The village was burning now.
Flames licked at the wooden buildings, sending sparks into the night sky. The smoke was thick and black, choking. Screams echoed through the clearing as raiders dragged villagers from their homes.
Marcus moved through the chaos like a shadow of death.
He drove his spear through a raider's back, the point bursting out through the man's chest in an explosion of blood and bone fragments. The raider looked down at the spear tip sticking out of him, confused, then fell to his knees. Marcus put his foot on the dying man's back and pulled the spear free.
Another raider swung an axe at Marcus's head. Marcus blocked with the spear shaft. The axe bit into the wood, getting stuck. Marcus twisted, tearing the axe from the raider's grip. Then he spun the spear around and slammed the butt end into the man's face.
The nose shattered. Teeth broke. The raider staggered back, blood pouring from his ruined face. Marcus reversed his grip and thrust the spear into the man's gut. He pushed hard, feeling the point pierce the stomach, the intestines, the back muscles. The spear tip burst out through the raider's lower back.
Marcus yanked the spear upward while it was still inside the man. The blade tore through organs, ripping everything apart. The raider screamed. Blood and bile poured from his mouth. When Marcus pulled the spear free, half of the man's insides came with it.
The raider fell, clutching at the massive wound in his belly. His guts were spread across the ground, steaming in the cool night air. He was still alive, still screaming. Marcus stepped on his throat to shut him up, crushing the windpipe beneath his boot.
Three raiders saw Marcus and decided he was too dangerous. They ran into the forest, leaving their companions behind.
Smart choice.
Marcus turned his attention to the rest of the fight. The villagers were losing badly. There were bodies everywhere—men, women, even children. The raiders had no mercy. They killed anyone who fought back and took the rest as prisoners.
A raider grabbed a young woman by her hair and started dragging her toward the forest. She was screaming, clawing at his hands. The raider laughed and said something in his language.
Marcus threw his spear.
It flew straight and true, crossing the twenty feet in less than a second. The point hit the raider in the side of the neck and went all the way through. The bloody tip burst out the other side in a spray of arterial blood.
The raider let go of the woman and grabbed at the spear, trying to pull it out. But the damage was done. The spear had torn through his carotid artery. Blood pumped out in powerful jets, each one weaker than the last. The raider fell to his knees, then onto his face. He twitched a few times and went still.
The woman looked at Marcus, eyes wide with terror and gratitude. Then she ran.
Marcus pulled his knife and kept fighting.
A raider came at him with a club. Marcus ducked under the swing and came up inside the man's guard. He drove his knife into the raider's armpit, where there was no armor. The blade sank deep into the soft tissue, cutting through nerves and blood vessels. The raider's arm went limp, the club falling from his useless fingers.
Marcus pulled the knife free and stabbed again, this time into the raider's throat. He dragged the blade across, opening the throat from ear to ear. Blood poured out like water from a broken jug. The raider tried to speak, but only bubbles came out. He fell, drowning in his own blood.
Another raider attacked from behind. Marcus felt the club hit his shoulder, felt the bone break. Pain shot down his arm. He spun and kicked the raider in the knee. The joint bent backward with a pop. The raider screamed and fell.
Marcus's shoulder was already healing. He could feel the bone knitting back together, the muscles repairing themselves. It hurt like hell, but it only took a few seconds.
He stomped on the fallen raider's head. Once. Twice. Three times. The skull cracked. Blood and brain matter leaked out onto the dirt. The raider stopped moving.
Marcus looked around. The fight was ending. Most of the raiders were dead or running. The ones who remained were rounding up the last of the villagers.
There were maybe fifteen villagers left alive out of fifty. The rest were dead or dying. The ground was covered in bodies and blood. The fires were spreading, consuming more buildings.
Marcus counted twelve raiders still standing. They had formed a group near the center of the village, prisoners huddled between them.
One of the raiders saw Marcus. He was bigger than the others, with scars covering his arms and chest. The leader, probably. He shouted something and pointed at Marcus.
The other raiders turned to look. Their eyes went wide. They had seen what Marcus could do. Some of them looked ready to run.
But the leader shouted again, and they stood their ground.
Marcus smiled. He was covered in blood from head to toe. None of it was his. He picked up a new spear from one of the dead raiders and started walking toward them.
The leader said something to two of his men. They nodded and moved forward to meet Marcus.
The first raider thrust his spear at Marcus's chest. Marcus knocked it aside and stepped in close. He grabbed the raider's head and twisted, hard. The neck broke with a sound like stepping on dry wood. The raider went limp, dead instantly.
The second raider swung his club at Marcus's ribs. Marcus caught the club in his free hand, ignoring the pain of impact. He yanked it away from the raider and swung it at the man's head.
The club hit with tremendous force. The raider's skull caved in on one side. His eye popped out of its socket and hung by the optic nerve. Brain matter leaked from his ear. He fell sideways, dead before he hit the ground.
Marcus threw the club at another raider. It caught him in the chest, breaking ribs. The raider fell, gasping for breath.
The leader shouted something that sounded like a retreat order. The remaining raiders grabbed what prisoners they could and ran for the forest.
Marcus chased them.
He caught the slowest one just at the edge of the trees. He tackled the man from behind, driving him face-first into the dirt. The raider tried to roll over, to fight, but Marcus straddled his chest and started stabbing.
The knife went into the raider's face. Into his cheek. Into his eye. Into his forehead. Over and over, Marcus stabbed. Blood splattered everywhere. The raider's face became an unrecognizable mess of torn flesh and shattered bone.
When Marcus finally stopped, his arm was tired. The raider's head looked like raw meat.
Marcus stood up and looked into the forest. The other raiders were gone, disappeared into the darkness with their prisoners.
He could chase them. He probably could catch them. But what was the point? They would kill him or he would kill them, and then the curse would just send him somewhere else. Some other time. Some other war.
Marcus was so tired.
He walked back to the burning village. Bodies were everywhere. The smell of blood and smoke filled the air. A few villagers were emerging from hiding spots, crying over their dead.
They looked at Marcus with fear and wonder. He was covered in blood, holding a spear and knife, standing among dozens of corpses. To them, he must have looked like a demon or a god.
Marcus didn't care what they thought. He dropped his weapons and walked to the edge of the village. He sat down on a log and stared at his bloody hands.
How many had he killed tonight? Twenty? Thirty? He had lost count. He always lost count.
An old man approached him slowly. The man was bleeding from a cut on his head, but he was alive. He said something in his language. Marcus didn't understand yet, but he could guess. Thank you. You saved us. You are a hero.
Marcus laughed. It was a bitter, hollow sound.
He was no hero. He was a monster. A killer. A weapon that the curse wielded across time.
The old man looked confused. He said something else and reached out to touch Marcus's shoulder.
Marcus stood up quickly. The old man stepped back, frightened.
"Stay away from me," Marcus said in Latin, knowing the man wouldn't understand. "I'm not your savior. I'm your curse."
He walked away from the village, into the forest, leaving bloody footprints behind him.
Marcus spent the next three months living in the wilderness. He hunted animals for food. He made a shelter from branches and leaves. He avoided the villages and the people.
But the curse wouldn't let him hide forever.
One day, while Marcus was fishing in a stream, he heard the sound of drums. War drums. Coming from the east.
Marcus sighed. Here it came again. Another war. Another battle. Another chance to kill.
He followed the sound of the drums.
What he found was an army. Hundreds of warriors, maybe thousands, all painted for war. They were marching toward the village Marcus had saved months ago. The village had rebuilt itself, had recovered from the raid.
Now they would be destroyed again.
Marcus watched the army pass. He could see the leaders at the front—chiefs or kings or whatever they called themselves here. They wore elaborate headdresses made of feathers and animal skulls. They carried weapons decorated with teeth and bones.
Marcus could walk away. He could let the village burn. Let the people die. It wasn't his problem.
But the curse had brought him here for a reason. It always did.
Marcus picked up his spear and started following the army.