion, but they let him enter without challenge. It was only once inside that he realized his extreme error. At the far side of the banquet table sat none other than Prince Louis Burbon…the Great Condé.