Navarre didn't care what attacked him. He'd cut it down. He was a bloodthirsty mercenary, or so they called him. He knew how to fight and had no problem killing (well unless they were women and children, but that wasn't generally known).

Navarre swung at the large weasel with his long blade, and if that didn't connect, there was always the follow-up with the short close-ranged blade. He wasn't about to let that thing bite him.