“Then we will rescue whoever is still alive in Camp Tooth,” Sir Peter said firmly.
“Just the four of us?” Burchard asked incredulously.
Sir Peter gave him a toothy grin. “We now have five.”
Just then Burchard felt the wolf slide her head under his hand. He looked down and saw Fang’s head tilted up, gazing at him. Her bandage was gone. Since she had initiated contact, he ran his hand across where the wounds had been. Shock lined his face as he felt nothing, no scars. It’s as though the wounds were never there.
Clearing his throat, Burchard spoke. “Let’s get going.”
14
By the time Burchard, Sir Peter, and Fang reached Ruschmann and Sir Daniel on the other side of their campsite, the bodies of the tattooed knights had been moved into a pile. Both knight and squire had small slices in their clothing and were bleeding in a few places, but luckily they had fared better than Burchard and Fang.
“Who is the wolf?” Ruschmann asked in a high-pitched voice.
Burchard gave his friend a small smile, “This is Fang.”
“Where are the horses?” asked Sir Peter, directing the question to Sir Daniel.
Sir Daniel shrugged. “I think they’re somewhere in the trees. Why don’t you have Burchard whistle for Chip? The others will follow her.”
Burchard did as ordered and let out a piercing whistle. Fang whined at his side, and he belatedly wondered if the horses would come with a wolf so close. I guess we shall find out. Soon, they could hear the snapping of twigs and branches, accompanied by soft snorts. The four horses emerged from the forest and stopped a healthy distance away from Burchard and Fang. Eyes rolling so the whites showed, the four horses stood their ground, but would not move any closer.
“They look unharmed,” Ruschmann announced, walking around the four horses and running an experienced eye over them.
“Good, let’s go then. I am not sure what will happen once the sun has risen all the way,” Sir Peter said, eyes going to the sky that was turning pale shades of pink and blue.
Swiftly, the four of them mounted. With an unspoken command, they took off at a gallop and headed for the open gates of Camp Tooth. Burchard glanced to his side and saw Fang, effortlessly keeping pace with the horses. He wondered how long she could keep up. He knew wolves could keep up a steady ground-eating pace for long distances, much like horses, but a sprint like this, he wasn’t sure.
Sooner than he expected, the horses and wolf slowed as the wooden gates loomed ahead. It was eerily quiet. Burchard could feel Chip’s muscles tensing, and he thought he could hear a low growl coming from Fang, but he wasn’t sure. Turning to Sir Peter, he opened his mouth. “Do we—” A quick wave of Sir Peter’s hand had Burchard clamping his mouth shut.
He kept one eye on his knight master and the other trained toward the gate and what awaited them. Instead of going through the gate, Sir Peter led them several paces away, then dismounted. He threw the reins over Mort’s neck, and Burchard, Ruschmann, and Sir Daniel followed suit.
Burchard ran his hand across Chip’s neck. “Stay out of trouble,” he whispered to her before moving toward Sir Peter’s position at the edge of the gate. He could feel Fang as she occasionally brushed against his leg, sticking close.
“We will stay together. Stay alert. We do not know what we shall be facing once we get through the gates,” Sir Peter ordered. Sir Daniel inclined his head in agreement.
Silently, the two knights and their squires crept through the gates. Fang moved away from them, nose to the ground, as though she were looking for something. Burchard surveyed the camp. The knights who had come with them were easy to identify by their armor, which was chain mail instead of plate. He counted ten dead. The ground was splashed with blood in some places, but he could not spot any sign of who had been attacking or that any of the opposing force was killed. How odd.
When it was clear no one was in this part of the camp, Sir Peter motioned for them to fan out. In the middle was the residence Camp Tooth was built around, and below the main house were the dungeons that Burchard and Ruschmann had been held in. Methodically, the four of them inspected each building within the camp, until all that was left was the residence.
Unlike Wolfensberger Castle, which was built to withstand attacks, this building was short and sprawling, making it difficult to defend on its own but useful as a camp headquarters, providing plenty of space for war councils and storage for supplies. It was made of reddish-brown stone, different from the gray-and-black granite that was common throughout Etria. The main level was in the shape of a square with a garden in the center. The level below, which held the dungeons, went underneath the garden too, making it quite large.
Ruschmann opened the front door with a big push. The door banged against the wall, and Burchard grimaced. Anyone inside knows we’re here now. Moments ticked by as they waited for someone to come running out, but nothing happened.
Out of the gloomy residence came a familiar voice. “Burchard.” His eyes narrowed as he recognized Reggie’s voice. “Burchard, help me.”
Overcome with the need to save his brother, Burchard felt himself being drawn inside.
“Burchard,” hissed Sir Peter in warning.
Burchard braced his feet, trying to keep himself from going farther into the house, but he could not keep himself from moving. He tried opening his mouth, but it would not open. He was being pulled and was helpless to stop it from happening.
“Burchard, help me, brother,” Reggie’s voice came again.
Burchard stopped fighting the pull and followed as bidden. Soon he could hear the clang of swords and fighting behind him, and he knew the others were not with him; he was on his own. Winding through the rooms, he came upon an open door to the garden in the middle of the house. His brother stood in the center, facing him. Reggie had several gashes along his arms and one on his left cheek. He held his sword loosely in his right hand, with the tip resting on the grass.
As Burchard crossed the threshold into the garden, the tugging stopped. He stumbled forward and almost dropped his sword. When he regained his balance, he peered at his brother through the blond hair that had swung into his eyes.
“Are you OK?” he asked, taking a few steps toward Reggie until they could almost touch their swords.
“Help me, Burchard,” Reggie pleaded.
Burchard studied his brother’s face, unable to decide if his brother was being serious and truly needed help, or if this was just another game.
“I am here to help you. Where is the rest of the squad?” He peered around, as though the missing knights would just materialize in the garden.
A cackling laugh from behind Burchard had the squire raising his sword and pivoting to protect his brother.
“You!” Burchard growled.
“I knew we would meet again,” replied the tattooed knight with a grin. “My name is Ossa. My sister, who you will meet soon, is Umbra.”
“Let my brother go,” Burchard snarled, debating if he should make the first move against Ossa. He remembered Sir Peter’s instruction: if he had the opportunity to choose when to attack, take it.
Mind made up, Burchard lunged for Ossa. Ossa brought up his broadsword, and they clashed in a mighty clang that shook the walls and sent sparks showering over the grass. Twisting his wrist, Burchard freed his sword from Ossa’s and went for an uppercut. Ossa blocked and parried with a swift combination that forced Burchard to give up some ground, pressing them closer to Reggie.
