Burchard pivoted so he was facing the gate. “He decided to show up now that all the work is done.”
Sir Foxbright also facing the gate, replied, “But he did come.”
Burchard refused to comment, not sure what he wanted to feel about his father coming, just not in time.
26
Burchard stood in the castle courtyard, unable to decide if he should follow Ruschmann to see the wounded or give his father a piece of his mind. He watched as General Wolfensberger rode into Alderth Castle as though he had been the one who just fought the battle. Anger filled Burchard. How dare he. A nudge to his armored leg had him looking down into Fang’s golden eyes. The black wolf no longer looked black. Her coarse fur was plastered to her with a mixture of black and red blood and grayish dust. On her left hip, a patch of fur was missing, and she had a fresh scar.
“I guess you can heal yourself too,” he said, trying to let go of his anger.
Burchard stepped backward as Sir Foxbright, his plate armor covered in ashes and blood, strode forward to greet the General. Burchard hoped he could just find someplace to disappear and not have to listen to whatever nonsense his father was going to say. I know what happened, whether or not that is the tale the General deems worthy of retelling. His back collided with a stone wall. He glanced to the right and then left and realized he had actually made it to the building. Ruschmann caught his eye from where he was waiting at the top of the stairs.
Not wanting to waste time, Burchard ran up the steps and slipped inside the castle. “Are they in the healer suite?”
“No, there were too many wounded, so we had to use the dining hall,” Ruschmann replied solemnly.
Burchard bit his lip. There had been barely one hundred people in Alderth Castle. How many were injured? Keeping his thoughts to himself, he dutifully followed his friend, Fang periodically brushing against his leg as though to comfort him. When they entered the dining hall, he gasped. Everyone except for Sir Foxbright seemed to be in there. Some were walking around sporting bandages and helping with what they could. Others were sitting in chairs as though they were too injured to walk but could at least be upright. Then there were five laid out across the top of the long table.
Burchard’s face blanched as he gazed upon the still forms. The reality of battle, he reminded himself. Step by step, he slowly walked forward, clenching his fists, willing them to stop shaking. Pages and castle staff offered subdued greetings when they saw him. He took his time to acknowledge each individual who addressed him before he finally made it to the table. As much as he wanted to rush to see who was on the table, it dawned on him how much the pages and castle staff needed those few words he said to them.
The first person laid out on the table was one of the groundskeepers. His body was covered in a white sheet and only his face was uncovered. Given the grayish tinge to his skin, Burchard knew without asking that the man was dead.
Pinching his lips together, he moved down the table to the next person. This one was a page. The white linen bandage wrapped around the boy’s head was already soaking through with blood. His left hand was partially bandaged too where his ring and pinky fingers were missing. Burchard spent some time peering at the page, when he realized why under the dirt and grim the face was familiar.
“Theodore?” the words came out barely more than a whisper. The page didn’t move.
Ruschmann bumped Burchard’s shoulder, causing him to jump; he had forgotten his friend was with him. Burchard tilted his head so he could see Ruschmann frowning.
“Yes, that is Theodore. I forgot he’s your brother, otherwise I’d have directed you to him first.” Ruschmann paused. “I think with a healer he will be fine. I doubt his missing fingers can be grown back, but at least it’s on his left hand.”
Burchard nodded solemnly and gave his brother’s uninjured right arm a squeeze. He wasn’t sure if Theodore could hear them or feel the squeeze, but if he could, he wanted his brother to know he was there.
The next two badly injured were pages that Burchard didn’t know, but based on his quick assessment of the severity of their injuries—one had a bandage around his abdomen that was already soaked through with blood, the other was missing a leg and was leaking blood and something else from his head—Burchard doubted they would survive, even with a healer’s assistance.
As they approached the last figure on the table, Burchard immediately recognized Armand’s red hair and rushed forward. “He ran back into the castle after I got him free of Ossa. What happened?” he growled.
Ruschmann clicked his tongue. “The shockwaves. You were closer to them, I think. Didn’t they do damage on the battlefield?”
“Yes, but—” Burchard began.
Ruschmann raised a hand to cut him off. “He fell off the wall, Burchard. He was on his way to give Sir Foxbright a report when the second one hit. He lost his balance and…” Ruschmann closed his eyes as though he was reliving what had happened.
“My father has a healer with him. Surely that will help him and my brother,” Burchard pleaded, unwilling to accept that this young, eager page who had so quickly worked his way into Burchard’s heart could die.
Ruschmann shook his head. “I don’t know. None of us can really tell how badly Armand was injured from the fall. He hasn’t woken up since it happened. Your brother had a piece of the wall hit him on the head, but he didn’t fall twenty feet. You should know that between the two of us, your skills with the medical supplies far outshine mine. We will just have to see what the healer can do.”
Tears slid down Burchard’s face. He felt so helpless. He lost track of time and was only brought back to awareness by a commotion at the doors to the dining hall. Several voices were shouting, followed by loud growls and snarls. Burchard’s eyes snapped open; he was surprised to find himself sitting in a chair. When did I sit down? he wondered.
Directing his attention to the doorway of the dining hall, he saw the General’s head healer, wearing a white robe that even from where Burchard stood looked as though it didn’t have a speck of dirt on it. Fang was nipping at the healer’s heels, driving him forward, while several knights were trying to block their progress. Burchard was frozen in the chair. He knew he should help. He just couldn’t find it in him to correct Fang. So what if she bites him?
Burchard watched them. Fang was relentless. Every time the healer tried to stop, she’d snap at him. He could see a few times when her teeth grazed the healer, and small drops of blood were beginning to fleck his pristine robe. Finally, the head healer’s eyes met Burchard’s. Something Burchard was doing must have been enough for the healer to run over.
“Where are you hurt?” the healer said, taking Burchard’s hand in his.
Burchard snatched his hand back. “It’s not me you need to attend to. It’s the pages, Armand Foxbright and Theodore Wolfensberger.” He pointed to where Armand’s small body lay on the table. The healer nodded and turned toward Armand, letting his hands hover over the page.
“Wolf,” a voice said, causing Burchard to jump in his chair. He realized he must have dozed off again.
“Wolf,” the voice repeated. Burchard looked around for the voice, then heard a giggle coming from the table. Sure enough, Armand was sitting on the table with his legs dangling off of it, and Fang was sitting in front of Armand, tongue lolling to the side. She was back to being clean and pure black.
Someone must have given her a bath, Burchard thought.
“Wolf,” Armand repeated.
Burchard was confused. “Why are you saying wolf? She has a name, you know. Fang.”
Armand giggled again. “I am aware of Fang’s name, silly. I’m calling you Wolf.”
Burchard scratched at his cheek. “I don’t understand.”
Armand rolled his eyes. “I’m giving you a new name. From now on, I am going to call you Wolf.” The page paused. “When Damos woke up from his healing sleep, that is what he called you. Lýkos. I figured that most Etrians would probably freak out if your nickname was in a different language, so it’s just Wolf.”
Burchard was dumbfounded. The centaurs gave me a nickname?
