Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight: The Turning Point

Word traveled quickly, borne on the lips of weary messengers and whispered among village elders—King Alfred was gathering every able-bodied man to face the Danes in a decisive battle. The scattered remnants of the fyrds, bruised and depleted from months of skirmishes, were called to rally under Alfred's banner one last time. But this would be no mere delay or retreat—they would strike to drive the invaders out for good.

The village where Edric and Aelfric had taken refuge swelled with soldiers and survivors, bustling with hurried preparations. Grim men, many missing fingers or nursing half-healed wounds, trickled in from distant villages. Tents and campfires dotted the outskirts, and the sharp sound of whetstones scraping against steel filled the air. Archers fletched new arrows, smiths hammered damaged armor back into shape, and commanders barked orders to small groups of men drilling in formation.

For Edric, the news ignited both excitement and dread. The prospect of a decisive fight gave him the purpose he craved. But war, he knew, was never simple—victory would come at a heavy price. Every wound he'd taken, every friend he'd buried, was a stark reminder of how easily a battle could be lost. This time, he wanted more than to survive. He wanted to win.

Night had fallen, and the largest tent in the camp buzzed with low voices. Around a central table lit by oil lanterns, Aelfric stood with several commanders, their faces lined with exhaustion. Maps of the surrounding forests and open fields lay spread before them, weighed down by rocks and empty mugs.

Edric lingered near the edge of the gathering, listening to the strategies being debated. A burly commander named Berwulf, a veteran with more years of battle behind him than Edric had seen summers, jabbed a thick finger at the map.

"We hit them hard and fast," Berwulf grunted. "No more fancy tricks. Meet the bastards head-on, break their shield wall, and drive them back with sheer force. If we wait for them to come to us, we're finished."

A few commanders nodded in agreement. "He's right," one muttered. "The Danes are too dangerous to play games with."

Edric clenched his jaw, the gears in his mind turning. He could see Berwulf's plan already—straightforward, aggressive, and doomed. The Danes fought too well in open fields, their shield walls impenetrable. Meeting them head-on would bleed them dry before the real fight even started. There had to be a better way.

He shifted on his feet, weighing possibilities. If they attacked from the woods… no, the Danes might predict that. Maybe if they split the force—no, too risky. His thoughts raced, visualizing each scenario in his head, spinning through every possible failure: a feigned retreat? A pincer attack? His mind turned and twisted, until finally, a new plan took shape—risky, yes, but doable.

Before he could lose his nerve, Edric stepped forward.

"That won't work," he said, his voice cutting through the low murmur of conversation. Heads turned toward him, some annoyed, others curious. Berwulf glared.

"Oh? The boy has a better plan than us, does he?" the veteran sneered, folding his thick arms. "Out with it, then."

Edric felt the weight of every eye on him, but he pressed on. "We can't fight them in the open. Their shield wall is too strong. But if we bait them into the forest, we can break their formation where their shields are useless. We use the terrain against them."

Berwulf snorted. "And how exactly do you plan to get them to walk into a trap? They're not fools."

Edric raised his chin, determined not to falter. "We make them think they have the upper hand. We'll send a small force to pretend to flee—just enough to draw the Danes into the woods. Once they follow, we strike from both sides. Archers in the trees to pin them down, swordsmen waiting to hit them from behind."

Berwulf scoffed. "Too complicated. One mistake, and the whole thing falls apart."

Edric's heart pounded, but he held his ground. "It's better than charging straight into their shield wall. We've seen how that ends." He looked to Aelfric, his mentor, hoping for support. "We don't need to beat them with numbers—we need to outthink them."

Aelfric stroked his beard, eyes narrowed in thought. "He has a point," he muttered, more to himself than the group. "If we fight them on our terms, we stand a chance."

Berwulf slammed a fist on the table. "And if the trap fails? We'll be butchered in the trees."

Edric met the older man's glare without flinching. "Then we make sure it doesn't fail. The archers can block their retreat. We hit them fast and hard before they can regroup." He leaned in, his voice low but steady. "It's a risk, yes. But it's the only way we win."

A tense silence settled over the room. Finally, Aelfric nodded.

"We'll try it," he said. "But if it goes wrong, we pull out. No heroics."

Berwulf scowled but said nothing more. The decision was made.

The morning came cold and misty. The men of the fyrd marched through the forest, their breaths clouding the air, boots squelching in damp leaves. Edric's pulse hammered in his ears as he moved with the group hidden among the trees. Every snap of a twig felt like thunder in the silence. They took their positions—archers crouched behind thick trunks, swordsmen huddled in the underbrush.

Through the trees, Edric could just make out the decoy force on the road, moving slowly, pretending to be unaware of the Danes nearby. His heart drummed in his chest as he scanned the woods, waiting for the enemy to appear. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours.

Then, at last, they came.

The Danes moved through the trees like wolves on the hunt—silent, dangerous. Mismatched armor clanked softly as they crept closer, their weapons gleaming in the pale light. The trap was set.

The decoy force on the road suddenly broke into a panicked retreat, running toward the trees as if in terror. The Danes snarled in triumph, charging after them.

"Wait…" Edric whispered under his breath, every muscle tensed. Wait until they're committed.

A moment later, Aelfric's voice rang out.

"Now!"

The forest exploded into chaos.

Arrows whistled through the air, striking Danes in the throat, chest, and face. Warriors collapsed, clutching at bloody wounds. Edric burst from his hiding place, sword in hand, just as the front line of the Danes broke apart in confusion.

He crashed into the nearest enemy—a hulking man wielding an axe. Their weapons clanged together in a brutal exchange. Edric twisted his blade and drove it deep into the man's side, feeling the hot spray of blood across his face. The Dane fell, gurgling his last breath.

Around him, the forest was a frenzy of violence. Men screamed, metal clanged, and the ground turned slick with mud and blood. The Danes fought like cornered beasts, hacking and slashing with savage desperation.

Edric dodged a wild swing, then lunged forward, driving his sword through a man's throat. The blade caught, and he had to kick the body off to free it. Pain flared in his arm as a Dane's blade grazed his side, but he twisted away and plunged his sword into the man's gut.

Nearby, Aelfric fought like a whirlwind, his sword flashing as he cut down one enemy after another. "Keep pushing!" he shouted over the din. "Don't let them regroup!"

The battle raged on, fast and frantic. Edric lost track of time in the chaos—there was only the next enemy, the next swing, the next desperate breath. Blood soaked his hands and splattered his face. His arms ached, his legs burned, but he fought on, driven by sheer will.

At last, the tide turned. The Danes, battered and bloodied, began to fall back. Arrows from the hidden archers cut down those who tried to flee. The forest floor was littered with corpses, the air thick with the stench of death.

Breathing hard, Edric leaned on his sword, his chest heaving. Around him, the men of the fyrd stood victorious—but exhausted. Blood dripped from weapons and armor, mixing with the mud at their feet.

Aelfric clapped Edric on the shoulder. "You did it, lad," he said, his voice rough but warm. "You've got the makings of a fine leader."

Edric nodded, though he felt more weary than triumphant. The thrill of victory was tempered by the sight of the fallen—friends and foes alike. War, he knew, was never without cost.

But they had won. Against the odds, they had won.

And won not just a battle, but a chance. A chance for the survivors to go home. A chance to rebuild what the invaders had broken. And, perhaps, a chance for Edric himself to be something more than just another nameless fighter on the field.

The forest was eerily quiet now, save for the occasional groan of a wounded man or the distant caw of crows circling overhead. The frenzy of combat was over, but the weight of what remained settled over Edric like a shroud. He wiped the blood from his face with a shaking hand and surveyed the carnage. Bodies—both friend and foe—lay twisted and broken on the forest floor, the earth greedily soaking up their lifeblood.

Aelfric stood beside him, grim and silent. "We'll need to see to the wounded," he muttered, glancing toward the survivors dragging injured men onto makeshift stretchers. "And the dead…" His voice trailed off, heavy with the knowledge that some men would never leave the forest.

Berwulf stumbled into view, his helmet missing and his armor smeared with blood. A jagged wound ran along his arm, but the old commander wore a begrudging grin. "Damn me, boy," he growled, clasping Edric on the shoulder with more force than necessary. "That was madness, but it worked. You've got guts."

Edric gave a tired smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. He knew the praise was earned, yet the victory felt hollow in the face of so much death. He met Berwulf's gaze. "Guts don't matter if good men die."

Berwulf's grin faded, and he nodded solemnly. "Aye, lad. But they'll sing of this fight." He gave Edric a rare, respectful nod before limping off to tend to his own men.

The archers gathered the arrows they could salvage, and the surviving swordsmen began piling the bodies into pyres. Edric helped where he could, his muscles aching with every step, every lift. The work was slow and somber—warriors muttered prayers under their breath as they laid their comrades to rest. The stench of burning flesh soon filled the air, clinging to everything.

When the fires were lit and the first stars began to peek through the night sky, Edric finally sat down on a rock, exhaustion dragging at his limbs. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, savoring the brief stillness.

Aelfric joined him, lowering himself onto a log with a heavy sigh. "You did well today, Edric," he said quietly. "Not just with your sword, but with your mind. That's what sets a leader apart."

Edric exhaled slowly, the weight of Aelfric's words settling on him. He had spent so long wanting to be more than just another soldier, but now that the moment had arrived, it felt… heavy. "I don't know if I can lead," he admitted. "What if next time I get it wrong?"

Aelfric smiled faintly, though his eyes remained distant. "Every leader wonders that. But you have to trust yourself. A battle is never perfect—what matters is that you acted when it counted. And your men followed."

They sat in companionable silence for a while, listening to the crackle of the pyres and the soft murmurs of the camp.

When the fires burned low and the camp began to settle, Edric rose. His body protested every movement, but he forced himself to keep going. There was still work to be done, still decisions to make.

He glanced toward the horizon, where the first hints of dawn painted the sky in muted grays. With it came a strange sense of peace—a feeling that, despite everything, they had earned the right to hope.

Tomorrow would bring more challenges, more battles, and more uncertainty. But for tonight, at least, they had survived. And for Edric, that was enough.

He took one last look at the forest, the battlefield where so many lives had ended, and whispered a silent promise to himself.

I'll be better. I'll lead. I'll make this worth it.

Then, with a final glance at the smoldering pyres, he turned and walked back toward the camp. The dawn was coming, and with it, a new beginning.

And for the first time in a long while, Edric was ready to face it.