Chapter Four

Chapter Four: Triumph and Revelry

The battle at the river was over, and the fyrd stood victorious. The setting sun cast a blood-red glow over the battlefield, where fallen Danes and Englishmen lay tangled in the mud. The taste of victory was new to Edric—bitter with the stench of death, but heady with triumph.

Edric wiped his sword clean on the cloak of a fallen enemy, his hands still trembling from the fight. The exhaustion weighed on him, but beneath it, a spark of exhilaration burned. He had fought, killed, and survived. More than that, he had won. For the first time in his life, he felt invincible.

"Come, lad. Let's not keep the mead waiting," Aelfric said, grinning as he clapped Edric on the shoulder.

The fyrd gathered their dead and treated the wounded before setting off toward the nearby village that had promised them shelter. Though their numbers were fewer, their spirits were high.

Edric walked among them, his chest swollen with pride. Men greeted him with nods of respect and claps on the back. The fear that had gripped him before the battle seemed laughable now. He was not just a blacksmith's son—he was a soldier. A warrior, proven in blood and steel.

As they marched, songs began to rise from the group—raucous chants about bravery, women, and victory. Edric joined in, his voice loud and proud, relishing every note. His cocky grin returned, more confident now than ever.

When they reached the village, the doors to the great hall swung open, and the villagers greeted them with cheers and gratitude. Fires blazed in hearths, and the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread filled the air. The soldiers dropped their gear and poured into the hall like men starved for more than just food—they craved celebration.

Edric found himself caught up in the revelry, swept along by the sheer joy of survival. Ale flowed freely, filling mugs faster than they could be emptied. The hall was soon filled with the sounds of laughter, clinking tankards, and off-key singing.

Aelfric raised his mug high. "To victory!" he roared, and the hall echoed with cheers.

Edric lifted his own mug, ale sloshing over the rim as he shouted with the others. The drink warmed his throat and loosened his tongue. His fear, his doubts—gone, drowned in the euphoria of the moment.

Edric's cockiness returned in full force as the night wore on. He laughed louder than the rest, drank deeper, and boasted of his kills with abandon. He relived the battle in exaggerated retellings, swinging an imaginary sword through the air to demonstrate his heroics.

"And then I caught the bastard's axe on my shield," Edric said, reenacting the moment with a flourish. "He thought he had me, but I drove my blade right through his ribs!"

The soldiers around him cheered, clapping and egging him on.

"Not bad for a green boy!" one of the men laughed, slapping Edric's back.

Edric grinned, his chest swelling with pride. He basked in their approval, the doubts from before the battle distant memories now. He was invincible—nothing could touch him.

Later in the evening, when the crowd had thinned slightly, Aelfric joined Edric by the fire, a knowing smile on his scarred face. He had watched Edric's boasting with amusement, but now his gaze was sharp and sober.

"You did well today, lad," Aelfric said, taking a long drink from his mug. "But don't let the ale make you forget—this was only one battle."

Edric frowned, the flush of drink and pride making him bold. "We won, didn't we? What more is there?"

Aelfric chuckled, but his expression darkened slightly. "Aye, we won today. But there's always another fight waiting." He leaned closer, his voice low. "Don't get too comfortable, Edric. The moment you think you're invincible, you're already halfway to the grave."

Edric opened his mouth to argue, but something in Aelfric's tone silenced him. The older man's eyes carried the weight of hard-earned wisdom—a glimpse of the harsh truth Edric hadn't yet learned.

"Enjoy the night," Aelfric said, standing and clapping him on the shoulder. "But remember, the battlefield isn't as forgiving as the ale.

As the night deepened, the soldiers' songs grew louder, and the villagers joined in the revelry. Edric, riding high on drink and victory, found himself the center of attention.

A young woman approached him—dark-haired and fair-skinned, with a mischievous smile that made Edric's pulse quicken.

"You're the hero they're all talking about, aren't you?" she said, her voice playful.

Edric grinned. "I might be."

She laughed, a sound that sent a pleasant shiver down his spine. "Come, hero. Dance with me."

Without hesitation, Edric took her hand, leading her into the center of the hall. The music swirled around them, and Edric moved with the confidence of a young man who believed the world was his.

They danced, laughed, and flirted, Edric reveling in the attention. He felt unstoppable—a rising star, destined for greatness.

The night's revelry was interrupted when the doors to the hall burst open, and a bloodied scout stumbled inside.

"Danes!" the scout gasped, collapsing to his knees. "They're regrouping—marching this way. They'll be here by dawn."

The hall fell silent, the cheerful atmosphere vanishing like smoke in the wind. Edric's heart lurched, the weight of reality crashing down upon him.

Aelfric stood immediately, barking orders. "Men! Gather your weapons. We move now."

Edric's cocky grin vanished as he grabbed his sword belt, the ale's warmth replaced by a cold knot of fear in his stomach. The fight wasn't over—not yet.

Within minutes, the fyrd was ready, weapons in hand, marching out into the cold night. The euphoria of victory was replaced by the grim determination of soldiers who knew their fight was far from finished.

Aelfric walked beside Edric as they marched, his expression calm and steady. "This is what I meant, lad. There's always another fight."

Edric nodded, his earlier arrogance tempered by the sobering reality of the looming battle. The road to becoming a warrior wasn't paved with celebrations—it was forged in fire, blood, and discipline.