Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten: A Sword Tempered in Fire

The winter sky churned with heavy clouds, casting the battlefield in a grim, gray light. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the air, only to be lost in the churn of mud, blood, and shattered shields. Edric stood in the heart of the chaos, sword in hand, every muscle tensed as the battle raged around him. The clang of iron against iron and the wet thud of axes meeting flesh filled the air with a brutal symphony. Soldiers cried out in rage, agony, or triumph, their voices swallowed by the maelstrom of war.

Edric felt the pulse of the battlefield—an instinct forged from weeks of fighting. He no longer fought with hesitation. His sword was an extension of himself, his mind quick as fire as he danced through the melee.

A Dane rushed at him, a jagged axe raised high. Edric sidestepped, using the man's momentum against him. His sword flashed in a sharp arc, slicing deep into the enemy's side. The Dane gasped, blood bubbling from his mouth, and Edric kicked him off his blade without missing a beat.

He turned just in time to meet another attacker—a younger warrior, agile and eager for blood. Their weapons clashed, and for a moment, they were locked in a deadly dance. The Dane snarled and pushed hard, trying to break Edric's guard, but Edric twisted his wrist, feinted left, and drove his sword upward into the man's ribs.

The warrior crumpled, clutching his side, and Edric kicked him down into the mud. Adapt, react, survive. He repeated the mantra in his mind as his gaze flicked across the chaos, calculating where he was needed most.

To his left, Aelfric was a force of nature, his axe swinging in brutal arcs, cleaving shields and skulls alike. Guthric fought close beside him, wielding his war hammer with devastating precision, crushing limbs and armor. And above it all, Oswald's arrows zipped through the fray, each shot a quiet death.

Edric exhaled, centering himself in the madness. He couldn't overpower every enemy with brute strength, but he had speed—and cunning. Another Dane charged him, shield high. Edric surged forward, faking a downward slash. The enemy raised his shield in response, but Edric pivoted mid-step, his sword slicing behind the shield's edge, cutting through the man's neck.

The Dane collapsed, and Edric was already moving to his next target.

POV: Alfred of Wessex

Far from the battlefield, Alfred sat at the head of a long table in his war tent, surrounded by commanders. His mind churned with calculations, piecing together the fragile map of his kingdom. Every piece had to fall exactly into place. One mistake, one misstep, and Wessex would be swallowed whole.

He traced his finger across the map, following the river lines that split his lands like veins. "The Danes have divided into three warbands," Alfred said, his voice low but steady. "They're probing, testing us. One force marches east toward the coast, another west, likely toward Wiltshire. And the third… the third waits." His gaze sharpened. "They're hunting us, waiting for us to overextend."

The room buzzed with murmured concern. One of his commanders leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "If we split our forces to defend the towns, we won't have the strength to counter a larger attack."

"Precisely," Alfred murmured. "They want us divided. But we won't play their game."

He stood, rolling his shoulders as he considered his next move. War wasn't just a clash of swords—it was a chess match, and every soldier was a piece on the board. Some pieces could be sacrificed, but only for the right reward.

"Their warbands are scattered, each waiting for an opportunity. We'll give them one." He tapped a section of the map near the river crossing where Edric fought earlier. "We'll draw their forces together, bait them into believing we're weaker than we are. And when they gather to crush us, we'll surround them."

One of his commanders cleared his throat. "That's a gamble, my lord."

Alfred allowed himself a small smile. "Victory always is."

POV: The Chieftain

On the far side of the woods, beyond the frozen hills of Wessex, a figure stood at the edge of the campfires, watching the night unfold. He wore a cloak lined with fur, his armor darkened by soot to blend into the winter shadows. Around him, his warriors sharpened their axes and whispered in low tones, awaiting orders.

But he wasn't ready to give them just yet. Patience won wars. Rage lost them.

His eyes narrowed as he studied the terrain ahead, already envisioning the battle yet to come. Every hill, every river, every thicket of trees—he had memorized them. This land was not yet his, but soon it would be.

"Wessex is clever," he murmured, speaking more to himself than to his men. "Alfred moves his pieces carefully. But he doesn't understand… I have no rules to follow."

His thoughts moved with the fluidity of a hunter stalking prey. Alfred fought for survival. But the Danes? They fought for conquest. The difference would be Alfred's undoing.

He knelt by the fire and drew a crude map in the dirt, marking where the villages lay. His plan was already in motion. The scattered raids, the probing attacks—each had a purpose. They were like wolves driving prey into a trap, testing the boundaries until the herd broke apart.

"We let them gather their forces," the chieftain said softly, a grim smile forming. "Let them believe they're winning. And when they march to meet us… we fall upon them."

One of his lieutenants shifted beside him, uneasy. "And if Alfred is waiting for us?"

His smile deepened, cold and ruthless. "Then we crush him. It doesn't matter if he's waiting. I'll outthink him, outlast him, and burn his kingdom to ash."

The lieutenant gave a solemn nod, and his gaze returned to the distant horizon. Every battle was a game, and he was the better player. He had studied Alfred from afar, and he knew the king's weakness: Alfred fought like a man burdened with responsibility. But him? He fought like a man with nothing to lose.

POV Edric:

The fight at the river crossing raged on. The shield walls had broken, leaving the combatants scattered in frenzied skirmishes. Edric's sword arm burned, but he forced himself to keep moving, weaving between the clashes.

A flash of movement caught his eye—Aelfric, outnumbered and pinned by two Danes. Edric sprinted toward him, adrenaline surging through his veins. One of the Danes raised his axe to strike, but Edric arrived just in time, driving his blade deep into the man's side.

Aelfric grinned, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead. "Took you long enough."

"No time for thanks," Edric panted. "More coming!"

He wasn't wrong. Three more Danes barreled toward them, their weapons glinting in the weak winter light. Edric's mind raced. Three against two… we won't win if we fight them head-on.

"Draw them toward the rocks!" Edric shouted. "Guthric's waiting there—he can cut them down!"

Aelfric gave a sharp nod, and they retreated toward the rocky outcrop. The Danes followed, their eyes gleaming with the thrill of the hunt. Just as they rounded the corner, Guthric's war hammer swung from the shadows, crushing the first man's skull with a sickening crunch.

The other two faltered, and in that instant, Edric lunged. His sword found the gap between one man's armor plates, and Aelfric's axe cleaved through the other's shield, sending him sprawling.

The clash of iron roared louder as the Danish forces pressed harder. Edric's muscles screamed with every movement, his shield arm shaking beneath the relentless blows. The Danes came in waves—organized, fierce, and strangely disciplined. These weren't mere raiders—they fought with intent, their strategy sharper than what Edric had seen in past skirmishes.

He caught Aelfric's eye across the line. His mentor gave a grim nod, and Edric knew what it meant: Hold on, or we're finished.

A wall of Danish shields smashed into the Saxon line, shoving them backward. Edric gritted his teeth and dug in his heels. Shield-to-shield, shoulder-to-shoulder, the Saxons braced against the pressure. Around him, men grunted with effort and gasped for breath. If the line broke, they'd be slaughtered.

"Push, you bastards! PUSH!" Aelfric bellowed, his voice cutting through the cacophony.

Edric snarled as he slammed his shoulder into the man in front of him. With a surge of desperate strength, the Saxons managed to shove the Danes back by a step, just enough to draw in a ragged breath.

But the reprieve was fleeting.

Over the din of the battlefield came a sudden, bone-chilling sound—a second horn blast, shorter and sharper than the first. Edric froze. This wasn't a retreat call. It was a signal.

His heart sank as the trap unfolded before his eyes.

From the treeline on their left, hidden reserves of Danish warriors exploded out of cover. They charged toward the exposed flank of the Saxon line like wolves scenting blood.

"We're about to be surrounded!" Oswald shouted, his voice tinged with panic.

Aelfric cursed. "Fall back! Get to the river!"

Edric pivoted, catching sight of Guthric just as the big man drove his war hammer into the chest of an oncoming Dane, sending the man crumpling to the ground. But Guthric was too far ahead, separated from the rest of the line.

"Guthric! Get back!" Edric yelled, but his voice was lost in the chaos.

The Saxon line began to fragment as the soldiers scrambled to retreat toward the riverbank. Panic spread like wildfire, turning what had been a solid defensive position into a chaotic rout. Men tripped over bodies, shields were discarded, and the cries of the wounded filled the air.

Edric sprinted toward Guthric, dodging between fleeing soldiers and fallen men. He reached his friend just in time to see a Danish warrior raise his axe for a killing blow. Without thinking, Edric threw himself forward, shoving Guthric aside and raising his shield.

The axe crashed down, splitting Edric's shield in two. The force of the blow sent him sprawling, the shattered wood biting into his arm.

The Dane grinned, lifting his axe for a second strike—but Edric was faster. He thrust his sword upward, piercing the man's side. The warrior staggered, blood gushing from the wound, and collapsed.

Guthric grabbed Edric by the arm and hauled him to his feet. "You're mad, you know that?"

Edric gave a breathless laugh. "So I've been told."

"Save it for later. Run!"

Together, they raced toward the riverbank, where the remaining Saxon soldiers were scrambling across the frigid water.

On the far side of the battlefield, Alfred stood on a low rise, watching his army retreat in disarray. His face was a mask of calm, but his eyes were filled with quiet fury. He knew what this meant. The Danes had outmaneuvered him.

"Order the archers to cover the retreat," Alfred said to Brother Cedric, his voice low but steady. "We can't hold them here."

Cedric hesitated, sensing the weight of the moment. "And if the archers fall behind?"

Alfred's jaw tightened. "Then they buy us time with their lives."

The monk gave a solemn nod and hurried off to relay the order.

Alfred allowed himself one brief glance at the battlefield—at the men who would die because of his failure to anticipate the Danish strategy. Then he turned away, his mind already working through the next move. There was no room for sentiment in war.

Survive today. Plan for tomorrow.

POV: The Chieftain

He watched the Saxon retreat with grim satisfaction. His trap had worked perfectly. Now, all that remained was to finish the job.

He signaled to his second-in-command, who barked orders to the warriors at the riverbank.

"Drive them into the water. Drown them like rats."

He allowed himself a rare smile as he watched his men surge forward. The Saxons were running—but they wouldn't get far.

This land belongs to us now.

The River Escape

Edric plunged into the icy river, gasping as the cold water enveloped him. The current was stronger than he'd expected, threatening to drag him under, but he fought to keep his head above the surface.

Around him, other Saxon soldiers thrashed through the water, some slipping beneath the waves and not resurfacing. The weight of his armor dragged at him, but Edric gritted his teeth and kept swimming.

Beside him, Guthric cursed loudly as the river swept him off his feet. "If we survive this, I swear I'll never leave dry land again!"

Edric laughed, the sound raw and desperate. "Just keep moving, you oaf!"

They reached the far bank together, scrambling up the muddy slope as arrows whistled through the air around them. Edric rolled onto his back, chest heaving, and stared up at the storm-gray sky.

The battle was lost. They had escaped by the skin of their teeth—but at what cost?

A New Resolve

As the remnants of the Saxon army regrouped in the forest beyond the river, Edric found Aelfric pacing near a campfire, his expression grim.

"This isn't over," Aelfric muttered, kicking a log into the flames. "Not by a long shot."

Edric nodded, wiping mud from his face. "We'll fight again. We have to."

Aelfric glanced at him, something unreadable in his gaze. "You've changed, Edric. You're not the same boy who ran off to fight his first battle."

Edric gave a tired smile. "War changes everyone right?"

They stood in silence for a moment, listening to the distant sounds of the enemy celebrating their victory across the river.

"Next time," Edric said quietly, "we'll be ready."

Aelfric clapped him on the shoulder, "Next time," he agreed.

As the fire crackled between them, Edric knew one thing for certain: the war was far from over. And the next battle would be fought not just with swords, but with wits—and hearts hardened by loss.