Farodin waved his companion over. Nuramon hesitated. He was leading Felbion by the reins, and they had tied Mandred across the horse’s saddle. The human was in a deep coma. His heart still beat, but slowly, and his body was far too warm. A day at most, Nuramon had said in the morning. Since then, eight hours had passed. They had to find water, or Mandred would die. The elves could not survive the heat too much longer either. Nuramon’s cheeks were sunken, and fine creases had formed in rings around his inflamed eyes. It was clear that his struggle to save Mandred’s life had driven him to the limits of his own endurance. “Come on,” Farodin called. “It’s beautiful and horrible at the same time. Like looking into the water in Emerelle’s bowl.” Nuramon went ahead to Farodin. Now that he stood so close to his companion, Farodin said he could almost physically feel Nuramon’s exhaustion. “You have to rest,”
