Elor was leaning heavily on his staff with about twenty feet of path still to tackle. He was breathing hard and wishing he spent less time hunched up in the library. The two tartars had not waited for him, this was the fourth or fifth time he had stopped and he had worn out this courtesy after the first two. He could see Krieg standing on a ledge outside a cave-mouth, stripping off his layers of fur armour and weaponry. The Dragon scout was helping him, making a neat pile of his things. As Elor looked more closely, he could seem shimmering whorls of steam coming from the small black aperture in the rock face. Some kind of herbal concoction to aid the journey to the spirit world. Elor’s knowledge of Tartarian spirit walking was not extensive, but it had grown manifold in the last few days.
