Grey-Fang was already moving by the time the slave’s words had left his mouth. Half-running, half-sliding down the rocky terrain sparsely covered by thin tufts of grass, his arms were spread wide like a falcon’s wings. These wings ended in curved blades of sharp steel.

As he approached, the men in front of him separated into smaller groups, bristling with spears. He had put them on the defensive by attacking. That was good. It meant they were limited to reactions instead of actions.

The closest formation looked like the ass end of a porcupine. He was close enough to see the arrogance on their faces. Some of it was well deserved, he conceded. As far as he knew they hadn’t lost a battle yet, but with so many men, it would be a disaster if they did. On the other hand Grey-Fang was sure they had never met anyone like him before.

He turned the momentum of his run into a slide, barreling into as many of them as possible. They fell. Blood flowed before most finished clearing their swords out of their scabbards.