The elf lay on the stone floor, drifting in and out of consciousness, his head carefully pillowed on his master’s folded cloak.
Though the subterranean corridor was uncomfortably damp, Raistlin found himself grateful for the clean water leaking from one of the overhead pipes.
His apprentice was badly wounded, and had already vomited far past the point of dehydration. He was resting a little now, though, and no longer hallucinating, at least for the moment.
“Dalamar,” he urged hoarsely, kneeling down to hold a small flask to the bruised lips. “You must drink...at least a little.
” Normally so polished and vibrant, the elf was an almost unrecognizable mess, despite Raistlin’s best efforts to clean off some of the blood and filth.
The archmage flinched anew at the sight of Dalamar’s injuries.
He was covered in bruises and cuts, some of them quite severe, and his right wrist was badly fractured, but none of this was life-threatening.
It was the brutal damage to his chest that had Raistlin extremely worried.
Somehow, a few hours before, he had used the last of his remaining strength to close the five deceptively small wounds above Dalamar's heart and stop the dangerous bleeding.
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