Chapter Two

Chapter Two: The Fall of Tansmere

The night was quiet—too quiet. Edric stirred awake in the cramped loft above the forge, the unease heavy in his gut. A strange stillness had settled over the village, broken only by the faint rustle of wind. Even the dogs weren't barking, and that wasn't right. Edric sat up, blinking away sleep, just as the sharp scent of smoke reached his nose.

A moment later, the alarm bell rang, its frantic clang splitting the night air.

"Danes!" someone screamed in the distance. "They're here!"

Edric scrambled out of bed, heart pounding. He rushed down the ladder, snatched his sword from where it leaned against the wall, and burst into the forge below.

Outside, Tansmere burned. Flames licked at thatched rooftops, casting wild shadows across the village square. Villagers ran in every direction, screaming as heavily armed Danes stormed through the streets—hulking figures with axes, swords, and spears, their faces painted with grim patterns.

"Stay inside!" Osric barked as he threw open the door to the shop, his face set with grim determination. But Edric was already moving, the fire in his chest burning hotter than any forge.

"Not a chance!" Edric snarled, gripping the hilt of his sword. "I won't stand by while they slaughter us."

Osric grabbed Edric's arm, his old eyes hard with warning. "You've never fought men like these before, boy. They don't leave survivors."

Edric wrenched his arm free. "Then it's a good thing I don't plan on dying."

Before Osric could stop him, Edric threw open the forge door and stepped into the chaos.

The first Dane that crossed Edric's path was a broad-shouldered warrior wielding a rusted axe. Edric saw the glint of murder in the man's eyes as he came charging forward, swinging wildly. Time slowed as Edric braced himself, heart thundering in his chest.

The Dane's axe whistled toward his head—but Edric was fast. He ducked under the blow and came up hard, thrusting his sword into the man's side. Blood sprayed, hot and slick, as the warrior crumpled to the ground with a guttural moan.

Edric stood over the body, chest heaving. It was the first man he had ever killed—and it had been easier than he expected. Edric had imagined his first kill a thousand times in idle moments—an act of skill and glory. But as the Dane slumped lifeless at his feet, the reality was colder. The man's blood soaked the earth beneath Edric's boots, and the metallic scent filled his nostrils. His heart pounded, but there was no time to dwell on what he'd done.

Another scream ripped through the night.

"Father!" Edric's stomach twisted as he spun toward the forge. Flames had begun to lick the side of the building, and from somewhere within came the crash of metal—Osric, still fighting.

Edric sprinted across the street, dodging a pair of villagers fleeing for their lives. Chaos churned around him—houses burned, livestock bolted through the village, and the cries of the dying filled the night. But Edric's focus narrowed to the blacksmith shop ahead, where two Danes kicked the door in and entered.

Edric roared and charged the nearest of the Danes from behind. The warrior barely had time to turn before Edric slammed into him, driving the point of his sword beneath the man's ribs. The Dane gasped, his weapon clattering to the ground as Edric twisted the blade free. His arrogance melted away in that moment, replaced with a grim realization—this was life and death, not glory.

The second Dane came at him, swinging a heavy axe in an arc aimed for Edric's head. Edric ducked low, narrowly avoiding the blow, and the axe buried itself in the wood of the forge door. Before the man could recover, Edric surged forward, smashing the hilt of his sword into the warrior's face. Bone crunched beneath the blow, and the man crumpled, groaning in pain.

Edric stood panting, his hands trembling. The thrill of victory felt hollow—each breath reminded him that he was alive because someone else wasn't.

Edric kicked the door open and found his father inside, locked in combat with a third raider. Osric fought with the skill of a seasoned blacksmith, wielding a hammer like a club, but his strength was faltering. Edric rushed forward, but not fast enough.

The Dane drove a dagger deep into Osric's side, and Edric's father let out a sharp gasp. With a roar, Edric lunged, his sword slashing down in a deadly arc. The raider tried to block, but Edric's fury lent strength to the blow—his blade bit into the man's collarbone, and he crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Edric dropped to his knees beside his father.

"No, no, no…" Edric muttered, pressing his hands to the wound, but the blood poured too fast. Osric's face was pale, and his breathing shallow.

Osric coughed, a grimace of pain crossing his features. "Stubborn as always, boy… Should've stayed put."

"Save your strength." Edric's voice cracked. He pressed harder on the wound, but it was no use—Osric's life was slipping away.

Osric gave a weak laugh. "I always knew… you'd be more than a smith." He gripped Edric's arm with surprising strength, forcing him to meet his gaze. "You were born for more than this forge, Edric. You have strength… but it's your heart that'll make you great."

Edric shook his head, blinking back tears. "Don't talk like that. You'll make it."

His father smiled, the kind of smile Edric had seen so many times before, full of quiet wisdom. "Listen, boy… The forge isn't where you belong. Find your own path… Fight for something greater." His grip loosened as the light dimmed in his eyes. "Make me proud."

And then he was gone.

Edric knelt there, unmoving, as the forge burned around him. The world blurred through a veil of smoke and grief. His father was gone, the man who had shaped him in every way that mattered. But the man's final words echoed in Edric's mind: Find your own path… Fight for something greater.

The fire spread, and Edric knew he had to move. He closed his father's eyes with shaking hands, then stood.

There was no time to mourn—not yet. The Danes were still here, and the village was still burning.

As Edric stumbled out of the forge, he saw a group of fyrd fighters trying to form a desperate defense near the village square. They were hopelessly outnumbered, but they fought with the fury of men who knew their homes, their families, and their lives depended on it.

"Edric!" one of the fighters called, a lad named Willas, his face streaked with soot and blood. "The Danes are regrouping. We need to hold them off until the women and children escape!"

Edric tightened his grip on his sword. Grief could wait. Right now, he had a fight to finish.

He sprinted toward the square, joining the small band of defenders just as a dozen Danes charged forward, axes and swords gleaming in the firelight. Edric raised his blade, and the two sides clashed with a sound like thunder.

Edric's training at the forge gave him an edge—he moved with speed and precision, striking where the Danes left openings. He parried a sword thrust aimed for his heart, then pivoted and drove his blade into a warrior's side. The man collapsed, screaming, but another took his place immediately.

Edric fought like a man possessed, the world narrowing to the flash of steel and the dull thud of bodies hitting the ground. He dodged an axe, slashed at a raider's throat, and felt the spray of blood on his face.

But despite their bravery, the defenders were being overwhelmed. One by one, Edric's comrades fell—some cut down mid-swing, others dragged screaming into the flames.

The Danes pressed forward, relentless. Edric's muscles burned, and every swing of his sword grew heavier. His arrogance was gone now—this was no heroic adventure, no romantic tale of glory. This was survival.

He fought until his arms felt like lead and his breath came in ragged gasps. Then, just as he thought he would be cut down, a horn blew from the woods to the east.

The Danes hesitated, glancing toward the sound. A moment later, a group of mounted Wessex warriors charged into the village, swords flashing in the firelight. The Danes broke and ran, retreating into the darkness as the reinforcements overwhelmed them.

Edric dropped to his knees, exhausted. Tansmere was saved—but at a terrible cost.

As the fires burned low and the dawn began to break, Edric stood in the ruins of his village. His father was dead, his home destroyed. But Osric's final words stayed with him, filling the empty space in his heart with a sense of purpose.

There was nothing left for him here. The forge belonged to the past.

With a final glance at the burned-out remains of his father's shop, Edric sheathed his sword and turned toward the road. His journey was just beginning.