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.