The flames leaped high from the fire in the windless gorge. Men sat
around it in a great circle, the wild riders out of the mountain valleys
of Mekh. They sat with the curbed and shivering eagerness of wolves
around a dying quarry. Now and again their white teeth showed in a kind
of silent laughter, and their eyes watched.
"He is strong," they whispered, one to the other. "He will live the
night out, surely!"
On an outcrop of rock sat the Lord Ciaran, wrapped in a black cloak,
holding the great axe in the crook of his arm. Beside him, Otar huddled
in the snow.
Close by, the long spears had been driven deep and lashed together to
make a scaffolding, and upon this frame was hung a man. A big man,
iron-muscled and very lean, the bulk of his shoulders filling the space
between the bending shafts. Eric John Stark of Earth, out of Mercury.
He had already been scourged without mercy. He sagged of his own weight
between the spears, breathing in harsh sobs, and the trampled snow
around him was spotted red.
Thord was wielding the lash. He had stripped off his own coat, and his
body glistened with sweat in spite of the cold. He cut his victim with
great care, making the long lash sing and crack. He was proud of his
skill.
Stark did not cry out.
Presently Thord stepped back, panting, and looked at the Lord Ciaran.
And the black helm nodded.
Thord dropped the whip. He went up to the big dark man and lifted his
head by the hair.
"Stark," he said, and shook the head roughly. "Stranger!"
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."
He sprang at Stark.
* * * * *
The man in armor moved, very swiftly, and the great axe went whirling
through the air. It caught Thord squarely where the cords of his neck
ran into the shoulder--caught, and shore on through.
There was a silence in the valley.
The Lord Ciaran walked slowly across the trampled snow and took up his
axe again.
"I will be obeyed," he said. "And I will not stand for fear, not of god,
man, nor devil." He gestured toward Stark. "Cut him down. And see that
he does not die."
He strode away, and Otar began to laugh.
From a vast distance, Stark heard that shrill, wild laughter. His mouth
was full of blood, and he was mad with a cold fury.
A cunning that was purely animal guided his movements then. His head
fell forward, and his body hung inert against the thongs. He might
almost have been dead.
A knot of men came toward him. He listened to them. They were hesitant
and afraid. Then, as he did not move, they plucked up courage and came
closer, and one prodded him gently with the point of his spear.
"Prick him well," said another. "Let us be sure!"
The sharp point bit a little deeper. A few drops of blood welled out and
joined the small red streams that ran from the weals of the lash. Stark
did not stir.