You see Obren finishing off what you assume to be a rebel. He meets your eyes through a helmet visor soaked with crimson. You share a nod of understanding.
The foragers you assume to be loyalists step away with their hands in the air. Your bloodthirsty men slaughter those who do not.
Three men from your contingent are lifeless on the ground. Another one groans in pain as he's pulled out of the fray. Another curses as he holds a bleeding hand to his chest.
But you count at least eight rebels dead. Two loyalists are dead as well, most likely by accidental friendly fire. You count a further half dozen fleeing across the river.
It is an indisputable victory.
You watch as two of your soldiers, Sokol and another, throw a man to the ground. He falls back onto his rear and raises his hands, both begging for his life and protecting himself.
"You's a fuckin' rebel, ain't ya?" Sokol asks as he stands above him. "Ya a fuckin' rebel?"
"No! It's a mistake! Please, I's with ya, I's with ya!" the unfortunate soul replies.
The other soldier laughs. "Hey, decanus, I's think we's got a fuckin' liar on our hands."
You begin to approach the scene as the 'rebel' begs, "Please… man, I's ain't a fuckin' rebel…" His voice wavers as if he's on the verge of tears. "I's got kids, man… please, I's don't wanna die here!"
Sokol, hearing this, lowers his weapon and takes a step back, as sanity has abruptly returned to him.
The other soldier, however, replies as he raises his blade, "Should'a thought of that before you joined the wrong side,"
Before he executes the man, he glimpses you out of the corner of his eye and stops, turning toward you. "Marshal! Jus' polishin' off the enemy."