The leader saw Marcus coming and smiled. He said something to his warriors, and they formed a circle around him. Protecting their chief.
There were ten of them. The best fighters the army had. Marcus could tell by the scars on their bodies, the way they held their weapons. These weren't scared boys. These were killers.
Good.
Marcus raised his bloody axe and charged.
The first warrior to meet him was fast. He dodged Marcus's first swing and jabbed with his spear. The point caught Marcus in the shoulder, punching through muscle. Marcus didn't slow down. He grabbed the spear shaft and pulled the warrior close, then brought his axe down on the man's collarbone.
The blade shattered the bone and kept going, cutting deep into the chest. The warrior coughed up blood. Marcus pulled the axe free and kicked the dying man away.
Two more warriors attacked together. One high, one low. Marcus blocked the high attack with his axe and took the low spear in his thigh. The point drove deep into the muscle, scraping against bone.
Marcus grabbed the spear in his leg and snapped it. He swung his axe at the warrior who had stabbed him, catching him across the face. The blade cut through the jaw, through the tongue, through the roof of the mouth. The warrior's face split open. He fell, choking on his own blood and broken teeth.
The other warrior tried to pull his weapon back. Marcus didn't let him. He grabbed the warrior's wrist and twisted until bones broke. The warrior screamed. Marcus buried his axe in the man's chest, splitting the sternum. The blade cut into the heart. Blood poured out like water from a broken dam.
Seven left.
A club hit Marcus in the side of the head. Stars exploded in his vision. His ear rang. He could feel his skull crack. Blood poured down the side of his face.
But the skull was already healing. The bone knitting back together. The ringing fading.
Marcus spun and grabbed the warrior with the club. He head-butted him, breaking his nose. Then again, breaking his cheekbone. Then again, crushing his eye socket. The warrior went limp. Marcus let him fall and turned to face the others.
A spear caught him in the stomach, punching all the way through. Marcus looked down at the point sticking out of his back. He grabbed the shaft and pulled himself along it, toward the warrior who had thrown it.
The warrior's eyes went wide. He tried to back away, but Marcus was too fast. Marcus grabbed him by the throat with one hand and squeezed. The windpipe collapsed. The warrior's face turned red, then purple. His eyes bulged. His tongue came out of his mouth. Marcus squeezed harder. The vertebrae in the neck cracked. The warrior went limp.
Marcus pulled himself off the spear and let the body fall.
Five warriors left. Plus the leader.
They were backing away now, fear in their eyes. They had just watched Marcus take a spear through the stomach and keep fighting. They had watched him heal from a crushed skull. They knew he was something else. Something not human.
One of them broke and ran.
Marcus threw his axe. It spun through the air and buried itself in the runner's back, between the shoulder blades. The blade cut through the spine. The warrior fell, paralyzed from the waist down, screaming.
Four left.
Marcus walked toward them slowly. He had no weapons now. Just his hands. Just his immortal body that wouldn't stay dead.
The remaining warriors glanced at each other. Then they charged all at once.
Smart. Their only chance was to overwhelm him.
The first spear stabbed into Marcus's chest, between his ribs. The second caught him in the shoulder. The third drove into his stomach. The fourth pierced his thigh.
Marcus stood there with four spears sticking out of him. Blood poured from the wounds. He should have been dead. Anyone else would have been dead.
He smiled.
Then he grabbed the spear in his chest and pulled it out. The sucking sound it made was horrible. Blood and air bubbled from the hole. Marcus reversed his grip on the spear and drove it into the nearest warrior's throat. The point punched through the front of the neck and out the back. The warrior grabbed at the shaft, trying to pull it out, but his strength was fading. He fell to his knees, then onto his face.
Marcus pulled out the spear in his shoulder and threw it like a javelin. It caught another warrior in the chest, punching through his heart. The warrior took three steps backward, looked down at the spear sticking out of him, and fell over dead.
Two left.
They ran.
Marcus let them go. He pulled the remaining spears from his body and dropped them. The wounds were already healing. In a few minutes, there would be no sign he had ever been stabbed.
He turned to face the leader.
The man with the wolf skull headdress was standing alone now. His warriors were dead or running. His army was scattered. But he wasn't running. He stood tall, spear in one hand, a knife in the other.
He said something in his language. Marcus understood it now.
"You are a demon."
Marcus shook his head. "No. Just cursed."
The leader's eyes widened. "You speak our tongue?"
"The curse teaches me," Marcus said. "It always does. So I can understand the people I kill."
The leader raised his weapons. "Then come, demon. Let us see if you can die."
They rushed at each other.
The leader was good. Very good. He had survived hundreds of battles, killed dozens of men. His spear moved like lightning, jabbing and thrusting. His knife flashed in the morning sun.
But Marcus had survived thousands of battles. Had killed thousands of men. He had been fighting since before this leader's great-great-grandfather was born.
Marcus caught the spear thrust and broke the shaft in half. He ducked under the knife slash and punched the leader in the ribs. Bones cracked. The leader grunted but didn't fall.
The leader dropped his broken spear and slashed with his knife. The blade caught Marcus across the chest, opening a long cut. Blood ran down Marcus's stomach. The leader slashed again, catching Marcus across the arm. Then across the face.
Marcus's cheek opened up. He could feel the flap of skin hanging loose. Could taste his own blood.
He grabbed the leader's knife hand and twisted. Bones snapped. The knife fell. Marcus head-butted the leader, breaking his nose. Then he grabbed the wolf skull headdress and ripped it off.
The leader's head came with it.
Marcus had grabbed the headdress and pulled so hard that the leader's neck had snapped. The body stood there for a moment, headless, blood fountaining from the neck stump. Then it fell.
Marcus dropped the head and the headdress. He looked around the battlefield.
Bodies everywhere. Hundreds of them. The ground was red with blood. The smell was overwhelming—copper and shit and death.
The village fighters who were still alive were staring at Marcus. Some were on their knees. Some had their weapons raised, not sure if Marcus was friend or enemy.
Marcus didn't care. He started walking away from the village, toward the forest.
"Wait!" someone called.
Marcus stopped but didn't turn around.
A young warrior approached him carefully. The man's arm was badly wounded, hanging limp at his side. But he was alive.
"Thank you," the warrior said. "You saved us. Again."
Marcus finally turned. "I didn't do it for you."
"Then why?"
Marcus thought about that. Why did he fight? Why did he kill? The curse made him do it, yes. But there was more to it. Maybe he was trying to find some meaning in his endless existence. Maybe he was trying to convince himself that he wasn't just a monster.
"I don't know," Marcus said finally. He started to walk away again.
"What is your name?" the warrior called.
Marcus stopped. His name. He had so many names over the centuries. So many identities. But his original name, the one his mother had given him two thousand years ago...
"Marcus," he said. "My name is Marcus."
Then he walked into the forest and disappeared.