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fight against is a worse kind of evil than Vesleathren?” the weldumun soldier contested.
    “Because I have faced him in battle,” Flaer grunted in a hushed voice. “And I know neither Vesleathren nor Zesm care about women and children—and as Krem has told you, it makes no difference which one of them we’re up against.”
    “Liar! Faced Vesleathren? Hah,” laughed the weldumun soldier, spitting pieces of stew in Erguile’s face.
    “Ugh!” Erguile recoiled. Suddenly, the long wooden table shuddered. Everyone braced themselves, grasping their seat, as sudden heat pulsed from Flaer’s back. The druid and the weldumun looked in terror at a bright red light, nearly blinding; it beamed in every direction. Erguile felt the familiar wind push through the air as Flaer’s sword charged with energy. Krem continued to eat, unaffected, smiling wryly between bites. Slowin watched with delight as the druid and the weldumun struggled to stay in their seats, eventually having to step away from the intense energy and light. The glow amplified, from red to white, and the druid wailed in agony as the light pierced through his closed eyes.
    “You see, this is his sword. I took it from him last he met me,” Flaer said. The light of the Brigun Autilus died, and the room returned to normal, devoid of the ominous red hue that had enveloped the walls.
    “I can’t believe it…” the weldumun muttered.
    “Believe it!” Erguile shot out. “And be happy Flaer’s on our side, he’s almost as good with swords as I am.”
    “So you really did fight him!” the druid said, returning to his seat, blinking his eyes.
    “I’ll tell you the tale later, after council,” Flaer calmly replied.
    “Speaking of the council—you are attending, right Krem?” Slowin asked his purple-robed friend.
    “You know that he leaves tomorrow, and I have to be there to see them off,” Krem answered.
    “They’re leaving already?” Erguile interrupted.
    “Yes—we will need him back as soon as possible; he can’t wait any longer.”
    “He doesn’t want to leave—doesn’t want to leave her,” Flaer said.
    “Adacon knows his burden. Knows it well,” Krem said. “Falen only knows half the route; the last bit of the journey I will be guiding.”
    “Is it far, this Tinpan’s place?” Erguile asked, not knowing nearly as much about Adacon’s mysterious journey as Flaer, Slowin and Krem; all that Erguile knew was that Adacon had to temper some ability, as he possessed a hidden power, and that Krem had known just where to send Adacon to get his training.   
    “Tempern! Though you’re no longer a slave, we must teach you how to remember names properly!” Krem scolded.
    “Well, then, is it far?” Erguile continued.
    “I’d say,” Slowin interrupted. “I’d only heard rumors of Nethvale until Krem assured me that the ice country of legend truly existed.”
    “Ice country?” the weldumun barged into the conversation.
    “Mind your stew,” Flaer replied, accompanying his instructions with a brief flicker of light from Brigun Autilus. The weldumun and druid both edged down the wooden bench, letting Flaer and his company have their privacy.
    “Yes, lad, the ice country of Nethvale is the farthest point north in all of Darkin, and the Great Cloudstream there keeps it veiled from ships that might pass its shores—that is why it is scarcely believed to be a real place.”
    “So how long before Adacon will be able to rejoin us to fight the Feral Army?”
    “I can’t say—that is up to Tempern,” Krem replied. He drifted into thought for a moment, gazing past Erguile.
    “Keep your focus on tonight’s council, Erguile; remember, you’re a captain now,” Flaer reminded him.
    “Ahh, you’re right. I still can’t believe it. Has such a lovely sound to it: Captain Erguile.”
    “Well, you certainly earned it,” Slowin replied.
    “Pity you have no last name, but such is the nature of slaveship,” Krem mentioned.
    “Some call