"Absolutely," Fred said.
Deg finished his chant and bent over the wounded hunter. The Lorayan's breathing was labored. It slowed, hesitated....
"It is time!" cried the medicine man. He took a small wooden tube out of his pouch, uncorked it, and held it to the dying man's lips. The hunter drank. And then—
Carver blinked, and Fred grinned triumphantly. The hunter's breathing was becoming stronger. As they watched, the great gash became a line of scar tissue, then a thin pink mark, then an almost invisible white line.
The hunter sat up, scratched his head, grinned foolishly and asked for something to drink, preferably intoxicating.
Deg declared a festival on the spot.