He straightened and turned again. His eyes held a feral glint. "The man has robbed me once," he said. "It is enough."
He heard Thord's men coming. Three of them tried to jam through the entrance at once, and he sprang at them. He made no sound. His fists did the talking for him, and then his feet, as he kicked the stunned barbarians back upon their leader.
"Now," he said to the Lord Ciaran, "will we talk as men?"
The man in armor laughed, a sound of pure enjoyment. It seemed that the gaze behind the mask studied Stark's savage face, and then lifted to greet the sullen Thord who came back into the shelter, his cheeks flushed crimson with rage.
"Go," said the Lord Ciaran. "The stranger and I will talk."
"But Lord," he protested, glaring at Stark, "it is not safe...."
"My dark mistress looks after my safety," said Ciaran, stroking the axe across his knees. "Go."
Thord went.
The man in armor was silent then, the blind mask turned to Stark, who met that eyeless gaze and was silent also. And the bundle of rags in the shadows straightened slowly and became a tall old man with rusty hair and beard, through which peered craggy juts of bone and two bright, small points of fire, as though some wicked flame burned within him.
He shuffled over and crouched at the feet of the Lord Ciaran, watching the Earthman. And the man in armor leaned forward.