Eyes opened and stared at him, and Thord could not repress a slight shiver. It seemed that the pain and indignity had wrought some evil magic on this man he had ridden with, and thought he knew. He had seen exactly the same gaze in a big snow-cat caught in a trap, and he felt suddenly that it was not a man he spoke to, but a predatory beast. "Stark," he said. "Where is the talisman of Ban Cruach?" The Earthman did not answer. Thord laughed. He glanced up at the sky, where the moons rode low and swift. "The night is only half gone. Do you think you can last it out?" The cold, cruel, patient eyes watched Thord. There was no reply. Some quality of pride in that gaze angered the barbarian. It seemed to mock him, who was so sure of his ability to loosen a reluctant tongue. "You think I cannot make you talk, don't you? You don't know me, stranger! You don't know Thord, who can make the rocks speak out if he will!" He reached out with his free hand and struck Stark across the face. It seemed impossible that anything so still could move so quickly. There was an ugly flash of teeth, and Thord's wrist was caught above the thumb-joint. He bellowed, and the iron jaws closed down, worrying the bone. Quite suddenly, Thord screamed. Not for pain, but for panic. And the rows of watching men swayed forward, and even the Lord Ciaran rose up, startled. "Hark!" ran the whispering around the fire. "Hark how he growls!" Thord had let go of Stark's hair and was beating him about the head with his clenched fist. His face was white. "Werewolf!" he screamed. "Let me go, beast-thing! Let me go!" But the dark man clung to Thord's wrist, snarling, and did not hear. After a bit there came the dull crack of bone. Stark opened his jaws. Thord ceased to strike him. He backed off slowly, staring at the torn flesh. Stark had sunk down to the length of his arms. With his left hand, Thord drew his knife. The Lord Ciaran stepped forward. "Wait, Thord!" "It is a thing of evil," whispered the barbarian. "Warlock. Werewolf. Beast."
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