The Way of the Beast

***

  It seemed only a moment later - or maybe an eternity - that Stenhelt's youthful face came into view above Halivik. No longer some seething savage, just his boy again, kneeling near with a look of dread and helplessness.

  Halivik once again noticed Stenhelt's strong resemblance to the boy's mother, more so than his siblings Tullgar or Irisella. Baraide's fine features, mixed with a few of his own, created a fetching child. He hated to see that face distorted with such worry.

  Glancing at the small, warm hand that settled on his, Halivik lifted his gaze once more and saw his son's dark eyes brimming with unspent tears. "Father," Stenhelt said with a voice choked by emotion, "what do I do? I don't know what to do."

  "The water skin," Halivik whispered through gritted teeth. "Then go fetch the poultices your mother made. Front pack on the sled. Make bandages. Start a fire after."

  Stenhelt was quick with the supplies. While Halivik's trembling hand poured water into his deeper wounds to flush them, his son used a skinning blade to cut a spare linen shirt into strips as he was told. Grimacing, the wounded man gauged the damage done to him.

  "Sten," he groaned, "I don't think there's time to heat the poultices. I might... get too weak before you g - get a proper fire."

  He saw the boy's eyes widen with concern, but then nodded his head. He handed Halivik a rawhide strap to bite on before placing the gauzy packets firmly onto his father's mauled calf. He wrapped it with the linen, and then cinched it tight. Halivik's resulting muffled yell of agony caused Stenhelt to hesitate for a moment before he moved to the next grave wound for the same treatment. His son then wiped a bit of leftover herb paste onto gashes on his father's neck and cheek, cuts that Halivik wasn't aware he had.

  Laying his head back onto the cold, damp leaves to calm his breath from the spikes of pain, he asked, "How does it look, boy?"

  "You're a mess, father," Sten replied honestly, with a better grip on his emotions.

  Halivik lifted his head to look at Sten's handiwork. His open coat was ruined; he'd never hear the end of that from Baraide. His buckskin leggings were likewise tattered, but Sten was careful to make minimal cuts to get to wounds so that the leather could be sewn or patched. The linen was used sparingly to bind all of the injuries. Given the circumstances, not much better could have been expected from Jonigar, the old village healer.

  It was then that Halivik noticed that another dead cur had been dragged back to camp, and also that his son's hands and arms were spattered and smeared with blood. "Stenhelt, are you injured, son?" he asked with sudden alarm.

  The boy gave a quick shake of his head. "I think most of this is yours, father." After a moment's hesitation, he asked, "Are you able to stand up? It scares me to see you all hurt and bloody and laying there."

  Halivik laid his head back once more, his eyes staring absently up at the clearing sky through bare branches. "Just a bit longer to settle my nerves, then we'll give it a go." He let out a long sigh that fluttered his thick mustache, trying to acclimate to the pain from all over his body. "Sten, what happened here? How did you... What did I see?"

  "I - I don't know, father."

  Upon hearing the tremble in his son's voice, Halivik painfully propped himself onto an elbow once again to see Sten's face. His young boy was kneeling near his feet, facing half away, using water from another skin to clean his blood-stained arms. "It's alright, son. Just tell me."

  "I saw the wood curs on you," Stenhelt replied quietly, "and I was scared. Even more scared than when Tull fell off the roof." Halivik recalled that day; Tullgar was clumsy at times, but thankfully sturdy. "I saw you fighting them," Sten continued, "and you were yelling. And then I saw blood, saw you hurt, and I - and I got mad. I wanted to hurt the curs back, so I did."

  Despite the sharp pain it caused, Halivik chuckled. "That you did, son. So why are you acting like you deserve a swat?"

  "Because you always tell us not to lose our tempers, and letting that happen makes us fools." Stenhelt's head hung lower as he finished his father's oft-repeated words, "And a fool loses respect." He couldn't quite manage to look at Halivik when he asked, "Did I do that, father?"

  "Look at me, boy." When Sten complied and turned his head, Halivik answered. "You followed your heart with no thought, but you had noble intentions. I still say that anything to be done should be with heart and thought. Still," he went on with a labored grin, "I'm not sure what I saw here... but I know that you saved me. Thank you."

  Stenhelt reflected his father's crooked grin with his own. "I'm glad you're not mad at me."

  At that moment, Halivik wished he had the strength to embrace his boy. "Mad? I'm - I'm... so proud of you, son. Few men would have such courage. And the things you did... By the Triad, Sten, you fought like Vidun reborn!"

  The boy's grin grew wider with the praise, but then he suddenly spun his head toward the dense woods on the far side of the dell and jumped to his feet.

  "What -"

  "Something comes, father," Stenhelt said in a harsh whisper as he grabbed up the spear. After a few seconds of peering in that direction, he added, "A man, alone, I think. What do I do?"

  Halivik began maneuvering to get up. "No man should be met lying down," he grunted, "unless it's the last time you'll ever see him. Give me a hand and the spear."