Grey-Fang was buried under flailing limbs, bloody torsos, and a tangle of spears. He chopped furiously in every direction. He had to keep moving. If he stopped, he would die and his family would go unavenged.

He bit his lip, tasted blood, and became a blur of carnage. His heart beat filled his ears and dulled the sounds of battle- the screams, the meaty smacks as his axes found their targets, his own roar of pain and exultation. The axes were hungry for flesh and bone and they feasted, but hungered still. Kicking the last of the fallen off him, Grey-Fang leaped to his feet. Ten men had died at his hand in twice as many breaths but hundreds still stood between him and the General.

A new plan entered his mind. It would work twice, maybe three times if luck was with him. He looped the thong loops at the end of his axes and grabbed one of the spears. He was a hunter and a warrior. His strength was that of mountains, and his endurance as endless as a river. He would make it to General Dhava, whatever the cost.