Marcus wandered for months after that battle. He moved from place to place, avoiding the villages and the people. He hunted for food. He slept under the stars. He tried to forget the killing.
But the curse wouldn't let him forget.
Every night he dreamed of the people he had killed. Their faces. Their screams. Their blood. Thousands of faces. Thousands of screams. An ocean of blood.
He dreamed of his wife and daughter. The family he had lost so long ago. He could barely remember what they looked like now. The memories were fading, worn away by centuries of violence.
Sometimes Marcus wondered if he had ever been human at all. Maybe he had always been a weapon. Maybe the curse had just revealed his true nature.
He was following a river north when he smelled the smoke.
Marcus climbed a hill and looked down at the valley below. There was a large settlement there, bigger than any village he had seen in this land. Wooden walls surrounded it. Hundreds of buildings inside. This was a town, maybe even a city.
And it was under attack.
Marcus could see the enemy army surrounding the town. There were thousands of them. They had built siege engines—tall wooden towers that they were rolling toward the walls. They had battering rams. They had ladders.
The defenders were fighting hard, but they were outnumbered. Marcus could see bodies on the walls, arrows sticking out of them. He could hear the screams even from this distance.
Marcus should have walked away. This wasn't his fight. These weren't his people.
But the curse was pulling at him. He could feel it in his chest, like a hook dragging him forward. The curse wanted him to fight. It always did.
Marcus sighed and started down the hill toward the battle.
By the time he reached the siege, it was almost over. The enemy had breached the walls in three places. Warriors were pouring into the town, killing everyone they found.
Marcus picked up a spear from a dead soldier and ran toward the nearest breach.
He found a group of enemy warriors dragging women and children from their homes. The warriors were laughing, grabbing at the women, kicking the children.
Marcus's vision turned red.
He drove his spear through the first warrior's back, the point bursting out through his chest. Before the body hit the ground, Marcus had pulled the spear free and stabbed the next warrior through the kidney. The man screamed and fell, clutching at the wound.
The other warriors turned, reaching for their weapons. Marcus didn't give them time. He swung his spear in a wide arc, catching one warrior across the throat. Blood sprayed. The warrior fell, drowning in his own blood.
Another warrior charged with an axe. Marcus blocked with the spear shaft, then kicked the man in the groin. When the warrior doubled over, Marcus brought the spear down on the back of his neck, severing the spine. The warrior collapsed, paralyzed, unable to move anything but his eyes.
Two warriors remained. They looked at Marcus, at the bodies of their companions, and ran.
Marcus let them go. He turned to the women and children.
"Run," he told them. "Get somewhere safe."
They didn't need to be told twice. They fled into the burning streets.
Marcus kept moving through the town. Everywhere he went, he found enemy warriors. Everywhere he went, he killed them.
He found a group of five warriors looting a house. He killed them all in less than a minute. Spear through the throat. Spear through the eye. Spear through the heart. Each kill was quick and efficient.
He found warriors setting fire to buildings. He killed them and stomped out the fires.
He found warriors raping women in an alley. He killed them slowly, making them suffer. He started with their legs, crippling them. Then he worked his way up, opening their stomachs, pulling out their intestines while they were still alive and screaming.
The women ran away without thanking him. Marcus didn't blame them. He was covered in blood and gore, his eyes cold and dead. He must have looked like a monster.
Maybe he was.
Marcus fought his way to the center of the town, where the main battle was raging. The defenders had formed a shield wall around the town square, protecting the last of the civilians. But they were being pushed back.
Marcus hit the enemy from behind.
His spear stabbed into backs and necks and legs. He moved like a shadow, appearing behind warriors and killing them before they knew he was there.
An enemy warrior swung a club at Marcus's head. Marcus ducked and drove his spear up under the man's ribs, into his lungs. The warrior coughed up blood and fell. Marcus pulled his spear free and kept moving.
A sword slashed across his back, cutting deep. Marcus spun and head-butted the swordsman, breaking his nose. Then he stabbed him through the throat. Blood fountained out. The swordsman fell, hands clutching at his ruined throat.
The wound in Marcus's back was already healing.
He killed his way through the enemy ranks, leaving a trail of corpses behind him. The defenders saw what he was doing and took heart. They pushed forward, their shields locked together, their spears thrusting.
The enemy began to break.
Marcus saw their commander trying to rally them. The commander was a huge man, nearly seven feet tall, with muscles like carved stone. He wore armor made from bones and carried a massive war hammer.
Marcus walked toward him.
The commander saw Marcus coming and smiled. He said something in his language that Marcus now understood.
"Finally, a real fight."
The commander swung his hammer. Marcus tried to dodge, but the weapon was faster than it looked. It caught him in the ribs with tremendous force. Bones shattered. Marcus flew backward, crashing into a wall.
The impact should have killed him. His ribs were broken, puncturing his lungs. He coughed up blood.
But he stood up anyway.
The commander's smile faded. He swung his hammer again. Marcus rolled to the side. The hammer hit the ground where he had been standing, cracking the earth.
Marcus jabbed with his spear, aiming for the commander's face. The big man knocked the spear aside with his hammer. Then he grabbed Marcus by the throat and lifted him off the ground.
Marcus couldn't breathe. The commander's grip was like iron. He felt his windpipe being crushed.
With his free hands, Marcus grabbed the spear and drove it into the commander's armpit, where there was no armor. The blade sank deep into the soft tissue, cutting through nerves and blood vessels.
The commander's arm went limp. He dropped Marcus and staggered back, looking at the spear sticking out of his armpit. Blood was pouring from the wound.
Marcus landed on his feet. His broken ribs were already healing. He could breathe again.
The commander tried to pull the spear out, but his arm wouldn't work. Marcus walked up to him and kicked him in the knee. The joint bent backward with a pop. The commander fell.
Marcus picked up the war hammer. It was incredibly heavy, but Marcus had the strength of centuries behind him.
He raised the hammer high and brought it down on the commander's head.
The skull exploded like a melon. Blood and brain matter splattered everywhere. The body twitched a few times and went still.
Marcus dropped the hammer and looked around.
The enemy was running now. Without their commander, they had lost all courage. The defenders were chasing them through the streets, cutting them down.
Marcus walked to the town square and sat down heavily. He was covered in blood from head to toe. His clothes were torn and soaked. His body ached from a dozen healing wounds.
A defender approached him carefully. It was an older man with gray hair and a scarred face. He looked like a veteran warrior.
"Who are you?" the man asked.
"Just a traveler," Marcus said.
"You saved our town."
Marcus shook his head. "I just killed some people. That's all I do."
The man studied Marcus's face. "You've seen a lot of war."
"More than you can imagine."
"Will you stay? We could use a warrior like you."
Marcus thought about it. He could stay for a while. Rest. Maybe find some peace.
But the curse wouldn't let him have peace. It never did.
"No," Marcus said. "I need to keep moving."
He stood up and started walking toward the gates.
"Wait!" the man called. "At least tell us your name!"
Marcus stopped at the gate and looked back.
"Marcus," he said. "My name is Marcus."
Then he walked out into the wilderness, leaving another battlefield behind.