Chapter Three

Chapter Three: The Call to Arms

The morning after the raid on Tansmere, the smell of smoke still lingered in the air, mixing with the scent of wet earth. Edric sat on the remains of a stone wall, gripping the hilt of his sword with white-knuckled hands. His body ached from the previous night's fight, but his heart carried a heavier burden—grief for his father and anger toward the Danes. He knew his life had changed forever. The forge was gone, and his future lay elsewhere.

He stared down the empty road leading away from the village, his thoughts restless. What now? The question gnawed at him. There was no peace left here, only ruin.

By midday, riders arrived—messengers bearing the crest of King Alfred. One by one, they stopped at the ruins of Tansmere, calling for every able-bodied man to join the fyrd.

A messenger dismounted near Edric and addressed the gathered survivors. "King Alfred calls upon all free men to fight. The Danes have taken too much already, but Wessex will not fall. Gather your arms and provisions—we march within the week."

The men around Edric exchanged glances, some grim, others determined. They were farmers, herdsmen, and craftsmen, men with more experience tilling fields than wielding weapons. But the call to defend their land was clear.

Edric stood, his decision already made. "I'm going," he said quietly to no one in particular. His jaw clenched as memories of his father's final moments surged through him. He would fight—for Tansmere, for his father, and for himself.

The following day, Edric joined the local fyrd—a ragtag group of villagers, outfitted with mismatched weapons and dented armor. Most carried farming tools reworked into crude weapons, while others had bows slung across their backs. Edric was one of the few with a proper sword.

He stood among them, gripping his weapon tight, feeling the weight of his decision settling on his shoulders. He had trained with blades for years in the forge, but this—this was different. The reality of marching into battle made his palms sweat, and doubt crept into his mind.

As he adjusted his sword belt, an older warrior approached him. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, his chainmail marked with dents and rust. A scar ran down his cheek, and his eyes had the cold, distant look of someone who had seen too much. "A new recruit?" the man asked, his voice gravelly but not unkind.

"I'm Edric," he replied, trying to sound confident. "And I know how to fight."

The older man chuckled. "Oh, do you now?" He extended a hand. "Name's Aelfric. Stick close to me, lad. War's not just about swinging a sword."

Over the next few days, Edric marched with the fyrd through the countryside, the weight of his armor unfamiliar on his shoulders. The road stretched long before them, and at night, they camped beneath the stars, sharing stories around the fire.

But Edric found it hard to relax. Fear gnawed at him, despite his earlier bravado. Every step closer to battle made his heart race faster. What if he wasn't ready? What if he failed when it mattered most?

On the second night, Aelfric sat down beside him, chewing on a piece of stale bread. "You're afraid," the older man said bluntly.

Edric bristled. "I'm not afraid," he lied.

Aelfric gave him a knowing look. "We're all afraid before our first battle, lad. Only a fool isn't."

Edric stared into the fire. "What if I'm not good enough?" he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Aelfric grinned. "You will be. It's not about being the best with a blade—it's about keeping your head when everything goes to hell." He clapped Edric on the shoulder. "And it will go to hell. Trust me."

Edric gave a small nod, some of his tension easing. Aelfric's confidence was steadying, like an anchor in the storm of Edric's doubt.

On the third day of marching, the fyrd reached the River Kennet, where scouts reported that a Danish war band was encamped on the other side. It was Edric's first real battle, and the tension among the men was palpable.

Aelfric nudged him. "Stay close, Edric. No heroics. Just keep your shield high and your sword ready."

Edric gave a curt nod, though his heart hammered in his chest. He flexed his fingers on the hilt of his sword, trying to calm himself.

The fyrd advanced in a shield wall, the wooden shields locking together with a dull thud. The air was thick with tension, broken only by the cries of the Danes across the river.

"Hold!" the fyrd captain shouted as they reached the water's edge. The Danes were forming ranks, preparing to charge. Then the battle began.

The Danes hit the shield wall like a storm, and suddenly, the world exploded into chaos.

Edric locked his shield with the men beside him and braced as a Danish warrior crashed into him, an axe slamming against his shield. The force of the blow rattled his bones, but Edric held firm.

He shoved forward, knocking the warrior off balance, and swung his sword in a quick, brutal arc. The blade bit into the man's neck, and hot blood sprayed across Edric's face. He stumbled back, gasping, his heart pounding wildly.

There was no time to think—another Dane was already charging at him, roaring. Edric raised his shield just in time to block the blow, the force driving him to his knees. The Dane kicked his shield, sending him sprawling in the mud.

Panic surged through Edric as the warrior loomed over him, axe raised for the killing blow. But before the axe could fall, Aelfric appeared, slamming his sword into the Dane's side. The warrior crumpled with a grunt, and Aelfric hauled Edric to his feet.

"Get up, lad! Keep fighting!" Aelfric barked, shoving him back into the fray.

The battle raged around him, men falling on both sides, the river running red with blood. Edric's fear clawed at him, but he forced himself to move, to fight. He blocked a sword thrust, countered with a quick slash, and felt his blade tear through flesh.

It wasn't elegant. It wasn't the heroic fight he had imagined—but it was survival.

He found himself fighting alongside Aelfric, their movements in sync. The older warrior's steady presence grounded him, and for the first time, Edric felt like he belonged.

They pushed forward, step by step, driving the Danes back toward the river. Edric's sword felt lighter now, his strikes more precise. His fear hadn't vanished, but it no longer controlled him.

The Danes began to falter, their lines breaking under the relentless assault. Edric saw the opening and charged, shouting a war cry that tore from his throat.

He crashed into a Danish warrior, their weapons clanging together. This time, there was no hesitation. Edric knocked the man's sword aside and drove his blade deep into the warrior's chest.

The Dane gasped, his eyes wide with shock, and Edric twisted the sword free, letting the man fall lifeless to the ground.

Around him, the fyrd surged forward, overwhelming the remaining Danes. Victory was within their grasp.

When the battle ended, Edric stood panting among the fallen, his sword heavy in his hand. The battlefield was littered with bodies, and the river ran dark with blood.

Aelfric clapped him on the back. "Not bad for your first fight, lad."

Edric gave a weary smile. He had survived—barely—but something had changed within him. The fear was still there, but now it was tempered with resolve.

He wasn't just a blacksmith's son anymore. He was a soldier—and this was only the beginning.