Carrick had been waiting to see how the slave reacted to injury. The cut he had inflicted was barely more than a scratch, but he was nevertheless gratified to see that Liam ignored it. The reflexive action of jerking his arm away was more than forgivable. It was an instinct, but one that Liam could be trained out of.
He moved forward with a light and liquid step, blade dancing in the light with a flurry of quick, short jabs and slashes, before dropping back into a defensive stance, almost daring his slave to move forward and attack.