Wave after wave had failed to subdue him, until the slow trickle of blood from the hypothermic corpses began to drift down toward the trampled site of Bacle’s deadly, stationary performance, creating a convex, conical carpet of blood, bodies, and ice at his dancing feet.
Suddenly, the veil of his fighting trance had begun to lift from Bacle’s vision as he had realized that no more enemies were forthcoming. Wary, and not a little proud of his impressive display of dominance, he had quickly swiveled his head to all sides to see what could have possibly brought sense to these monsters among men.
That had been when he saw the Beast.
And now, here they stood; Bacle, surrounded by the congealing evidence of his brutality, and the Beast, backed by a hundred his kind, was staring straight at Bacle from three meters away with something slightly more than a look of respect and a little less than one of admiration on his bestial face. In the short stalemate, Bacle found time to catch his shallow breath and to examine his attackers in depth.
He at once saw that the grandiose tales of the Pangaeans had, at the same time, been far-fetched as well as understated. No great defects, self-inflicted scarring, or fearsome war paint covered the paragons of human physique, and yet their awe-inspiring presence and solemn magnitude was only offset by the sense that they could, at any moment, leap upon unsuspecting prey. Intelligence fought with a thirst for battle behind their stoic, somewhat snarled expressions.
The all seemed to be regarding the gasping, blood-drenched with a certain respect, except for the Beast who simply nodded. Unsure what that meant, Bacle let the silence continue a few seconds longer while he continued to collect his thoughts and his breath, the frigid air stinging his throat and invigorating him in case of another attack.
Finally, the Beast uttered the wholly unsurprising string of grunts that were Bacle’s first introduction to the Pangaean tongue, and the order was apparently understood on his end because what had first appeared to be a backpack adding an extra bulge to the giant man’s fur cape suddenly released its hold from around the Beast’s tree-like neck and fell gently to the snow. Lifting itself from where it had landed, the backpack began to create a miniature moat around the Beast’s right side as it walked forward to receive instruction.
Bacle saw that the backpack was a young girl of about ten years with dark hair similar to her bearer’s and eyes of deepest blue that seemed to signify her as unique. Despite himself, the general nearly laughed out loud at how ridiculously scrawny the girl appeared amid the wolf-men.
Then something happened that did make Bacle laugh.
“We welcome you to our conquest, fierce warrior,” the girl said in flawless Atlantean at a prompt from the Beast, “Please do us the courtesy of letting us know if you will be fighting for us or against us as we subdue this land that we may know whether to strike you down or welcome you as one of us.”
The single guffaw of amusement that escaped the incredulous Bacle seemed to determine his fate in the hands of many, and at least half of the wolf-men began to surge forward at what they took to be a blatant insult. But, shockingly, as Bacle prepared himself for the onslaught, a simple gesture and glare from the girl stopped them in their snow-covered tracks, eliciting another unbelieving smile from the general. A few angry grunts from the girl sent her apparent underlings cowering back into formation.
“It’s alright,” she assured Bacle, turning back to face him, “my people do not understand your displays of…” she paused for a second, “funnying. Allow me begin diplomacy.”
Bacle was still in shock at the words emerging from the girl’s mouth as he tentatively let his blade drop to his side. Aside from her slip-up on ‘funnying’, the little hide-covered queen was speaking as well as Bacle supposed any young Atlantean noblewoman her age might.
“I’m Bacle,” he finally replied, unsure as to whether he should be looking at the Backpack or the Beast.
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