The army reached the village at dawn.
Marcus watched from the trees as the warriors surrounded the settlement. There were at least five hundred of them, maybe more. The village had perhaps fifty fighters, mostly young men with little training.
It would be a massacre.
The army's leader stepped forward. He was a tall man with scars covering his chest and arms. He wore a headdress made from a wolf's skull. He raised his spear and shouted something.
Marcus was starting to understand the language now. The curse was working its magic, translating the words in his mind.
"Come out and face us!" the leader shouted. "Come out and die with honor, or we will burn you alive in your homes!"
The village gates opened slowly. The fighters came out, spears shaking in their hands. Behind them, Marcus could see the old man who had thanked him months ago. The elder was trying to negotiate, speaking quickly and gesturing.
The army leader laughed. He said something to his warriors. They all laughed too.
Then the leader threw his spear.
It hit the old man in the chest, punching through his ribs and into his heart. The elder looked down at the spear sticking out of him, surprised. Blood poured from his mouth. He fell to his knees, then onto his face.
The army roared and charged.
Marcus moved.
He came out of the trees running, his own spear ready. He hit the army from the side, driving into them like a blade.
The first warrior didn't see Marcus coming. Marcus's spear took him through the throat, severing the jugular. Blood sprayed in a wide arc. The warrior fell, choking on his own blood.
Marcus pulled the spear free and kept moving.
He stabbed the next warrior in the kidney, the blade punching through the lower back and into the organ. The warrior screamed and arched his back. Marcus twisted the spear and pulled it out. The warrior collapsed, pissing blood.
A club swung at Marcus's head. He ducked and came up with his knife, slashing across the attacker's belly. The knife cut deep, opening the stomach. Intestines bulged out through the wound. The warrior tried to push them back in, but they kept sliding out, slippery and steaming.
Marcus kicked him down and moved to the next target.
He was a whirlwind of death, moving through the army's flank like a storm. Every thrust of his spear found flesh. Every slash of his knife drew blood.
A warrior with an axe charged at Marcus. Marcus threw his knife. It spun through the air and buried itself in the warrior's eye. The man stopped mid-charge, the knife handle sticking out of his eye socket. Blood and fluid ran down his cheek. He reached up to pull the knife out, took one step, and fell dead.
Marcus picked up a fallen axe and kept fighting.
He swung the axe in a wide arc, catching a warrior across the chest. The blade bit deep, breaking ribs and cutting into the lungs. The warrior coughed up blood and fell.
Another swing took off a warrior's arm at the elbow. The limb flew through the air, fingers still twitching. Blood fountained from the stump. The warrior stared at his missing arm in shock, then started screaming. Marcus buried the axe in his skull, splitting it open. Brain matter splattered out. The screaming stopped.
The army was starting to notice Marcus now. A group of warriors broke off from the main attack and came at him.
Marcus counted twelve of them.
Good. He needed a challenge.
The first one to reach him swung a club studded with sharp stones. Marcus blocked with the axe handle. The impact sent vibrations up his arms. He pushed back and kicked the warrior in the knee. The joint snapped. The warrior fell. Marcus brought the axe down on his neck, nearly severing the head. Blood pooled beneath the twitching body.
Two warriors attacked from different sides. Marcus spun, using the axe to block one spear while catching the other with his hand. The spear point drove through his palm, coming out the back of his hand. Pain shot up his arm.
Marcus didn't care about pain anymore.
He yanked the spear, pulling the warrior off balance. Then he head-butted him, breaking the man's nose. While the warrior was stunned, Marcus pulled his hand free from the spear and swung his axe. The blade caught the warrior under the chin and kept going, up through the jaw, through the mouth, into the brain. The top of the warrior's head came off like a lid. Blood and brain matter poured out.
The wound in Marcus's hand was already closing, flesh knitting back together.
He pulled the axe free and turned to face the others.
A spear stabbed into his side, between his ribs. Marcus grunted and grabbed the shaft. He snapped it in half, leaving the point embedded in his body. He would heal around it.
He grabbed the warrior who had stabbed him and head-butted him repeatedly. Once. Twice. Three times. The warrior's face turned into a bloody pulp. His nose was gone. His cheekbones were shattered. His eyes were swollen shut. Marcus let him fall and turned to the next attacker.
This warrior was smarter. He kept his distance, jabbing with his spear, trying to wear Marcus down.
It wouldn't work. Marcus didn't get tired. Not really. His body didn't work like normal bodies.
Marcus pretended to stumble. The warrior took the bait and lunged forward with his spear. Marcus sidestepped and caught the shaft. He pulled the warrior close and drove his axe into the man's groin.
The blade cut deep, severing arteries. Blood poured out in powerful spurts. The warrior's legs gave out. He fell, hands pressed to his groin, trying to stop the bleeding. It was useless. He would bleed out in minutes.
Marcus left him to die and moved on.
The remaining warriors were backing away now. They had seen enough. Marcus had killed eight of their group in less than a minute. He was covered in blood—his own and theirs. He had a spear point sticking out of his side. His hand had been impaled. But he was still standing, still fighting, still killing.
They ran.
Marcus let them go. He turned his attention back to the main battle.
The village fighters were being overwhelmed. The army was too big, too strong. Bodies littered the ground. Most of them were villagers.
Marcus charged into the thick of the fighting.
He swung his axe in wide, brutal arcs. Each swing broke bones or split skulls or opened bellies. Blood flew through the air in sheets. The ground became slick with it.
A warrior stabbed at Marcus with a spear. Marcus caught it and pulled the warrior close. He head-butted him, then threw him into two other warriors. They all went down in a tangle of limbs.
Marcus stomped on the first warrior's head, crushing his skull. He stabbed the second one through the eye with the broken spear shaft. He grabbed the third one by the throat and squeezed until the windpipe collapsed. The warrior choked and died, his face turning purple.
Marcus felt the spear point in his side working its way out as his body healed and pushed the foreign object free. It fell to the ground with a wet sound.
He kept fighting.
An axe caught him across the back, cutting deep into the muscle. Marcus roared and spun. He grabbed the warrior who had hit him and lifted him off the ground. Then he threw him into the crowd of enemies. The warrior's body bowled over three others.
Marcus's back was already healing. He could feel the muscle reknitting, the skin closing.
He waded into the crowd, his axe rising and falling like a butcher's blade.
He split a warrior's skull from crown to jaw, the two halves of the head falling apart. He cut another warrior nearly in half at the waist, the blade cutting through spine and organs. He took off limbs, opened throats, crushed skulls beneath his boots.
The ground was covered in bodies and parts of bodies. Arms. Legs. Heads. Organs. All of it swimming in blood.
The army was breaking. Marcus could see it happening. The warriors at the back were starting to run. Then the ones in the middle. Soon it would be a full retreat.
But their leader wasn't running. The man with the wolf skull headdress was pushing forward, trying to rally his warriors.
Marcus fought his way toward him.