He manages to slay his first rather quickly, the swing of his blade cleaving it between its neck and shoulder, not enough to behead but enough that scarlet blood pumps in an arterial spray on the snow, and it's too busy dying to be of more of a nuisance.

The next gets a mouthful of coat, and drags him down.

Which is very graceful, but he abandons his sword -- something he doesn't do if faced with a foe with opposable thumbs -- to take out a thick-hilted blade. When it comes at him, teeth shining, Kane gives it his arm to worry, teeth tearing into leathers and metals, hard enough to bruise but not to puncture, unless he were to let it worry away.

It's reconsidering its options when he plunges the knife up through where furry neck meets jaw, pushing past dense fur, thick hide, and the vulnerabilities beneath.

He heaves it away from himself, getting to his knees and reaching for his sword, tense against the idea of a fourth sizing up his bent back.