The sound of the surf echoed among the trees. At first, the Cursed could not believe his ears. The thing was, the Forest of the Dead, through which he was moving—and which had once borne another name, though he could not recall it—had never bordered the sea. Instinctively, he braced for a new magical trap, whatever form it might take.
The dark, endless sea opened beyond the outermost trees. Gray, infinite clouds hung low above it. The Cursed stared at the horizon.
Movement sounded from behind. He turned. A tall man with long black hair, dressed in a simple gray shirt and trousers, carrying a large sword in his right hand, was moving quickly toward him. His intentions were unmistakable; a glance at his malicious, contorted face was enough. Meanwhile, the Cursed noticed that his face and limbs were long and disproportionately stretched, as if the stranger were suffering from some kind of disease.
He stepped forward and swung his sword. The Cursed dodged it, moving aside. The stranger was thrown off balance by the surprise. His sword crashed into the sand. The Cursed was already behind him, the sword in his hand.
The stranger spun around with a roar of fury and attacked again. His sword was parried. He was not a particularly skilled opponent; his fencing was at a basic level, relying mostly on the raw strength he had in abundance. Blood flowed from several wounds inflicted on him, but this only seemed to make him even more furious. He lunged at the hero faster and more furiously, as if the time allotted for his killing spree was running out.
In one of these lunges, he ran straight into the Cursed's sword, which had grown tired of the performance. The dark-haired man stumbled back, looking at the hero in confusion, then at his wound, and fell onto his back. He was lifeless. One madman fewer on the road of terror.
He mounted his horse and turned toward the forest. At that moment, something struck the horse from behind with tremendous force. It neighed, reared up, and collapsed to the ground. The Cursed rolled aside and got to his feet.
The stranger, mortally wounded — his injuries closing before his eyes — and apparently just killed, stood before him. His sword, stained with the blood of the fallen horse. His darkened eyes were full of madness. He charged at the Cursed again. The Cursed's sword pierced him. He fell to the ground, only to rise again after a moment. This repeated several times. His body was riddled with deadly wounds and drenched in blood, yet it did not stop the madman.
The Cursed cut off his head. It bounced a few times and rolled across the parched grass. The decapitated body fell—but then rose again. His head was back in place. The enemy charged once more. The Cursed severed his head several more times, yet each time a new one grew in place of the one just cut off.
After yet another decapitation, the Cursed moved on. But the stranger continued to pursue him, rising each time and charging at him.