He refused to stay down. Refused to give up. So he kept fighting.
Each movement was agony. Every shift of his weight sent sharp, splintering pain up through his leg and into his spine, yet he forced himself forward again and again. He did what he could to aid the surviving hunters, though in his current state he was slower. More than once, he felt the beast's attention linger on him, as though it had already marked him as the easiest prey. He was no longer the hunter he had been at the start of the battle. Now, he was little more than a moving target.
Still, he fought.
Even weakened and bleeding, he pushed himself beyond reason. He gripped his sword tight in his hand, and in one desperate lunge, he managed to slash across the fenrar's flank. The blade bit deep enough to draw blood, a fleeting victory that did nothing but enrage the beast further. It snarled, its movements growing more violent and more reckless.
There had been just over fifteen hunters when the attack began.
