[dojango]

A cold wind blew out of the Rim Mountains. Dante pulled his cloak closer around his shoulders. He watched quietly as the man on horseback approached. A few of his soldiers looked up from the field, but most were concentrating on looting the dead. The militia had not put up much of a fight, and their pathetic arms and armor reflected their poor lot in life, so the pickings were meager. The man on horseback pulled up a few paces away from Dante and gave him a lazy salute.
"Report," grunted Dante.
"Went about a dozen miles south, sir. Not much there. A small village or two, very poor. Not much plunder, I reckon. Some small farms if we need food." The scout paused.
"Any sign of our reinforcements?" asked Dante.
"No. Didn't see anyone. Friendly or enemy."
Dante thought for a moment. His orders had been to keep marching south, to meet up with the main Pangaean army. Once reunited, they would hopefully be able to defeat the Mictlanese armies in detail. To turn the tide of the war. A fool's plan, perhaps, but a few of the scouts sent to the north reported an army bearing down upon them. The rest didn't return at all.
"Form up!" he shouted. The men finished their plunder and assembled in the rough parody of a formation that mercenaries used. A fool's plan, perhaps, but their only plan.

...

Nightfall found them camped about ten miles south, next to a small village. The villagers had made no trouble, and had reluctantly turned over their stash of weak beer to the mercenaries. In exchange for that, Dante agreed to have his men leave them alone.
Suddenly one of the sentries cried out. Men rushed to his position and returned moments later with a prisoner. The man was clearly one of the enemy nobles; his robe was made of fine cotton weave, and bright plumes adorned his headdress. He bowed to Dante with all the courtly arrogance only a noble could muster.
"My lord," said the prisoner, "I come as an emissary under a flag of truce. My master Xtapolapoc sends to you an offer. May I?"
Dante gave a curt nod. The prisoner set his back on the ground. From it, he placed a heavy gold coin in the ground. It glittered enticingly in the torchlight. Then he drew a large object from the pack and placed it at his feet. There was a gasp from the greener recruits as they realized that it was a severed head.
Dante looked at the head closely. It was not quite human. Probably from one of those strange satyr women, the dryads. Perhaps even the same one that had given Dante his orders so many months ago.
The choice was easy, of course. The Pangaeans had hired Dante to fight for them, not to die for them. Dante examined the coin again. He didn't recognize the king on the face, nor the symbol on the obverse, but the dents from his teeth spoke for its purity. These Mictlanese were no less alien than the beast-men he had served, but their gold was still the same.