The war raged on within the city walls, though the carnage was not as depressing within as it was without. Ezril carried himself in a full sprint, his previously perceived fatigue ebbing away at the touch of darkness as he followed where Olufemi led. Bratvi kept pace beside him and paid no obvious attention to his broken wrist. One thing was certain; even if the Most Reverend could fight, it would be impossible to use both Sunders.

There was no doubt that those who had given the once mythical city of Arlyn its reigning title had never stepped foot within its walls. Still, there was no name more befitting than the one it answered. For a ruined city it was.

Ezril stepped to the side immediately, wasting no moment for thought. Some instincts were best obeyed once they commanded. The breeze moved past him in a disturbed gust. Somehow, Olufemi had evaded it just as easily ahead of him.

A grunt behind him preceding a heavy crash told him Bratvi hadn’t been as observant. Olufemi’s haste allowed only enough time for one backward glance, and Ezril used it. The Most Reverend was forcing himself to his feet a good distance behind them where his flight had been ceased by the remains of what had once been a wall. Returning his attention to the road ahead, Ezril darted to the right and rounded a corner just as Olufemi did, leaving Bratvi to find his way if he could.

The moment the new path fell before him he watched a body drop to the floor, abandoned in the wake of his brother who seemed to be proceeding at an increasing pace.

The true step was a great way to cover distances, but its use was unadvisable when the journey traveled was one as grand as this. In a fight it was advantageous, in a need for escape it could prove vital, serving to present a head start and a possible confusion of direction for the pursuer. In a chase as this, it was nigh pointless and a waste of valuable strength.

Still, watching the distance between him and his brother steadily grow as he forced every perceived speed he thought himself capable of into his legs, Ezril began to wonder if his brother just might be reaching a speed akin to that of the true step he’d witnessed on the first day he’d ever seen him perform it.

Each time he felt he was growing closer it seemed he couldn’t disregard the possibility that his mind thought it wise to play tricks on him. Depth perception. It was something he had learned as an archer. A concept that he could never deprive himself of as the first bow. He could gauge distance better than most men on Vayla, and yet, Olufemi’s increasing distance troubled him. The fact that Olufemi was stronger than him had never bothered him. Deadlier than him? He never questioned it. Still, he had always fancied himself quick on his feet. He’d always thought himself faster than the man running ahead of him, at worst, at equal footing on this point. Delusions are the greatest things to wake up from.

Olufemi led him down a few corners and a greater distance before coming to a stop. Ezril settling beside him, took small pleasures in the fact that he’d at least never lost sight of his brother. It was a small consolation.

Before them stood a tower so high if the moon was in its place in the sky it would’ve been high enough to conceal it. But tonight was without the moon. Still, they had to tilt their head all the way back to catch a glimpse of its summit. And they were still a distance away. Looking up Ezril spoke.

“How quickly do you think we can get to the top?”

Olufemi shook his head. “We won’t have to,” he answered. “There’s no moon tonight. He’ll have no need to be at the top. He’ll kill them, then he’ll hide and rest.”

Ezril understood the logic. Scholars over the years had theorized that the light from the moon was actually a gift from the sun. In some way it collects its light just to cast it at night. He wasn’t so sure how much of the theory he believed. It didn’t matter. If Olufemi was right, then they still had a chance to end the war.

Olufemi fell into an immediate sprint and Ezril followed without hesitation. They’d barely covered any meaningful distance between them and the tower before Ezril noticed something strange in his brother’s steps. The tower lay ahead of them, each step drawing it inevitably closer. But Olufemi’s steps were too precise, too calculated. Purposeful. He had seen men run in such way many times.

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There were six ways their training at the seminary had taught them men run. One was that of a man running for leisure, an entertainment for the body, a sort of relaxation. Another was a man in terror, running when he knew nothing chased. Then there’s the man running from something, a man being chased. Such men rarely had much focus in their step. Concentration, yes. But not focus. It is always in the way they step; where they step. Their feet never pointed in one direction, always changing, always seeking an alternative. For some men it was a conscious act, their body working in tandem with their minds. For others it was simply instinct: their bodies knowing what had to be done. Giving chase came as an opposition, the steps always almost seem frantic. At first, simple, then plotting, then reacting. The quarry’s path unknown. Which way would it go? Changing direction when the quarry’s movement commands it. A man with a destination sprinted forward, his mind consciously working out a direction, threading a path. All the legs needed was for the mind to point it in the direction.

The last kind was different from the rest. It was like a man with a destination. It was one they’d employed so often on the training grounds of the seminary and among the dense trees of the Arlyn forest. Though they sprinted to a destination, his brother’s feet stepped in the way of someone not running to something but running at something. They were the steps of a charge. The mind places a different kind of import when addressing a fellow human to addressing an animal or a place. When a man charges, his steps are precise, purposeful. It is the only form of sprinting that holds both concentration and focus. It gives no care to anything but carrying the body to a fixed and moving point. It is the only form of sprinting that demands every part of the body be focused.

Ezril ran to the tower but Olufemi ran at it. Charged it.

The sound of metals clashing in a maelstrom of sword strokes drew Ezril from his reverie to find Olufemi with drawn Sunders and Berlak occupied by two Most Reverends. Drawing his Sunders, he charged forward, Olufemi ahead of him. And just before Olufemi crashed into the fight, he bludgeoned the air with a guttural roar the likes of which Ezril had never heard from the throat of any man.

Slamming into a one armed opponent who’d had only enough time to turn a fraction towards him and register an instant of surprise and rage, Olufemi disrupted the rhythm of the fight and drove Berlak into the wall of the tower. A groan came with the crash as dust erupted from the wall immediately followed by the violent sounds of quickened strikes and parries.

Knowing the limits of his swordplay, Ezril pulled to a stop beside the Most Reverends who stood transfixed in place, confusion and mild awe playing on their face.

“Where’s the High Blade?”

They turned to him then, and he found he didn’t recognize them. The younger of the two who still seemed at least two decades older than him regained his composure first.

“Dead,” he said. “Killed on the chase.”

“By Truth what is he?” the other Reverend muttered, never taking his eyes away from the wall at least twenty feet away from them.

“Perhaps the strongest Tainted I’ve ever seen,” Ezril answered.

“Truth save us.” The younger Reverend Hallowed himself then sagged, before dropping to the ground. “May his grace keep us where our strength fails.”

When the other priest didn’t respond, Ezril followed his gaze to the wall Olufemi had driven the enemy into… or the lack of one.

Where there had been stone stood a gaping hole, broken inwards. Ezril frowned at the sight. It must have been at least two feet thick.

Ezril stepped past the priests and towards the hole. Barely two steps away he remembered the priest’s words, turned, and said, “Who says our strength has to fail?”

The priest remained silent. Not that Ezril had expected the man to have a response. Arriving at the hole he stepped through it, unsure of what exactly he could contribute to the fight he saw before him.

Within the darkness he watched as two men unable to see in the dark went at each other with blood thirsty precision. This was not a fight. If it was, he could have dared to join in it. No. The two men before him weren’t locked in some form of high end combat beyond him. As far as he was concerned this was not a fight. The brutality, efficiency, destructive force, and instinctual riposte wasn’t the likes of which he had seen, neither were their expressions.

Ezril took an instinctual step back. His feet itched to take another, but catching himself in the act of cowardice he resisted the urge. The almost forgotten weight of his Sunders pulled against his grip, and looking down he almost laughed. His hands were shaking, struggling to keep their hold on his weapons. He could’ve told himself he shook from a barely contained rage at what he watched his brother suffer alone. He could’ve convinced himself it was anger at himself for being helpless. For being unable to do a single thing as Olufemi fought and bled in an environment he had a better advantage of sight in and yet remained useless. But he knew the tremors for what they were. He was afraid. Terrified. But why wouldn’t he be? Anyone in his position would be.

The men before him weren’t fighting.

No.

They were waging war on each other.