Chapter Six: The Cost of War
The thrill of battle had long since faded, leaving only the grim aftertaste of exhaustion. Victory against the Danes came at a price far greater than Edric had imagined. As he moved among the injured soldiers, the camp seemed weighed down by the losses they had endured. Men who had once joked, sang, and shared stories around the fire were now reduced to memories.
Edric wiped the grime from his hands and glanced at the campfires scattered across the clearing. The weary survivors sat in small groups, their faces hollow with fatigue. There was little chatter now, only the crackling of flames and the occasional groan from the wounded. War hadn't just taken lives—it had drained their spirits too.
Supplies were running dangerously low. The bread they had rationed to last a week had run out in half the time, and the salt pork they carried was gone. The men scoured the woods for game, but the land had little to offer this late in the season.
Hunger gnawed at Edric's belly, making his limbs feel heavier with each passing day. The soldiers chewed on leather straps to stave off hunger pains. Thirst came next—there was no fresh stream nearby, and what water they could find was murky and foul.
Morale began to crumble under the weight of these hardships. Some men muttered that they would rather abandon the campaign and return to their farms. Others became listless, dragging their feet during drills and patrols, their eyes filled with hopelessness.
Edric's body ached from the constant marching, the meager rations, and the cold. But worse than the physical strain was the growing fear that, despite their victories, they might not last through the coming weeks. What was the point of winning battles if hunger, illness, or cold finished what the Danes could not?
In the midst of hardship, Edric began to forge bonds with his fellow soldiers—men who, like him, bore the scars of battle and the burden of survival. There was Cynric, a wiry man with a wicked grin who always managed to find humor in the bleakest situations. Even now, when their bellies were empty, Cynric would weave tales of absurd exploits—how he had once "borrowed" a cow from a neighboring village and returned it with gold strapped to its horns.
"If we ever run out of weapons," Cynric joked, "I'll lead a charge with nothing but a stolen goat and my good looks."
Edric couldn't help but laugh, the sound surprising him after so many days of grim silence. Laughter, however fleeting, felt like a small rebellion against the despair creeping into the camp.
Then there was Leofwine, an older soldier with graying hair and a steady presence. Leofwine rarely spoke, but when he did, his words carried weight. He had lost two sons to the war against the Danes and fought not for glory but to see his home remain standing.
"War teaches you to keep going, no matter what," Leofwine said one evening as the men sat by the fire. "Even when it feels like there's nothing left of you. That's when you find out what you're made of."
These small moments of connection—the jokes, the wisdom, the shared struggle—became Edric's anchor. He no longer felt like the lonely boy he had been when his father died. Among these men, he found a strange sense of belonging. They were bound not by blood, but by the common fight for survival.
Despite the camaraderie forming among the survivors, the losses they had suffered hung over them like a shroud. Every soldier had someone they mourned—friends lost in battle, brothers who would never return home.
Edric carried the faces of the fallen with him—Osric, who had fought beside him until the end; Wulfgar, who had once shared his rations to ease Edric's hunger; and even Aelfric's brother, who had been struck down defending the rear guard. They were gone, and yet their absence felt as heavy as the weapons Edric carried.
He could see the same burden in the faces of his comrades. Cynric's jokes faltered at times, his grin slipping when he thought no one was watching. And Leofwine, despite his stoic nature, often stared into the fire, as if seeing ghosts in the flames.
Edric lay awake at night, haunted by memories of the fallen and weighed down by the knowledge that more of them would likely die before this war was over.
One cold morning, Edric sat at the edge of the camp, his sword laid across his knees. He stared at the scar running from his temple to his cheek—his fingers brushing over the jagged line. It was a reminder of the battle he had survived, but also of the man he had become.
When Edric had first taken up a sword, he had fought for revenge—for his father, for the life the Danes had stolen. But now, his reasons were more complicated. He fought for the men beside him, for the villages they protected, and for the small glimmers of hope that still flickered amid the darkness.
As he sat lost in thought, Cynric plopped down beside him with a huff.
"Planning on writing a love letter to that scar of yours?" Cynric teased, nudging him with an elbow.
Edric shook his head with a faint smile. "Just thinking."
"Dangerous pastime," Cynric said with a wink. Then his tone softened. "We've all lost someone, you know. But we keep going. For their sake."
Edric nodded slowly, feeling the truth in Cynric's words. The dead deserved to be remembered, but the living still needed him. And he would not let them down.
The camp was roused from sleep the next day by the distant sound of horns—another raiding party was on the move, not far from their position. Aelfric quickly assembled the men, his voice calm but urgent.
"We intercept them here," Aelfric said, pointing to a map. "If we move fast, we can catch them before they reach the villages."
Edric tightened the straps on his armor and checked his sword. There was no hesitation this time, only a grim sense of purpose. He exchanged a glance with Cynric, who gave him a small grin.
"Ready for round two, lad?" Cynric asked.
Edric returned the grin, though his heart beat fast in his chest. He was ready—or at least as ready as he could be.
The ambush went as planned, but the fight was brutal. The Danes fought fiercely, and the Wessex soldiers met them blow for blow.
Edric found himself locked in a desperate struggle with a Dane twice his size. The man's axe came down like a thunderclap, and Edric barely raised his shield in time. The force of the blow drove him to his knees, but he rolled aside before the next strike could land.
He swung his sword upward, feeling the blade bite into flesh. The Dane stumbled, blood pouring from his side, and Edric finished him with a quick thrust to the heart.
The battle ended in victory, but the cost was steep. Several men lay dead or dying, and more than a few were too injured to continue the campaign.
As the survivors regrouped, Edric knelt beside Cynric, who had taken an arrow to the shoulder.
"Looks like I'll need that goat after all," Cynric muttered with a pained grin.
Edric helped him to his feet, his expression grim. Victory felt hollow when so many had fallen.
That night, as the camp settled once more into uneasy quiet, Edric sat with Aelfric by the fire. The older warrior gave him a long, thoughtful look.
"You fought well today, lad," Aelfric said. "But remember—this war isn't about any one battle. It's about endurance. About outlasting the storm."
Edric nodded, the weight of those words settling over him like a cloak. He was beginning to understand what Aelfric had meant all along. War was not just a test of strength—it was a test of will.
And as long as he could stand, he would keep fighting. Not just for revenge, but for the comrades who stood beside him, and for those who would follow in their footsteps.
Because in the end, survival was the only victory that mattered.