Marcus's soldiers advanced through the breach, moving in two long columns, their boots trampling the corpses of Ricardi's fallen followers strewn across the swampy ground. As they reached the center of the swamp, the lead unit was still engaged in fierce skirmishes, clearing the remaining pockets of resistance that blocked their path.

  The captain at the head of the main force turned to a scout. "Any sign of Ricardi?"

  The scout shook his head. "No, sir. Not yet."

  "Don't worry," the captain replied grimly. "We'll find him. He's undoubtedly hiding somewhere far from the center." He raised his voice, issuing commands. "Columns, begin diagonal formation! Advance! Attack!"

  From all sides, Marcus's men surged forward, emerging from the mist like specters, falling upon Ricardi's unsuspecting followers from behind. One soldier grabbed an enemy combatant, plunging his blade into the man's back. Another swung his sword, decapitating his foe with a swift, brutal stroke.

  ***

  Meanwhile, Marcus rode with a small escort towards the northwestern edge of the swamp. As they rode, two soldiers accompanying him spoke in low whispers.

  "Hey," one said quietly, "do you think the General will actually go into the swamp himself?"

  "No," the other replied. "I doubt it. Why do you ask?"

  "I think he will," the first soldier mused. "And if he does… I'm going to request to go with him. To protect him."

  The second soldier scoffed. "Are you crazy? Don't try to curry favor with the General by risking your life! Unless he orders you, as part of your duty."

  The first soldier straightened defensively. "The General is strong. Of course, I'll be fine. You'll see. My standing with him will rise. Some opportunities don't just come knocking; you have to seize them."

  They reached the designated spot. Marcus dismounted, walking towards the thick wall of fog at the swamp's edge. He stood there silently for a moment, staring intently into the swirling grayness. Then, he raised his hand slightly. "My sword," he commanded.

  One of the soldiers hurried to Marcus's horse, drawing a distinctive blade from the saddle sheath. It was longer than a standard sword, and noticeably heavier. As the soldier carried it, he grunted under its weight. "Damn, this is heavy," he muttered under his breath. He presented it respectfully to Marcus, holding it with both hands.

  Marcus took the sword in his right hand. With surprising ease, he spun the heavy blade in a showy, one-handed flourish, the steel whistling through the air as if it weighed nothing. He stopped the motion abruptly. "It has been a long time," he murmured, addressing the sword.

  The soldier who had fetched the weapon stared, astonished. "How can he wield that heavy blade like that?" he thought incredulously.

  The soldier planning to volunteer stepped forward, despite his companion subtly trying to hold him back. "Sir!"

  Marcus turned his gaze towards him.

  The soldier continued eagerly. "I wish to be your shield! To advance with you into the swamp! It would be my honor to accompany you, to protect you with my life!"

  "Such loyalty," Marcus said, his voice devoid of warmth. "Very well, soldier. You shall be my shield. Walk ahead of me."

  "Yes, sir!" the soldier replied enthusiastically.

  "I require two others to accompany us," Marcus continued, "positioned behind me. The rest of you, remain here."

  "Yes, sir!" the remaining soldiers responded.

  Slowly, Marcus and his small group entered the swamp. The eager soldier walked ahead, shield raised, sword drawn. Behind Marcus, two other soldiers followed cautiously, one to his left, one to his right, their own shields and swords held ready. Marcus himself walked with confident strides, his distinctive sword held low in his right hand, point angled downwards. The only sound was the sloshing of their boots in the murky water.

  Marcus stopped abruptly, raising his left hand. "Hold," he commanded quietly. "They are close."

  They all froze.

  The soldier in front, the self-proclaimed shield, was sweating profusely despite the cool mist. His eyes darted nervously left and right, anticipating the inevitable attack.

  Suddenly, Marcus was directly behind him, his lips close to the soldier's ear. "Try to survive," Marcus whispered. Then, with a powerful shove, he thrust the soldier forward.

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  The soldier stumbled, losing his balance, propelled into the thickest part of the fog. He reappeared moments later, falling right into the midst of three startled followers of Ricardi. They instantly set upon him with their various weapons.

  The two soldiers behind Marcus gasped, shocked by the General's brutal and callous act.

  "Stay here," Marcus ordered them curtly, his voice cold. "I will handle this."

  Marcus surged forward, appearing suddenly before the three followers of Ricardi who were still butchering the fallen decoy soldier. With a single, fluid motion of his distinctive sword, he decapitated the first. The second lunged at Marcus, who sidestepped the clumsy attack with contemptuous ease. Marcus then drew his blade smoothly across the attacker's outstretched sword arm, slicing cleanly through muscle and bone from wrist to shoulder. Without pausing, he thrust the point of his sword through the man's shoulder and deep into the chest of the third attacker standing behind him.

  All three fell. Marcus flicked the blood from his blade with a sharp movement, his gaze falling on the dying decoy soldier gasping his last breaths on the muddy ground. "A pity," Marcus said coldly. "I thought you were a promising soldier."

  He advanced with steady steps deeper into the fog. Another of Ricardi's men burst from the mist, attacking wildly. Marcus took a swift step backward, evading the blow. The attacker stumbled, losing his balance. Marcus lunged, a sweeping horizontal cut severing the man's head from his shoulders. Another enemy appeared, attacking Marcus. Marcus parried the first blow easily, then the second. He countered with a powerful overhead strike. The enemy raised his shield, but the force of Marcus's blow buckled his knees, driving him downwards. Marcus repeated the strike, fiercer this time. The shield shattered, and Marcus's heavy sword crushed the man's skull.

  From nowhere, another attacker lunged at Marcus. He evaded the first thrust, blocked the second. Then, with incredible speed, Marcus closed the distance. He grabbed the man's right shoulder with his left hand, shattering the bone with a sickening crunch. The enemy dropped his weapon, crying out. Still holding the crippled man, Marcus brought his sword around in a devastating arc, slicing horizontally through the man's midsection, cutting him almost in two. The lower half of the body collapsed. The upper half, still held by Marcus, stared with dying eyes. Marcus looked at him with utter contempt, then contemptuously tossed the torso aside and moved forward.

  Three more of Ricardi's followers stood back-to-back, forming a defensive triangle. "Be wary!" one of them warned his companions. "The enemy has broken through! They're everywhere!"

  Suddenly, a fleeting shape, a mere shadow, drifted past one of them in the fog. "There!" the man yelped, startled. "Over there!"

  The other two spun around. "What is it? What did you see?"

  "I don't know," the first man stammered, "but I saw… a ghost…"

  "You're seeing things," another scoffed.

  Without warning, Marcus's blade erupted *through* their throats, one after another, thrusting from behind with lightning speed. All three collapsed simultaneously. Marcus stood over their bodies, listening. He heard one of his soldiers calling his name.

  A soldier appeared through the mist. "Sir! Marcus! Finally, I found you!"

  "What is it?" Marcus asked curtly.

  "Sir," the soldier reported breathlessly, "Ricardi… he's escaped the swamp! With a small group! He abandoned his followers after we broke through their lines!"

  "Which direction?" Marcus demanded.

  "Towards Gorica, sir! Westward!"

  "He won't reach it," Marcus snarled. "Fifty men! With me! We'll hunt him down, even if we cross into Gorica! The rest of you," he gestured vaguely back towards the sounds of fighting, "clean up the remaining enemies in the swamp."

  "Yes, sir!"

  ***

  Ricardi and a handful of his most loyal followers fled desperately, crossing the border into the kingdom of Gorica. Marcus and his fifty soldiers pursued relentlessly, hot on their heels. As they passed Gorican villages along the border, Marcus gave a grim order: "Burn them."

  Without hesitation, small detachments of Marcus's soldiers veered off, setting torches to the simple village huts as they rode past, chasing Ricardi. By the time they reached the fourth village, Ricardi was clearly visible, his horse flagging. He thrust a small, rolled scroll into the hands of one of his men. "Give this to Queen Hiran!" he commanded. "We split up here!" Ricardi and four men veered sharply to the right.

  One of Marcus's soldiers pointed. "Sir, they've split up! Should we pursue them all?"

  "Ignore the others!" Marcus snapped. "Focus on Ricardi! I want his head!"

  Marcus's archers loosed arrows, bringing down Ricardi's remaining men. Marcus snatched a bow and arrow from a nearby soldier. "He's mine," he declared. He drew the bowstring taut, aimed carefully at the fleeing Ricardi, and released.

  The arrow flew true, piercing Ricardi's shoulder. The old man cried out and tumbled from his horse.

  Marcus rode closer, dismounting as his soldiers finished off Ricardi's wounded guards. He walked slowly towards Ricardi, who was crawling painfully on the ground, clutching his bleeding shoulder.

  "Where are you running to now, Ricardi?" Marcus asked, his voice laced with grim satisfaction. "You truly are a stubborn old man. You weren't an easy prey." He kicked Ricardi onto his back. "You tried to assassinate our Father, didn't you? Let me show you, 'elder brother,' the consequences of your actions."

  Marcus grabbed Ricardi by the hair, dragging him roughly towards a tall tree at the edge of the burning village. "Open your eyes, Ricardi! Look at what you've done!" He forced Ricardi's eyelids open with his thumbs. "Look!"

  Ricardi's gaze was forced towards the flames engulfing the village huts.

  "Do you see that, old man?" Marcus hissed. "Do you hear them? Innocents burning! Children, women, the elderly! All dying because of you! You made us do this! Vengeance for what you tried to do to our Father!"

  Ricardi spat blood and defiance. "They are martyrs!" he croaked, a weak smile flickering on his lips. "Martyrs before the Gods! Witnesses to your demonic deeds! Yours, and your Father's!" He coughed, then continued, his voice surprisingly strong despite his pain. "And know this, you blasphemer… if you think the revolution ends with my death… you are mistaken. It has only just begun! The Gods will have vengeance upon you!"

  Marcus drew a knife. Without another word, he plunged it deep into Ricardi's throat, silencing him forever.

  He stood up, wiping the blade on Ricardi's tunic, and turned to his men. "Crucify him," Marcus commanded, gesturing towards the tree. "On this tree. Let Georgi gaze upon him."