Viking Terror. Tom Henighan

      “Awerewolf?” Ari groaned. “This is worse than a Skraeling hunting party. To my knowledge I have never met a werewolf. And she looks like an ordinary girl to me. A human being, surely, although maybe a remarkable one.”

      “But think of it, Ari! It’s hard to believe she could survive in the wilds by herself. And Tyrkir once told me that supernatural beings always tell plausible stories and appear convincingly human.”

      “If she releases us, then, we should kill her. But, Rigg, I don’t want to kill her.”

      “Nor I. The bravest thing is surely just to go along with her, not to fear what she might be. We must be wary, however.”

      “I will trust anyone who puts me right side up,” Ari moaned. “If this girl disappears in smoke or turns into a wolf on the way to Brattalid, at least I will deal with it standing on my own feet.”

      The two friends waited in silence for a few long minutes. The cave seemed empty and bleak. Rigg wished that the Skraeling (or whatever she was) might break out and sing a little. He was afraid of the decision that would come out of this gloomy silence.

      At last the Tornit girl slipped back into the cave. She said not a word but stood gazing at the two friends with her large dark eyes. Rigg could not read her mood and held his breath. In her right hand she held the formidable mallet that had knocked him and Ari unconscious. In her left hand she carried a large hunting knife.

      After fixing her gaze on them for some minutes, the Skraeling girl sank down on her knees, bent her head over until it touched the rocky floor. She remained for almost a minute in that position, murmuring to herself all the while and raising and lowering her knife in a ritual fashion.

      This doesn’t look very promising, Rigg thought, but there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.