Chapter Five: Lessons of War
The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden light over the training grounds as Edric stood at attention, sword in hand. Sweat dripped down his back, but he refused to break his stance. Every muscle ached from the drills Aelfric had run him through, but Edric knew that showing weakness now would only invite more punishment.
Aelfric paced in front of him and the other recruits, his scarred face hard as iron. "You all think battle's about strength," he barked, his eyes scanning the young soldiers. "It isn't. Strength is worthless without endurance. A man with brute force might win a fight, but a man with patience wins wars."
He stopped in front of Edric, giving him a pointed look. "I saw what you did in the last fight, lad. You're quick, and you've got the skill. But you fought like a boy looking to impress, not a man trying to survive."
Edric clenched his jaw, the sting of the words cutting deep. He wanted to argue, but part of him knew Aelfric was right. The thrill of victory had clouded his judgment, and in the moment, he'd thought more of glory than survival.
"Today, we learn what battle's really about," Aelfric continued. "Drills. Repetition. Pain. You'll learn to move without thinking and fight when you've got nothing left to give." He smirked grimly. "And when the real fight comes, you'll thank me for it."
The next few weeks passed in a blur of exhaustion. Edric's hands grew calloused from endless hours of sword practice. His muscles burned with fatigue, and bruises littered his body from sparring sessions. Every day was a grind of drills—marching, shield walls, and swordplay, again and again until every move felt instinctive.
Aelfric drilled them mercilessly. He emphasized teamwork, strategy, and the importance of patience. "The man who swings first doesn't always win," he said one morning, pacing along the line of exhausted men. "Let the enemy tire himself out. Wait for him to make the first mistake."
Edric found it hard to swallow at first. He was used to charging ahead, relying on speed and skill to overpower opponents. But as the days wore on, he began to understand what Aelfric meant. Strength alone wasn't enough. Battle was a game of endurance and cunning.
One evening, as the men gathered around campfires to eat and rest, a scout came rushing into the camp, panting heavily.
"Danes!" he gasped. "A raiding party—they're moving toward the village east of here. Maybe a dozen of them."
Aelfric shot to his feet, his eyes sharp. "If they get there before we do, they'll burn everything to the ground." He turned to the men, his voice brisk. "Get your weapons. We move now."
Edric's pulse quickened as he grabbed his sword and shield. This would be his second fight, and though the thrill of battle stirred in his chest, so did something new—fear. This time, he knew what was waiting for him.
The fyrd moved quickly through the woods, their boots crunching on dead leaves. The night was cold, and the moonlight filtered through the trees in pale slivers. They reached a narrow clearing where Aelfric ordered them to stop.
"They'll come through here," Aelfric whispered, gesturing to the faint trail ahead. "We'll hit them from both sides. Stay quiet until I give the signal."
Edric crouched behind a tree, his heart pounding in his ears. The weight of his sword felt heavier than before. He forced himself to breathe slowly, gripping the hilt tightly.
Moments later, the Danes appeared—ten of them, moving with the confidence of men who thought no one was watching. They carried torches and weapons, speaking in low voices.
Aelfric raised his hand. The fyrd tensed, ready to spring.
Then, with a sharp whistle, Aelfric gave the signal. The woods exploded into chaos.
Edric surged forward with the others, shield raised and sword flashing in the moonlight. The Danes barely had time to react before the fyrd was upon them.
He collided with the first enemy, driving his shield into the man's chest and slashing his sword across the Dane's throat. Blood sprayed, hot and sticky, but there was no time to savor the kill. Another enemy was already upon him.
The clash of steel rang through the clearing as Edric blocked a wild swing, the impact jarring his arm. His heart raced, but his movements were sharp and practiced. This wasn't like the first battle—he fought smarter now, conserving his strength and waiting for openings.
A Dane with an axe charged at him, roaring. Edric sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the swing, and slashed his sword across the man's leg. The enemy stumbled, and Edric finished him with a thrust to the gut.
Suddenly, a shout rang out—Aelfric was on the ground, pinned beneath a Dane who raised his axe for a killing blow.
Without thinking, Edric threw himself forward. He tackled the Dane, driving his shoulder into the man's ribs. They rolled in the dirt, grappling for control.
The Dane was stronger, and Edric felt the man's hands close around his throat. Panic flared, but Edric fought through it, twisting desperately. His fingers found the hilt of his dagger, and he drove it into the man's side.
The Dane grunted, his grip loosening, and Edric shoved him off. Blood dripped from the wound, but the enemy wasn't dead. With a snarl, the Dane swung a fist, catching Edric across the temple.
Pain exploded in Edric's head, and everything went blurry. He felt the hot sting of steel as a blade sliced across his face—from his left temple to his right cheek.
Edric stumbled, clutching his face as blood poured down his cheek. The pain was searing, blinding, but through sheer will, he stayed on his feet. The Dane lunged again, but Edric raised his sword and drove it deep into the man's chest.
The enemy collapsed with a final gasp, and Edric fell to his knees, panting. His face throbbed, the wound burning fiercely, but he was alive.
Aelfric appeared beside him, pulling him to his feet. "You saved my life, lad."
Edric grinned through the pain, though it felt more like a grimace. "Told you I was good for something."
The fight ended as quickly as it had begun, the Danes lying dead or fleeing into the woods. The fyrd gathered in the clearing, catching their breath and tending to the wounded.
Aelfric inspected Edric's wound, grimacing. "That's a nasty one, lad. You'll have a scar to remember it by."
Edric touched his cheek, feeling the slick warmth of blood. "At least I kept the eye," he said, trying to sound lighthearted.
Aelfric chuckled. "That you did. But let this be a lesson—no matter how good you are, the enemy only needs one lucky hit."
Edric nodded, the weight of the words settling heavily on him. He had survived, but the scar on his face was a permanent reminder of the dangers ahead.
With the battle won, the fyrd gathered their wounded and began the slow march back to camp. Edric walked beside Aelfric, the pain in his face a dull throb, but his heart felt lighter. He had proven himself once more—this time not just with skill, but with bravery.
The road to becoming a warrior was far from over, but Edric was determined to see it through—scar and all.