***
While Stenhelt helped his father struggle to stand on one relatively good leg, a male voice called out, "Hello in camp!" Except that the newcomer used Locan, the high speech of Kaldevarr.
Halivik and his son glanced at each other; they both found it highly curious that someone like a cleric, a noble, or a Maker would be out alone in the remote Cragwood. It was a language of formal functions, and the tongue that Makers used for their mystic workings. Halivik had never heard it used in casual conversation. He had a basic knowledge of it, and suspected Sten to know at least a few phrases and sentences of it from his lessons.
Using the spear as a crutch to steady himself, Halivik barked out, "Welcome," in answer, but used Kalde, the common tongue of the country. If the stranger was some high functionary who was foolishly wandering alone out in those woods, Halivik wanted no misconceptions about whom he met in them. The hunter felt no need to appear above his station; he was content with his place in the world.
The man could quickly be seen as he approached through the thinning morning mist. Of average height and build, he wore a simple burlap poncho over worn leather leggings and supple boots. His deeply tanned skin indicated that he was an outdoorsman of some sort. He walked with a thick traveler's stick in one hand; the other casually gripped the long strap of the large bag hung over his shoulder. While clean-shaven, his dark hair was long and straight. There were strands of silver in that hair, although less than what Halivik had.
Coming upon the camp, the man gazed about it before settling his eyes on the hunter and his son. With a pleasant expression, he nodded his head in thanks.
"I am Halivik, huntsman of Bruvaal village. This is my son Stenhelt. There's not much of a camp to welcome you to, I'm afraid."
The stranger glanced around again and smiled. "Far from it, Halivik," the man responded easily in the commoner's tongue. "A hanging boar carcass, three dead wood curs, a man bandaged to the sky and a blood-stained boy. What else do you need?" They both grinned at the sarcasm. "I go by Chohla."
Halivik frowned despite his pain. "A strange name in these parts; it sounds like the high speech word for friend - 'chula', I believe. But then, I may be wrong; my Locan is weak from lack of practice or care."
Chohla shrugged. "Then my name is well-chosen, I hope." He handed his travel stick to the boy and stepped toward the hauling sled. "You're wavering, huntsman. You need the weight off your legs." He pulled the sled to the side of Halivik. "Here, sit. Your son and I will fashion a better camp. You're in no current shape for travel, anyway."
"My thanks," Halivik groaned as he gingerly, awkwardly sat on the sled. "Not very inviting, I know. A cold camp was best for our hunt. We've kept to jerky and vegetables; you're welcome to some if you're in need."
Chohla shook his head as he crouched and unslung his large bag. "You look much more in need than I." He looked over to the boy. "Stenhelt, is it? Dig out a shallow pit over here for the fire, if you would."
"Do as he says, boy," Halivik said encouragingly to Sten.
Turning back to Halivik, Chohla said, "You'll need your strength, so keep your food at hand. I have enough." He began pulling out stoppered, squat wooden flasks from his bag. "So," he said to fill in the ensuing silence as he rummaged through his vials, "I gather that wood curs can be poor company, yes?"
Halivik grinned through his pain. "True enough; we had a bit of an adventure here just before you came our way." To his son, he said, "Sten, that's a fine pit for our needs. Go find some dry wood, but don't venture far."
Both men watched the boy move off before Chohla commented, "It was the echoes of a struggle that caught my ear. You did well to keep most of your skin and your son safe."
"Huh," Halivik grunted wryly. "All I did well was to blunt some sharp teeth with my skin. I owe my life to my Sten." When Chohla turned to him with brows raised, he added, "I tell you true. That boy fought like a wolverine." After Chohla nodded appreciably, Halivik asked, "You're not Kaldevarran, are you?"
"Not so much, no," Chohla answered casually while he uncorked a small, plain flask and sniffed its contents. He nodded to himself at the choice.
"I daresay you're not a Ferren," Halivik said. There was little chance of that; the sentries in the northern pass through the Skyreach Mountains have guarded against raiders from Ferrenis for hundreds of years. "But you spoke Locan as you came... Maybe some folk in Seotan know it, maybe not; doubtful that anyone from Ormyra speaks our high tongue. Are you an outcast?"
Chohla glanced at Halivik, and then returned to sorting his wooden flasks. "No, huntsman, I am no exile, nor am I a spy or an enemy. What I mainly am is a traveler. I have walked the white shores of Ormyra, and trekked across vast Seotan. I have even visited Ferrenis for a time, and other lands beyond your knowing. I hold no allegiance to any claimed territory, but I can speak the languages of most for my own sake."
"A good skill to have, for whatever trade that allows a man to roam so far and wide."
"Lucky for you, I am in the trade of herbalism, amongst other things. The Cragwood is home to a few special plants that have proven lucrative. I have some mixtures here that will help you."
Halivik grimaced, more from his predicament than his discomfort that time. "I have little to barter with, unless you prize boar meat or dead curs."
Selecting a few flasks and setting them aside, Chohla said, "In my travels, I've come to find that good company - at least for a meal or a story - is payment enough for my skills." He pulled out two stone bowls from within his large bag and then turned to look past Halivik. "Ah, the brave young man returns."
Stenhelt strode back into camp with a bundle of dead wood and dumped it near the pit. He immediately turned to his father and asked, "How are your wounds?"
"The same as when you left. Now stop fretting, boy. Get the fire started." Halivik worried after Sten's reaction to the attack more so than of his own wounds. Keeping his son's mind busy on needed chores would deny any dark thoughts to linger.
His son looked curiously at Chohla's wares as he stacked the wood, but said nothing.
When the fire caught the thicker limbs, Chohla knelt next to Stenhelt with his flasks and bowls. "Your father will need to remove the poultices for a time so that I can apply a salve. Go give him a hand, little Khoveyo."
"Khoveyo?" the boy asked.
"I was told how brave you were, how fierce. The word 'Khoveyo' means 'savage spirit' in your high speech. Perhaps it is no longer used?"
Stenhelt shrugged and stopped tending the fire to go untie his father's dressings. Chohla stepped next to them a short time later, holding a bowl in either hand. One held a tan paste and the other a murky white liquid. As Halivik watched, Chohla made a point to taste both to ensure his good intent and the medicine's purity.
"What is the broth for?" Halivik asked.
"It will give strength and kill infection from within." Chohla answered, and then said, "If you have broken bones, you'll have to see a healer for it; I'm only an herbalist."
"None that I can tell," he replied with a grimace, "but I worry that my leg is ruined. Will your salve do much for it?"
"Not as much as you might hope, but it will knit the wounds quickly and save the leg. If you prefer, we can leave the wounds uncovered and let maggots feast on the dead skin instead. I understand it is a common practice among your healers."
"No," Halivik shook his head adamantly, "I've never liked that idea."
"Good; I have much more faith in my mixtures than in a bug. Perhaps the best reaction of this salve," Chohla said calmly while he gently applied the paste with his fingers, "is its numbing effect, if only for half a day. As long as you keep the wounds tightly bound, you should be able to make your trek back home with no pain or further damage. I'd wager you'll be at your door before all the stars come out."
"Honestly?" Stenhelt asked. "We won't have to remain until father has healed?"
"It wouldn't come to that, Sten," Halivik said through gritted teeth as the paste sank into t
he open wounds. "With how strong you are, I'd just -" he paused with an involuntary flinch - "sit back on the sled and let you pull me home." His boy smiled at the comment, a welcome sight.
A short time later Halivik was on his feet, tenderly testing his tingling calf for the long walk ahead. Meanwhile, Stenhelt dragged the dead wood curs near a small brook where he skinned them and scrubbed the hides in the cold water. He was taught to let little go to waste, so he came back to camp with anything useful he could harvest from them.
Halivik saw in his son's face an unspoken pride of his actions and of his first wild kills, however odd and violent the method. As long as Sten didn't become a boaster - which was doubtful from the quiet boy - then he was due some self-indulgence.
Chohla helped them pack the sled, receiving thanks many times over in the process. He declined an offer to trek back with them to their village, where as their guest he would want for little. "I prefer the wild," he said, and then looked down at Stenhelt, "as I'm sure you understand, don't you, little Khoveyo?"
Halivik frowned at the cryptic words, but saw his son nodding to the strange herbalist.