Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven: Defeat and Retreat

The sky was a grim slate gray, and a bitter wind whipped across the open field where the Wessex fyrd had formed their lines. The Danes waited in the distance, a black tide of warriors armed with axes, swords, and spears. They stood in eerie silence, the storm clouds above them mirroring the doom that Edric could feel in his gut.

Edric adjusted his grip on his sword, the leather-wrapped hilt slick with sweat. His knuckles were white, and he could feel his pulse drumming in his ears. This was not like the last battle. There was no surprise attack this time, no ambush or well-planned trap. This fight would be a straight clash of forces—and it was clear that the Danes outnumbered them.

Next to him, Cynric, still pale from his shoulder wound, gave a tense grin. "You ready, lad? This one's going to be ugly."

Edric forced a nod, though his heart hammered with fear. The battlefield stretched ahead like a yawning abyss. And somewhere on the other side, death waited for them.

A horn sounded from the Danish ranks—a harsh, guttural note that sent a shiver down Edric's spine. The ground trembled as the Danes surged forward, a chaotic mass of shouting warriors. Their shields slammed together in a wall, and they advanced like a storm.

Aelfric's voice rang out from behind the Wessex line: "Hold! Shields up! Stand firm!"

Edric raised his shield just as the two forces collided with a deafening crash. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs, and the weight of the Dane in front of him nearly drove him to the ground. His shield buckled under the first strike of an axe, splinters flying, but he pushed back with all his strength.

All around him, the air was filled with the sounds of screaming, clashing steel, and the sickening crunch of bone. Blood splattered the mud beneath their feet, mixing with the churned earth.

A Dane lunged at Edric, his spear thrusting toward his chest. He twisted just in time, the point slicing across his ribs instead of piercing his heart. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Edric slashed with his sword, catching the man across the throat. Blood sprayed, and the Dane fell, clutching his neck as he bled out in the mud.

"Stay close, lad!" Aelfric's voice cut through the chaos, and Edric ducked under another swing as the older warrior appeared beside him, slamming his shield into a Dane and sending the man sprawling. "We're not done yet!"

For a moment, it seemed as if the Wessex soldiers might hold their ground. They fought with grim determination, pushing back the Danes step by step. Edric felt a surge of hope—maybe they could win, even against the odds.

But the hope was short-lived.   

A second wave of Danes crashed into their lines, fresh warriors hungry for blood. The Wessex shield wall wavered. Men were yanked from the line, screaming as axes cleaved into flesh. A soldier beside Edric was struck down, his head split open with a single blow. Another cried out as a spear punched through his belly, pinning him to the ground like an insect on a spike.

The line began to buckle. Panic spread like wildfire through the ranks. Some of the younger soldiers turned to run, only to be cut down from behind.

Edric fought desperately, but the sheer number of enemies overwhelmed them. He swung his sword in wide arcs, but for every Dane he killed, two more took his place. Blood coated his hands, making it harder to keep his grip. His limbs grew heavy with exhaustion, and the world narrowed to a blur of violence.

Then Cynric, grinning only moments ago, let out a strangled cry. A Dane's axe buried itself in his side, and he crumpled to the ground with a gasp.

"Cynric!" Edric shouted, lunging toward his friend, but another warrior blocked his way, forcing him to fight on.

Cynric's body lay still in the mud as the chaos raged around them. Edric felt something tear inside him—a grief so sharp it was like a physical wound.

In the next instant, Edric's shield shattered under the force of a massive blow. The splintered wood fell from his arm, and he stumbled backward, exposed.

A Dane with a scarred face lunged toward him, sword raised high. Edric tried to parry, but the angle was wrong, and he knew he was too slow.

Before the blade could strike, Aelfric appeared, slamming into the Dane with the force of a battering ram. The two men went down in a tangle of limbs, and Aelfric roared as he drove his knife into the man's throat.

"On your feet, lad! Now!" Aelfric barked, yanking Edric to his feet.

There was no time to think, no time to mourn. The Wessex line had collapsed entirely, and the battlefield was a slaughter. "We're pulling back! Retreat!"

The cry for retreat echoed through what was left of the Wessex fyrd, and the men turned to flee toward the cover of the nearby woods. Edric ran, his heart pounding, his legs screaming with every step.

The Danes gave chase, and the retreat turned into a desperate scramble for survival. Men were cut down as they fled, their cries lost in the chaos. Edric stumbled over fallen bodies, narrowly avoiding an axe blade that whistled past his ear.

Aelfric stayed close, his presence a lifeline in the madness. "Keep moving, Edric! Don't look back!"

They reached the tree line just as the Danes began to slow, unwilling to pursue too deep into unfamiliar woods. Edric collapsed against a tree, gasping for breath. His hands were slick with blood—some his own, some not—and his body ached from head to toe.

Around him, the survivors gathered in ragged clumps, their faces pale with exhaustion and horror. Of the fifty men who had fought that morning, barely twenty remained.

Edric leaned back, his mind reeling. They had lost. For the first time since he had taken up a sword, he felt the bitter sting of defeat. The weight of it settled on his chest like a stone.

The survivors fled deeper into the forest, finally stumbling upon a small village hidden among the trees. The villagers, wary but compassionate, took them in. Edric sat near a fire, the warmth doing little to thaw the chill that had seeped into his bones.

His mind replayed the battle over and over, the faces of the fallen haunting his thoughts. Cynric's grin. Wulfgar's laughter. The way they had fought beside him, only to be swallowed by the tide of battle.

Aelfric sat beside him, silent for a long while. Then he placed a hand on Edric's shoulder. "You fought well, lad. You did everything you could."

Edric shook his head, bitterness rising in his throat. "It wasn't enough."

"It never feels like enough," Aelfric said quietly. "But you lived. And as long as you live, there's still hope."

Hope. It felt like such a fragile thing, easily crushed under the weight of defeat. But Edric held onto Aelfric's words, because they were all he had left.

That night, as the survivors rested in the safety of the village, Edric stared into the fire, the flames dancing in his weary eyes. The loss gnawed at him, but he knew one thing for certain—he would not give up. Not now. Not ever.

The battle had been lost, but the war was far from over. And as long as he could stand, as long as he could fight, he would not let the fallen be forgotten.

Because in the end, endurance was the only way to honor the dead.