Elaaron …
Elaaron …
The wound throbbed and bled, and his foot had gone icy-cold. He sweated, felt dizzy, then vomited the water he had managed to swallow.
‘Drink more,’ said Leachim. ‘Blood loss must be compensated. You know this.’ He sighed. ‘Meia willing, I hope I never have to stitch you up again. Your body is beginning to resemble a map of Ilketh.’
Time had passed in increments. Elaaron dozed, woke to the pain of his stitched thigh, sipped water, then drifted off into an exhausted, halfway state: neither asleep nor aware. Each time he came back to himself, his gaze went straight to the westward horizon, until Gedric’s commands distracted him, or he succumbed once more to the powders Leachim had insisted on pinching into his nostrils. The improvised chair that supported his injured
