Burchard could see the wisdom in Sir Stone’s suggestion. They had brought four spare horses and could easily bring four more. “We will be right back.”
The squires cantered back to Colonel Frost. I can’t believe there’s only ten. That means fourteen survivors out of sixty in our group. The odds are terrible. I wonder how many rebels there were. Why is the General’s information always wrong? He kept his mouth shut, not wanting to raise his concerns to his friend, not now, when they still didn’t know what they could be facing.
Colonel Frost was where they had left him, propped up against the tree, sipping some water. “Did you find them?”
Ruschmann coughed. “We did, but…um…”
“Spit it out, squire,” Colonel Frost ordered.
“There’s only ten survivors,” Burchard said softly.
“Ten!” gasped the colonel. “How is that possible?”
Burchard spread his hands. “I have no idea, but that is how many we found.”
Colonel Frost smiled sadly. “You should take the horses you came for and head back.”
“How’d you know?” mumbled Ruschmann.
Colonel Frost shrugged. “I just do. That’s one of the things about being an officer. You learn how to read people and situations.”
An hour later, Ruschmann and Burchard returned to Sir Stone. The knight had managed to get four moderately wounded knights situated on the horses, but the remaining knights seemed to have more severe injuries.
“I’m going to need your help for the rest. It was more than I could manage solo.”
Burchard walked over to Sir Michael Cormorant, one of the knights who had bullied the squires with the gear bags. “Sir Cormorant,” he said softly, but did not get a response. The knight wobbled from side to side as he edged closer to the horse that Burchard was holding. He was able to stabilize the stirrup on the opposite side while Sir Cormorant mounted with Ruschmann’s help.
Next, they went over to Sir Phillip Ravenwood, whose eyes were unfocused.
“We are going to help you mount, Sir Ravenwood.”
The knight bobbed his head in what Burchard hoped was agreement. Ruschmann wedged himself under Sir Ravenwood’s arm, supporting the knight as he limped to the horse. It took both of them to lift and shove Sir Ravenwood into the saddle.
Eventually all ten wounded knights were mounted. Some had had to be tied to their saddles, and both squires were riding double with a wounded knight.
The group cautiously worked its way back to where Colonel Frost was waiting. By the time they reached him, it was almost pitch-black. Burchard was not sure how they were supposed to continue in the darkness.
Colonel Frost was on his horse when they arrived. “Good, you’re here. Now let’s tie the rest of these horses together and get going. I don’t want to stay here. It’s too dangerous.” The colonel paused. “However, I want the two squires to go back to Alderth Castle with a warning and request for a healer.”
Burchard asked, “Are you sure? We can help you.”
The colonel replied, “Yes, I’m sure. I just want you to eat a snack and then go. You’ll take four of the extra horses. I know you’re tired, but this is imperative.”
Instead of protesting again, Burchard kept his mouth shut. Sir Peter had told him to follow orders. They were being given orders, and with how exhausted he was, he was not in the mood to protest.
“Yes, sir!” both squires replied in unison.
Covered in dried blood and dirt from head to toe, Burchard and Ruschmann let their horses walk with their hooves almost dragging through the Alderth Castle gate. The four horses they were ponying were not much fresher than Cricket or Chip. The squires had galloped as long as they could sustain it, then took short breaks of walking mixed with galloping. It had been a brutal pace, but Colonel Frost had insisted they make haste and Burchard did not want to let him down. Out of the corner of his eye, Burchard could see a flurry of activity at their arrival. He assumed a runner has been sent to his father.
Sure enough, General Wolfensberger emerged from the large main castle doors, apprehension clear on his face. As they reached the steps, both Burchard and Ruschmann bowed to the General from their saddles.
“Squires, where is everyone else?” General Wolfensberger questioned.
Ruschmann wobbled in his saddle. “Colonel Frost and the rest of the knights are coming. They were going to find somewhere to camp for the night. There’s twelve in the other group. But everyone else…everyone else, sir, is dead.”
The General’s eyes widened in surprise. Burchard’s fingers slackened on the reins as he felt someone tugging on them, afraid to turn toward whoever it was for fear of angering his father.
“Squire, dismount,” said the familiar voice of Captain Thomas. Burchard felt his body being gently tugged out of the saddle. “Is there anything else you need to tell the General?”
Burchard nodded and took a few steps toward his father. “General, sir. Colonel Frost wanted you to know we were badly outnumbered. The information you were given was incorrect.”
“How many rebels were there?” asked the General tersely.
Burchard blew out his breath. “Unfortunately, the colonel did not tell me that before ordering us to leave. Just that it was more than he had expected. From the bodies we found, I would hazard to guess at least three or four to one were the odds, maybe greater.”
The General snarled something under his breath that Burchard was not able to hear.
“Come on, let’s get you some food and bed,” said Captain Thomas. With a gentle hand under the elbows of each squire, he led them away.
8
The next morning, Burchard woke with a start and fell out of his bed. He disentangled himself from the blankets, stood, and stretched. He could hear something from outside the barracks. Hastily, he pulled on pants and a tunic and went to the door, opening it slightly. He gasped as the sunlight hit his eyes, and he realized it wasn’t morning. It was closer to lunch. The sun was high overhead. Blinking to get his eyes to adjust, he observed the people in the courtyard.
