Chronicles of sword and.., p.1
Chronicles of Sword and Fang, page 1
Chronicles of Sword and Fang
Copyright © Elizabeth R. Jensen 2024
All rights reserved
Gryphon Publishing
Jefferson, GA 30549
www.gryphon-publishing.com
ISBN: 979-8-9885971-4-8
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a database and retrieval system or transmitted in any form or any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the owner of the copyright and the above publishers.
Please do not participate in or encourage the piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Editing by Pam Elise Harris
Cover Design and Interior Design by The Illustrated Author Design Services
Map Design by The Illustrated Author Design Services
Table of Contents
Copyright
Other Books
Map
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
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?”
“Most horses would have done just that if all you did was clean this wound. You have an uncanny way with horses…although I suspect it’s not just horses,” the captain said as he rummaged through his bag for a packet of herbs to make a poultice. “Are you sure you’re not a mage?”
Burchard gasped, his eyes narrowing in anger. “Me, a mage?” His temper flared. “How can you say that?”
The captain held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry…it’s just some mages can, you know…talk to animals. Some can even become animals. I just thought…”
Burchard growled before forcing words out. “I am not a mage. Just because I like animals and they like me doesn’t mean there is magic involved.” Burchard paced in the aisle, furious that the captain, who he thought was his friend, could even suggest that he had magic. Old memories flashed through his mind.
“Burchard!” his mother called.
A young boy with a mop of curly blond hair, not more than five, came running to the house, carrying a squirming puppy.
“Momma, can I keep him?” he asked quietly, eyes hopeful. His mother was about to answer him when she gazed down at the puppy. Big, dark gray, with golden eyes and huge teeth.
“Wolf!” she screamed and yanked at Burchard’s arms, causing him to drop the puppy. His mother picked him up and ran back into the house screaming, “Wolf! Wolf!”
He thought he heard the puppy yelp but wasn’t sure as his mother carried him farther and farther into the castle, away from his puppy. Finally, she set him down and kneeled in front of him.
“How could you do that, Burchard? Endanger all of us with a wolf?” she said angrily, shaking him.
“It’s just…it’s just a puppy,” Burchard whispered, trying to keep himself from crying. Heavy footsteps came in behind them, and Burchard gulped in fear.
“You brought a wolf into this house. Why?” said General George Wolfensberger in his quiet, scary voice.
Lip quivering, Burchard turned to face his father. “The puppy is my friend.”
“The puppy is a wolf…you cannot be friends with a wolf. They are wild animals and not trustworthy.” His father paused, and a strange look crossed his face. He grabbed Burchard’s chin hard and turned his face this way and that. “Are you a mage, boy?”
Burchard shook. “A…mmmm…mmm…. mage?”
The General looked at his wife. “We need to have him tested.”
A shiver went down Burchard’s spine as he tried to shake off the old memories. The testing had been physically and mentally brutal. Because they had thought he had animal magic, they tortured him to try to get him to shift into one. Then, when that didn’t work, they went to work on the wolf puppy.
He turned and headed back down the aisleway toward the captain. “I assure you, Captain Thomas, that I am not a mage. The General made sure of that long ago.”
He watched the captain digest that tidbit of information as he finished applying the poultice to the horse. In Etria, for as long as Burchard could remember, mage testing was accomplished by pushing a child suspected to be a mage until they performed magic. Usually, heightened emotion was the trigger. Because having a mage in the family usually increased their status in the eyes of the king, families went to great lengths to be sure that child was a mage. Burchard had made a vow to himself after his testing that he would never allow anyone to be tested like that, not if he could help it. Nine years later, he still wasn’t sure how he would accomplish that—other than if he were blessed with children of his own, to not permit them to be tested in such a way.
Captain Thomas coughed. “I will leave you instructions for how to make more of the poultice. You’ll need to change it out once a day for a week. Stall rest only. After the week, you can begin hand-walking, two laps around the training yard twice a day for two weeks. Then, we’ll see. I would advise finding a horse you can borrow for the time being. I’m sure your knight master is going to need you to be able to ride.” The captain led the horse into a stall and removed its bridle before stepping out. He offered the bridle to Burchard.
Burchard took it. “Thank you.”
The captain nodded, gathered his things, and departed. Burchard watched the captain leave and then finished putting away his riding gear in the room at the far end of the stable that was set aside for such things. Slinging his pack over his shoulder, he headed out of the stable and walked face-first into someone much taller than he was.
“Sorry,” he muttered and was greeted by a familiar chuckle. Taking a hasty step backward, Burchard looked up. His knight master, a tall, lanky man with short-cropped brown hair and a graying beard, peered down at him with bright green eyes.
“Sir Peter,” Burchard said with a bow.
“I heard you had trouble with bandits today,” Sir Peter Windemere said casually.
Burchard bit back his initial response. Sir Peter was much more easygoing than his father, but he’d been serving under him for barely a month and didn’t feel confident in their relationship yet. “Yes, sir. Captain Thomas helped patch up my horse,” he replied, hoping Sir Peter would move out of the way so he could go get cleaned up before the dinner bell rang.
“Tomorrow morning, we are supposed to practice with Sir Daniel and Squire Ruschmann,” Sir Peter informed Burchard as he stepped to the side so the squire could pass.
Burchard let a small smile escape as he moved past Sir Peter toward their barracks. His knight master would not get reprimanded for being late, but Burchard definitely would. “They’re here?” Still smiling, he recalled the last conversation he had with Ruschmann, when his friend had mentioned they could be coming north when he saw him this past spring, but he hadn’t had any word since then. Although Ruschmann Blackwell was a year older than Burchard, Burchard had found that he had more in common with him than he had with his own brothers. They had spent many evenings together practicing sword work or going over assignments the three years they were pages together.
Sir Peter nodded and turned, heading toward the barracks they were assigned to. “Yes. I don’t know how long they will be here for, but it should be least a few days. There have been some small skirmishes at the Stinyia border with rebels, and I believe Sir Daniel is headed there.” Burchard was about to ask another question when Sir Peter held his hand up to stop him. “No, we haven’t gotten any orders yet. It is only a matter of time though.”
Burchard opened the door to the barracks and followed Sir Peter in. He went straight for his bed and small chest of drawers. Burchard pulled out a clean tunic, pants, and undergarments.
“You’d better hurry!” Sir Peter called from farther back in the room.
Sighing and wishing he had time for a bath, Burchard hastily yanked off his boots and stripped, dropping his stinky clothing in a heap and pulling on the clean clothes. Then, Burchard walked to Sir Peter’s space. The knight had the same bed, a slightly larger chest of drawers, and a desk.
“The water is still warm. You should at least clean the dirt off your face.”
Burchard took the washcloth off the rim of the bucket and dunked it before scrubbing his face. When finished, he looked in the mirror. Bright blue eyes peered back at him. His blond hair was matted and in need of a comb or a haircut.
Gong!
“We’re out of time,” Sir Peter said, standing up. Burchard glanced at his knight master, unspoken question in his eyes. “You’re presentable enough. He knows you had to take care of the horse.”
Burchard didn’t comment, not feeling nearly as confident as Sir Peter that his father wouldn’t chew him out for his appearance and clear lack of a bath.
2
Burchard followed Sir Peter into the dining hall within Alderth Castle. The dining hall was situated in the center of the castle. High overhead were large wood beams. Huge metal circles hung from the beams, holding oil lamps that provided the light for the room. The castle staff would lower and raise them using a pulley system that was somehow hidden within the beams. In the center of the dining hall was the main table that ran the length of the whole room. The loud rumble of the officers’ voices made it difficult to pick out any individual. Weaving through the crowd, Sir Peter led them toward the head of the table where the General was sitting. The seats at his immediate right and left were open, while the others were full. As they approached, Burchard caught his father’s eye and gave him a brief salute. General Wolfensberger nodded in acknowledgement and waved his hand to indicate the empty seats were for Burchard and Sir Peter.
Sir Peter slid into the seat on the left, leaving the one on the right for Burchard. Burchard pulled out the seat, bowed to his father, and then sat down quietly. He was not surprised when his father began speaking to Sir Peter, ignoring him completely. As they launched into a discussion of the day’s events, Burchard found himself listening while trying to be patient for when the food would arrive.
“I’ve heard a few rumors that Walter Pell and the Firebirds have resurfaced,” Sir Peter said conversationally to the General, piquing Burchard’s interest.
The General waved a hand in dismissal. “Don’t believe everything you hear, Windemere. I was there the day their encampment was attacked ten years ago, and it was confirmed that Walter Pell and the last of his Firebirds died that day. I was second in command for that campaign, and we had a mage with us to ensure our victory.”
Burchard raised his eyebrow. Mages can’t ensure your victory! What is my father talking about? Sir Peter caught his eye in a warning to stay silent.
Sir Peter replied in a sad voice, “Yes, but at what cost to Etria? I heard about that battle, and it was a devastating loss. I hope you are right that Walter Pell is dead, because if he is involved in any way with the Stinyian rebels, then we have our work cut out for us.”
The General’s eyes blazed with annoyance. “As I said, Walter Pell is dead. Mind you remember who is the general at Alderth Castle and who is just a knight.”
At that precise moment, servants started to bring out platters of food and set them on the table, helping to break the tension. Because of his favored position near the general, Burchard was able to get one of the first cuts of the venison and other dishes.
