Nelxit bar was popular for its mead, a special selection said to have been learned by the bar keep during one of his trips to the north. The soldiers visited it more often than not, as it was the closest bar to the tower. Ezril and his brothers, however, visited it less frequently than the full moon did the night sky. Although, it was never certain if it was because of their mild reluctance to be present among the citizens or the choice of not disrupting the fun of the soldiers.

Ezril sat alongside his brothers at the far corner of the bar today. Save Salem, they were all in their war cloaks. Still, they were under no illusions that they could have passed for simple soldiers even if Salem had chosen to leave his cassock behind.

The bar had grown silent upon their entrance as it always did. However, one of the things that made it special for them was its determination to stay alive. All it took was a few minutes to realize they had no interests in those within it, and for the soldiers to remember they were soldiers not men who did not often fight alongside them, and the bar came to life with the drunken tales of women and conquests. But no matter how persistently the beautiful women and the noisy men probed, the battlefield was never a topic given life.

The bar smelled of old pinewood and uncured leather, which was very different from most bars. The barkeep, when asked about it, attributed it to the tables and seats in the bar, spinning a claim on how pinewood had something to do with their creation. As for the uncured leather, he always had some stashed in the back. Selling food and drinks to people was, apparently, not the only way he made his income.

Manny was his name, or at least that was what everyone called him. He was jovial as a child but as large as a northman. His face could scare a child, and once, it had. There was no doubt Manny had seen his fair share of death. It was in his eyes. Ezril had grown to notice such things with relative ease during his time in the tower, perhaps even earlier than that. He often found himself wondering just how much earlier, knowing with a certainty that even as a child he had known that Olnic, too, had seen more than his fair share of it.

“…There’s just something ‘bout him,” Takan was saying. “I reckon ‘tis the way he handles his men. Y’know, you can tell a lot ‘bout a man from how he—”

“Takan.” Darvi cut him short. “I fear your comradery with the men compels you to forget your place.”

Takan frowned.

“You are a priest of the seminary,” Darvi continued, uncaring. “Your concern is for the seminary and the well-being of your brothers. What becomes of the men, is not. Do you understand this?”

“All I’m sayin’,” Takan took a heavy swallow of his drink, “is I simply don’t trust the man.”

Lord Bilvion Novinad, the man Ezril had seen Darvi with when he had awoken and, the new Lord Commander of the fort. This was who Takan spoke of.

There had been no battles since he awoke a month ago. But Ezril had sat in on a few meetings and listened to a few of the man’s battle plans. Lord Bilvion, from Ezril’s point, was too ambitious for his post—amongst other things. Ezril found he couldn’t help but agree with Takan.

In all his battle plans he treated his men like the almost inconsequential pawns in a game of war, destined to stand at the front of the battle to be sacrificed for the benefit of the greater pieces. Salem often told him that a lot could be told of a man from how he played a game of war.

“You for instance, brother,” Salem once told him. “You are a pacifist. Intending to end each game with as few casualties as possible, until you cannot.”

Ezril had no doubt Lord Bilvion was a man whose principles for victory bore their roots in the belief of sacrifice. Offer a piece for a chance at victory. He would lose to Salem in a game of war, Ezril thought. However, this is not a game.

Olufemi took a sip of his mead. He favored Ezril with a curious look before returning his cup to its place on their table.

Was just thinking about the Lord Commander, Ezril signed, knowing his brother sought his thoughts.

Olufemi spoke less in the bar. Not only did he dislike the crowd, under Darvi’s instructions, Ezril had instructed he desist from the use of vrail. The bar already did its best to forget the priests in its presence, hearing the language of the seminary would do nothing but make it more difficult on them. It was a problem they didn’t need.

“And Ezril,” Darvi added, drawing Ezril from his thoughts. “About you and Priestess Lenaria.”

“Darvi,” Ezril cut him short, “leave it be.”

“I will do no such thing,” Darvi insisted. “You are a priest of the seminary, and you will behave as such. Having a sister in your room during the late hours of the night is unbecoming, to say the least. And the fact that she comes on her own is…”

“Darvi.” Ezril fixed his brother with a stare, a warning in his voice. “It would do us kind for you to choose your next words wisely.”

Darvi sighed in resignation. “Understand that you are a priest, Ezril,” he said gently, cautiously. “You made a vow.”

Ezril nodded. “A vow I have kept, and will continue to keep.”

Darvi regarded him skeptically but let the topic drop.

It had taken them three nights to notice, seven to address it. Ezril understood why it disturbed his brothers. A month now, since he rejoined the business of the fort, and the rumors of how him and Lenaria were unexpectedly close, perhaps too close, could be heard at the corners of the fort, on the mouths of soldiers who thought he heard nothing they said. Lenaria cared naught for it, and so, Ezril cared naught for it.

Still, he cared to not hear of it from Darvi. Unlike his other brothers, Darvi’s complaint of Lenaria didn’t end at her nightly visits. He was one who cared much for order and rank, especially on the battlefield, and Lenaria was said to go against all of it. She pressed when he ordered retreat, and broke ranks on a whim, as the stories claimed. The only place she proved obedient to rank was in the fort, but since Ezril awoke even that seemed to have lost its appeal to her.

Ezril turned his attention to Olufemi who was busy fidgeting with his cup beside him. His mead was barely Tainted, as always.

“Olufemi,” he said, “finish your drink.”

Olufemi made a face before his fingers went to work. But I don’t like it.

“Then don’t order it,” Ezril reprimanded. “If you don’t like it, order something else.” He knew his brother wouldn’t. And even if he did today, he would not the next time they came.

“Won’t do anything ‘cept you tell him to,” Takan said “S’pose he’ll never grow up.”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Olufemi scowled at him. Takan seemed unfazed by it. It was a sufficient pretense, considering he should be drunk. But they knew well enough that everyone at the table had developed a hint of a fear for Olufemi ever since they began gracing the battlefield. To say he was the deadliest of them was an understatement.

Ezril surveyed the bar. It was a habit he’d always had, honed over the years, more so by his time seeking information on the Tainted the seminary had charged them to arrest, a Tainted he’d heard nothing of since waking. Still, he knew nothing of what had been done about it and had no intentions of asking.

His attention settled easily on a man whose voice boomed like a war cry. He listened.

The man was of demanding age, no less than his fourth decade. The sword strapped to his back in a scabbard bearing scars from its obvious use in combat and the knife tied to his thigh marked him either a soldier or a mercenary. Though the soldiers were not compelled to wear their uniform during such outings, some wore it for the advantages that came with it. This man wore no uniform. Still, he didn’t strike Ezril as a soldier. Soldiers had an air to them. This man bore no such air. A mercenary, Ezril decided.

“… I spun him by his neck and wrung him up for all to see,” the man was saying in a thick Alifat accent. “Only when he apologized did I let him down.”

He easily stood the tallest man in the bar and. From the little Ezril heard, his tales composed mostly of how he handled his foes like rags, picking and flinging as though they weighed little more than nothing to him. Ezril shook his head and cast his attention elsewhere.

A soldier told a tale of his childhood, and a romance that would never be, the girl he had promised himself to on his thirteenth year having been given to the convent a year after. He spoke no further on the topic of the love, changing it to how he was always intended for the life of a merchant; how it was all he had ever thought of. There was a wistful look in his eyes with each word, like a child telling of his dreams.

“Then why did you end up in the army?” a woman with a rather accumulating bust questioned.

He offered her a sly grin. “For the women, and the booze, of course.” He looked down at her bosom and the woman blushed under his gaze.

He offered her a smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. But he was handsome enough that Ezril was certain how far it reached mattered very little to the woman. She was as much interested in taking his pants off as he was in reaching under her skirt. Ezril shook his head in dismay.

“He either joined to die, or he joined hoping to find her.”

Ezril turned to find Salem paying attention to the man’s tale. Turning to him, Salem snorted. “That’s if his story’s true. But he’ll never tell anyone that. Not even himself.”

Ezril and his brothers fell into a comfortable silence only pierced by Takan’ occasional words as they took their drinks and enjoyed their peace.

A moment later, when Ezril chose to address Salem on his words the bar door opened with a creak.

Ezril’s voice ceased in his throat. Whatever he’d prepared for Salem died with it. The door always creaked when it opened. It was not a result of poor maintenance. Manny ensured it always creaked. It ensured he always knew when he had a new customer. It often drew too much attention, and today, it maintained the attention a while longer than even when a priest steps in.

Ezril was not surprised. After all, a priestess had just graced the bar; a rare occurrence.

Lenaria walked in briskly. A priestess on a mission. Her eyes cast efficiently across the bar as she moved. All eyes focused on her except Ezril and his brothers. They, for reasons unknown even to them, bowed their heads, finding their drinks quite a point of interest. Regardless, Darvi was the only one frowning, the only one whose face was not hidden.

After a while, Ezril let out a long sigh. Lifting his head to regard her where she stood beside him, he asked, “How did you find me?”

Lenaria shrugged. “It was quite easy, actually. The soldiers were more than willing to tell me.”

“Aria,” he prodded.

“It was nothing serious.” She waved a dismissive hand. “All I did was ask and they were more than eager to tell.”

Ezril sighed. He shifted on the bench, creating a space for her to sit, to the dismay of his brothers. “So you didn’t scare or harm any of them?” he continued.

Lenaria occupied the space. “No.”

“And this will be the same thing I’ll be told if I’m to ask any of them?”

“Yes.” There had been a hesitant pause. Lenaria frowned. “Ok, perhaps one or two would say differently. But,” she cut his next words off with a cautionary finger, “in my defense, they tried to stretch the conversation longer than was necessary, and one did try to touch me. Perhaps a dare of sorts from the comrades.”

Ezril rubbed his forehead, and Olufemi let out a low growl. He wasn’t surprised. Lenaria’s size could have fooled anybody into thinking she was a female they could handle. If only they know what I know.

“Thank you for being worried, Father Olufemi.” Lenaria smiled at Olufemi, softly. “But, as you can see, I’m perfectly fine.”

Olufemi looked away. It was the strangest thing. He proved vaguely protective of Lenaria, just as Shade did. Still, whenever she addressed him, rather than scowl or frown as he did most, he always seemed to regress into the boy they all knew from long ago in the seminary, retreating into himself as if it was enough to save himself.

His reaction seemed to amuse Lenaria. “Still my friend but not talking to me, I see.” She took Ezril’s cup and sipped its contents. Her face cringed as the liquid hit her lips but she kept the cup to her mouth till it was empty. Only then did she return it to the table. “That was horrible,” she noted with a frown. “How do you drink this?”

Ezril smiled. “I take it in sips.” He poked a thumb at Olufemi. “He doesn’t drink it, but he orders it anyway.”

“Obviously,” she said. “What do you expect him to order when you order this?”

As always, she spoke to him and teased Olufemi. She engaged Salem in the briefest of conversations only when he addressed her. She barely spoke to Darvi except in the war room, even then, her words were no more than were required. With Takan she found no compulsion whatsoever. She treated him as though he was not present.

“Y’know, you’ll ‘ave to talk to me sometime, priestess,” Takan said, as if reading Ezril’s mind.

Even now Ezril marveled at how his accent had only thickened over the years despite the fact that he spent his time with them and not his own people, whoever they were.

Lenaria offered Takan the briefest of glance then returned her attention to Ezril.

His hands fidgeting at the lost companionship his cup had offered, Ezril took Olufemi’s and took a light sip. Having long since chosen the path of ignorance regarding Lenaria’s relationship with his brothers, he often let it play out its part whenever it began. Takan would always want an attention he would not get. Olufemi would garner an attention he would not want. Salem would get only when he gave and, even then, he would get far less. And Darvi would receive the formality that was required of two people who couldn’t care less for each other.

A silence stretched across the table now. It proved awkward for the brothers but familiarly comfortable between Ezril and Lenaria. It was a silence as old as their time in Green Horn.

“When this war begins,” Salem broke the silence. “It will be the first of its kind in the history of the realm.”

Darvi shook his head. “Your choice of words is eerily disturbing, brother.”

Salem shrugged. “It is inevitable.”

“Why?” Lenaria asked, drawing surprised looks from the others. Ezril was fully aware of what had just happened; why she’d spoken to Salem without being addressed first. The glint in his brother’s eyes confirmed it all. He had baited her.

“Why what, Priestess?” Salem smirked.

Knowing well enough that she was done with her question, Ezril stepped in. “Why will it be the first of its kind?”

Salem’s jaw twitched at the loss but, satisfying himself in the little victory, he answered. “The Merdendis, as far back as the Kingdom’s history, have been the oldest scuttle the kingdom has had, existing even before the appearance of the Credo.” His voice dropped into his lecture tone. “They’ve handled them in their mild appearances. But this will be the first time there’ll ever be a war between both sides; an outright war. Already, it’s the first time the different colors are working together.” He shook his head. “King Dravis is most likely laughing in Truth’s refuge.”

“King Dravis?” Takan asked, confused.

“The ninth king of the realm,” Salem educated him. “He tried to wage war on the Merdendi, claiming it was only a matter of time before they united and brought the realm to its knees. They called him paranoid.”

“And what happened to him?”

Salem looked at him, flabbergasted. “Did you even listen to anything Father Thane taught?”

Takan shrugged.

“He was assassinated,” Salem said on an exasperated sigh. “His body was found in his chamber bed alongside that of his then mistress.”

Takan nodded thoughtfully. “I can’t believe I was not aware of this.”

Darvi shook his head. “Sarcasm?”

Takan grinned. “I would never.”

“Sod off!” Salem cursed, and took another sip from his cup.

They remained a while longer, sipping the putrid drinks and talking. Lenaria smiled every now and then whenever Ezril turned to regard her. It was always a fond smile. She shrugged innocently whenever his eyes questioned her expression.