Burchard picked up a knife and set his feet so his weight was back on his right dominant leg. He adjusted his grip slightly on the knife and then, focusing on his target, swung his right arm out in front of himself and released the knife. It traveled in a fairly straight line but fell short of the target. Ruschmann tried and had the same issue.
“Everything you did was correct. You just need a little bit more power behind the throw to get the extra distance you need,” Sir Daniel explained.
Burchard nodded. It made sense since he had decided to not get too carried away with the amount of power he put into a throw until he was more familiar with this type of weapon. He reset himself, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. When he opened them, he tuned everything out except the center of the target. He swung his arm down, and everything was perfectly straight. He watched the knife sail through the air far faster than it had last time. It went over the top of the target and kept going. Eyes wide in horror, Burchard watched his knife glance off a knight in plate armor, a knight who happened to be walking somewhere no one was supposed to be—behind the targets. He began growling, at himself more than anyone else, at his stupidity.
“Who threw the knife?” roared General Wolfensberger.
Burchard felt the blood draining from his face. I threw a knife at my father. Beside him, he could hear Ruschmann muttering curses. Burchard kept his eyes trained on the ground, dread growing at what would happen when the General reached them.
“You!” snarled the General.
Burchard looked up, meeting his father’s gaze. “Sorry, sir. My intent was not to hit anyone.”
“Your intent?” sputtered General Wolfensberger. “Why would you be throwing knives at all? That is not a skill that is necessary for squires or knights to have.”
Sir Daniel opened his mouth to say something, but the General waved him away. “Because of your utter disregard for the people around you, neither one of you will be permitted to join us when we depart to fight the rebels.”
Ruschmann wisely stayed silent. Burchard waited for his father to say something else, to dole out a punishment even harsher than being left behind. But it never came. Instead his father turned his attention to Sir Daniel. Burchard stood there staring at the ground and listening to their discussion.
“I don’t know what possessed you to teach these two squires to throw knives, but it is not a skill they need. Because of your thoughtlessness, they will now stay here with the pages instead of getting experience in a battle campaign. You and Sir Windemere, however, will still be required to come with the rest of us. Do not disappoint me again, or there will be much more severe consequences,” the General said coldly.
Burchard kept his eyes on the ground until he heard his father move away.
“I’m sorry,” said Sir Daniel. “I didn’t expect the General to be nearby when we started. If I had known, then I could have waited to teach you this.”
Burchard met the knight’s gaze. He could see how upset the knight was at having put the squires in this position. “He didn’t whip us.”
“Yes, I suppose that is consolation. I know he enjoys punishing you in that manner. Anyhow, I will put the throwing knives away, and the two of you can go do something else for a while. I’d recommend staying clear of the General though, lest he changes his mind about your punishment,” Sir Daniel said calmly.
“See you later, sir,” Burchard said with a bow and departed.
The next morning was surprisingly warm. Burchard was heading to the training yard to begin his morning sword work when he crossed paths with Sir Peter.
“I’m sorry that you have been ordered to stay here and help with the pages when they arrive,” Sir Peter said in a soft voice.
Shoulders slumped forward, Burchard felt as though all the energy had been sucked out of him. His father didn’t believe he deserved a place on the battlefield, again, but Reggie would be there at the General’s side, no doubt. “We get to babysit,” he uttered.
Sir Peter reached a hand out and squeezed Burchard’s shoulder. “I know you’re unhappy, but it is out of my control. I tried, trust me—I tried to get him to change his mind. Nothing I said would sway him.”
Mutely, Burchard took his sword and walked to the training yard, wanting to lose himself in his sword work and not waste another thought on his father.
Sweat trickled down his back and arms. Burchard could feel the familiar burn as he went through exercise after exercise, his muscles protesting at how long he had been working. Finally, Burchard lowered his sword. His canteen was on a strap hanging on the fence post. As he reached for it, he heard a delicate cough behind him.
Turning slowly, he met Lady Gladys’s gaze and offered her a tentative smile. “Hi.”
“This is for you,” she said and shoved the tray she was holding into his arms.
He studied its contents, but when he looked back up to thank her, she was gone. Burchard glanced at Fang. What was that about? he wondered, then shrugged. I’ll have to see if I can play cards with her soon to make up for whatever upset her.
Burchard found a bench and sat down, placing the tray carefully beside him. There was a roll studded with raisins and dusted in cinnamon, some sort of jam tart, and a small strip of raw meat.
“I think this is yours,” he said, setting the plate of raw meat on the ground. Fang gobbled it up and then proceeded to wash the plate. They had been regularly hunting outside of the castle, so he knew she wasn’t truly hungry, but he was touched that Lady Gladys had been kind enough to bring something for the wolf. Most of the people in the castle ran in the other direction when Burchard and Fang approached, their fear of wolves too long ingrained to be casually forgotten.
Instead of worrying about why Lady Gladys vanished so quickly, Burchard picked up the roll and took a bite. It was still warm. He savored the taste of the cinnamon and raisins and some other flavors he couldn’t identify. He shut his eyes as he chewed. He felt Fang place her muzzle on his knee. He cracked his eye open.
“Do you want some?” he asked, offering her a piece of the bread. Fang sneezed and backed up a few steps. Burchard laughed. “That’s what I thought.”
He made quick work of the roll and the jam tart. When he was done, Burchard was ready to continue his sword practice. The healer wanted him to focus on stretching and strength exercises. Burchard was lost in his thoughts about different sword combinations when he heard a cough. He whirled, hand instinctively going to his sword.
“Are you going to stab me?” taunted Reggie.
Burchard bit the inside of his cheek to keep the retort that came so easily from passing his lips. He hadn’t spoken to his brother since their strange encounter at Camp Tooth, and he was hesitant to believe that Ossa doing some sort of mind control was enough of a jolt to cure Reggie of his hatred for him.
“What do you want?” Burchard replied, keeping his voice even.
“I heard that you can use a sword today. I thought I would come spar with you before I have to go,” Reggie said in a tone Burchard hadn’t heard in a long time. It was almost as if he cared that they likely wouldn’t see each other for a few weeks. How odd.
“Yes, I can use a sword today.” Unwilling to openly invite his brother to spar, Burchard skipped that step and asked the next pertinent question. “Have you warmed up already?”
Reggie nodded. “Yes, I was just practicing with my bow before I came over here. I’m all warmed up.”
“All right then.” Burchard swung his sword a few times before stepping into position in the middle of the ring.
When Reggie was ready, they crossed swords. “One. Two. Three.”
On three, Reggie sidestepped to the left before using a sweeping uppercut. The first thing Burchard noticed was the speed of the strike. Typically, Reggie came at him hard and fast. This strike, at least, was not that way. It was at a moderate speed, as one would expect at the beginning of a sparring match. Burchard smoothly brought his sword up, blocking, and then with a twist of his arm, disengaged their swords and parried, striking at his brother’s middle. And so the match went, neither brother gaining nor losing much ground.
