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Acknowledgements
About the Author
Three Brothers Trilogy
The Wolf’s Den
The Hawk’s Flight
The Bear’s Claw
Fire and Wolves: A Tale of Etria
1
On a cold day in the early fall of the year 559, fourteen-year-old Burchard Wolfensberger walked slowly down the well-worn dirt road toward Alderth Castle in northern Etria. The road was lined with a mix of oaks and large pines. The oak leaves had already begun their annual change to the deep reds and oranges of autumn. His horse ambled next to him with a prominent limp, reins draped loosely over its neck. Burchard glanced at his horse and gave him a quick pat before returning to keeping an eye out for any more bandits.
“I think we scared them off,” he said quietly, more to himself than the horse. The horse tossed his head as though in agreement.
Why did I comply with this? Burchard thought. Oh yes, because the assignment was going to be simple. I just had to go to the farm a few miles down the road, give the farmer a letter, and then come back. Except then there were bandits.
Burchard got lost in his thoughts and stopped watching the road. Suddenly, the ground began to vibrate.
“Uh-oh,” Burchard whispered to the horse and scooted them to the side of the road. The vibrations turned into a rhythmic clanking of chain mail and plate armor of at least a full squad of knights, if not more. Keeping his eyes trained on where the knights would become visible, Burchard gave an involuntary shudder. Please don’t be Father. Pease don’t be Father, he fervently prayed.
The knights came into view. He could clearly see a dark-blue standard with a howling white wolf. With a deep sigh, Burchard threw his shoulders back to stand at attention, waiting for his father, General George Wolfensberger, to reach him. Now that Burchard had been under his father’s command for several weeks, he knew what was expected of him when they were around other knights. The first day at Alderth Castle, his father had put him in the stocks in the yard for over an hour for speaking out of turn. He had clearly been mistaken in assuming his father would at the very least treat him like any other squire. Instead, it was obvious that whatever had come between them five years ago was still at the forefront of the General’s thoughts when it came to his middle son.
At the General’s signal, the squad halted a few paces from Burchard. Burchard held his breath, crossing his fingers behind his back, hoping his father was in a good mood. To Burchard’s surprise, the General dismounted from his horse and walked over on foot.
“General Wolfensberger,” Burchard said formally, with a bow.
“Squire Burchard,” the General replied, before he stepped closer to the injured horse. Burchard watched as his father expertly ran his hands over the horse’s legs. The inspection stopped when he reached the deep cut on the left hind leg. “Explain yourself,” the General said quietly.
Burchard straightened his shoulders and responded, “General, I took the letter to the farmer as ordered. When I was far enough away from the farm that I could not call for help, three bandits attacked me. I was able to scare them off. My horse was brilliant…” He gulped, realizing his slip—his father didn’t care about horses or what they did or didn’t do. Burchard fell silent, waiting for his father to reprimand him. Once again, his father surprised him by ignoring the comment about the horse.
“The wound is clean, or as clean as you can get it in the field. Would you like to ride back? I can have one of the other knights walk your horse,” the General offered.
Burchard narrowed his eyes, trying to keep his face as blank as possible. This is a test. It has to be. He would never let me trade places with a full knight for an injured horse.
Doing his best to not roll his eyes at his father in front of the squad of knights, Burchard cleared his throat. “Thank you, General, for the kind offer. I would prefer to walk the horse back myself and make sure he is under the care of the medic.” Burchard stood quietly, waiting for his father’s response.
The General reached out and squeezed Burchard’s hand—recognition that he had said the right words. “I will see you tonight at dinner. Don’t be late.”
With that, the General turned on his heel and mounted his horse. With an unspoken command, the knights resumed their march toward Alderth Castle.
Burchard let out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he was holding as the squad disappeared. “C’mon. We’d better get going so you can get to the medic, and I can get cleaned up before dinner.”
The horse grabbed ahold of Burchard’s shirt and mashed it around his mouth before spitting it out.
“Ewwww,” Burchard said, looking at his shirt, now covered in green slime and drool.
A couple of hours later, an exhausted Burchard trudged into the stable at Alderth Castle.
“Burchard!” a familiar voice called to him from one of the stalls.
Burchard laughed and shook his head. “Captain Thomas?”
The captain stepped out of the stall with his medical bag in hand. “The General said you would need my services,” the captain said, and then whistled as he laid his eyes on the horse’s wound. “What happened?”
Burchard watched as the captain ran his hands over the horse’s back leg, fingers gently probing around the wound. “Bandits. When we got clear of them, I cleaned the wound as you taught me, but I didn’t have any supplies with me to dress it.”
The captain shook his head. “You did well. I just can’t believe your horse was willing to walk back for you.”
Burchard shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s not like he was going to just lie down and refuse to walk.” The captain gave him an odd look. “What?”
