Skirmishes. This was all it was. A few hundred men engaged in battle, drawing blood from flesh. Ezril frowned. Salem was right about one thing; the war was yet to come.

Ezril sat on the grassy hill with his brothers. The morning was young; a few hours past midnight. The crescent moon could still be seen in the sky. It proved their only source of light. There had been no fire the whole night as they’d made camp. A hundred men in all, Lord Bilvion had assigned them to move with Captain Noem. The man towered over all of them easily and was prone to speaking with a voice like a blow horn. Many described the captain’s voice as commanding, but all Ezril heard when he spoke was noise.

“You will move with Captain Noem’s contingent,” Bilvion had told them. “He will give you orders on what must be done.”

Ezril smiled at the memory. He thinks us under his command.

They had moved alongside the soldiers under Noem’s command for the better part of two hours before Darvi had given a command. At the command they had broken away from the troop, Ezril tracking ahead, and had found the enemy camp. He was not the best tracker in their group. But amongst the soldiers he was second to none. It was an action that would not sit well with any commander.

They sat on the floor, now, away from the soldiers. Observing the enemy, they waited as Captain Noem approached them.

“Father Tenshaw,” Noem greeted. “I see your anger at the Priestess for breaking rank in the last battle was unjustified, seeing as you so casually broke rank tonight.”

Darvi barely flinched at the captain’s words. His gaze slid to the man for a moment, long enough to be considered acknowledgement. Then he returned his attention to the enemy camp.

The Merdendis sat a distance from the foot of the hill where they watched. Their massive camp holding perhaps over three hundred soldiers—five hundred at the most—was void of tents. It was different from the realm camps. They were an unruly bunch. While some slept in the darkness, others stood watch. So far, none had switched to imply they took turns standing watch.

Their flames, or whatever fires they had built, if they had at all, had long since been dowsed. It kept them in equal darkness with Ezril and his brothers. Upon the discovery, Ezril had found himself fearing the battle at hand, the soldiers might as well strike down ally and foe, tonight.

Ezril disliked the Lord Commander, but he couldn’t fault the man on one thing: his insistence on the camp’s importance was well placed. They had stormed many camps while Oddor was alive but this was the first time they were coming across a camp of various colors.

Every camp always held a single color. It was no surprise to them. The Merdendi may have begun working together against the realm, however, it was next to impossible that a people who had disagreed with each other since the history of the realm would simply work together without trouble. The camps had helped to foster the acceptance of this theory. Yet, Ezril found it troubling that even in a camp with such diversity the One-armed man hadn’t shown his face. Although they had never seen him at the battlefront, their scouts often spoke of a man with one arm who was often seen at the enemy camps. When asked, they all described him as a man of average height with a look completely different from that of the Merdendi.

They’d found it unlikely at first, and had thought the man a captive, a new phenomenon to the savages, however rare. It was the most likely explanation for why they would keep a foreigner amongst them.

When the report of the man had come in a second time, they thought him perhaps a child born to the Merdendi belonging to one of the colors, perhaps those who marked their hands, having lost the one bearing his mark.

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His existence only became disturbing when he became a recurring factor in the camps, regardless of their colors or symbol. A few soldiers reported him as being regarded with an unusual form of respect by the Merdendi. Once, one of the men described it as a form of reverence. A mystery man of strange heritage worshipped by the savages. They had been quick to come to the conclusion that he was most likely the one who held them together. Still, whenever battles ensued, he was nowhere to be found.

Ezril pressed his lips in a thin line. The captain was saying something and he was fairly certain the man had mentioned his name.

“… Now that you can finally join us in battle I do hope you will prove useful,” Noem was saying with a mild puzzled expression as his gaze flickered to Ezril’s Sunders in the ground. “Commander Vardil has praised your skill with the bow, claiming it second to none. I intend to put that skill to use. Do not disappoint.”

Ezril regarded him as briefly as Darvi had, perhaps briefer, before returning his gaze to camp. He had heard a thing or two about the man in the three days he had been in the fort. His men held him in high esteem, and from what he knew, not just anybody could join the man’s company.

It is said that as a child he had reached his equinox at an unusually early age. It made him stronger than most of the Hallowed his age. A man who had once upon a time been a brother of the seminary and had been one of the few brothers to ever fail the test of the climb and survive.

Late into his thirtieth decade and standing taller than Ezril and his brothers, Ezril had no doubt that the man would be a difficult opponent for all five of them.

“And you,” Noem continued, his attention settling on Olufemi. “A priest who would not fight. I heard of your actions before the last battle; refusing to take up your Sunders to fight for the realm simply because one of your brothers was… indisposed.” Ezril found difficulty hiding his surprise. Luckily, Noem’s attention remained on Olufemi. “Well, that does not concern me. What concerns me is that you prove useful today.”

Now he stood straight and regarded them all. Ezril noted how he made sure they were all in his peripheral view. An unconscious act.

“I have seen priests, and I have fought alongside a lot of them,” he continued. “You are not new; neither are you special. What you do is none of my business. But as long as you have been placed under my command, you will answer to me and…” he fixed his gaze on Darvi. “You will never break rank again. Prove stubborn and I will crush you.”

There was no doubting the man’s strength. From how the soldiers spoke of him, Ezril was inclined to believe there was no doubting his intelligence, either. But he was no different from a lot of men. Ezril had knowledge of a good number of cut-throats and bullies. They all bore similar countenances. But one thing they all had in common was the glint in their eyes. He had seen it more times than was required for it to be unmistakable.

“Oh, and, Father Ezril,” Noem added. The glint in his eyes did not go unnoticed. He had been baiting them since he walked up to them. This time it was not about them. This one was specific. “You may be the first bow of the seminary, but you will answer to my lead archer. My first bow.”

It was only for a brief moment, but in it Ezril had realized the bait was not his.

Olufemi cleared the ground in a blink with a ferocity they were all accustomed to. His movements were a blur in Ezril’s eyes, and he was fairly certain his brothers hadn’t seen their brother move. It was the fastest he had ever seen Olufemi move.

Olufemi struck with the ferocity of a Titan and the precision of a snake. The blow was vicious. Behind it seemed to be all of his weight, borne with a single purpose. The sound from the impact echoed, as they stood in the night. Ezril found himself wondering if the Merdendi heard it too.

“You, boy, are dangerous,” Noem said, Olufemi’s fist in his palm, suppressed to the side. “But not yet deadly. However, I shall begin with you.”

Noem’s blow came faster than Olufemi’s. It incited a reaction from them. Darvi’s hand moved for his Sunder. Salem’s gaze tightened, his vision tunneling on Noem. Takan was already rising to his feet. And Ezril’s Sunders were free of the ground.

However, Olufemi ducked beneath the huge man’s blow, extricated his fist from Noem’s grip, and came up on the man’s side. It left the man open, and Olufemi didn’t hesitate. Ezril watched with wide eyes as he struck Noem in the throat, rounded the man, clipped him behind the knee, and brought him to the ground. Pinning him to it, Olufemi raised his hand for a final blow.

“That’s enough,” Darvi commanded.