Marcus found the main battle in the throne room.
Men in blue armor were defending the room against a much larger force in red. The blue forces were losing. Bodies littered the floor. The red forces were pushing forward, shields locked, swords thrusting.
At the back of the throne room, Marcus saw a man in expensive armor sitting on the throne. A king, probably. The king was wounded, blood running down his face. Around him stood a handful of guards, the last defenders.
Marcus made a decision. He would help the blue forces. Not because he cared about them. Not because he thought they were right. But because they were losing, and something in Marcus always wanted to fight for the losing side.
Maybe it was because he had been losing for two thousand years.
Marcus charged into the red forces from behind.
His sword cut through the back of a man's neck, nearly severing the head. Blood sprayed across the backs of the other soldiers. Before they could turn, Marcus had already killed two more. One with a stab through the kidney. One with a slash across the back of the knee that cut the tendons and made him fall, then a stab through the throat to finish him.
The red forces turned to face this new threat. Marcus smiled at them, his sword dripping blood.
"Come on then," he said in the language he was learning. The words felt strange in his mouth, but they would get easier.
Ten men charged at him.
Marcus met them head-on.
He parried the first sword, ducked the second, blocked the third. His own blade flashed out, cutting throats and stabbing hearts and opening bellies. Men screamed and fell around him.
An axe caught him in the shoulder, cutting deep into the muscle and bone. Marcus's left arm went limp. He switched his sword to his right hand and kept fighting.
He stabbed a man through the eye, the blade punching through the orbital socket and into the brain. He slashed another across the stomach, opening him from side to side. Intestines spilled out onto the floor. The man tried to push them back in, but Marcus kicked him down and stabbed him through the throat.
His left shoulder was healing now. He could feel the bone knitting back together, the muscle repairing itself. Soon he would have full use of the arm again.
A spear stabbed into his chest, between his ribs. Marcus grabbed the shaft and pulled himself along it, toward the man who had thrown it. The man's eyes went wide. He tried to back away, but Marcus was too fast.
Marcus head-butted him, breaking his nose. Then he grabbed the man's sword and drove it up under his chin. The blade punched through the soft tissue, through the tongue, through the roof of the mouth, into the brain. The man died instantly.
Marcus pulled himself off the spear and let the body fall.
The wound in his chest was already closing.
The blue forces saw what Marcus was doing and took heart. They pushed forward with renewed strength, their swords and spears stabbing into the red forces.
The red forces were caught between Marcus behind them and the blue forces in front. They started to break, tried to retreat, but there was nowhere to go.
It became a slaughter.
Marcus killed until his arms were tired. Until his sword was so covered in blood he could barely hold it. Until the throne room floor was ankle-deep in corpses.
Finally, the last of the red forces threw down their weapons and surrendered.
The blue forces cheered. They had won.
Marcus dropped his bloody sword and walked toward the throne.
The king stood up slowly, leaning on his guards for support. He looked at Marcus with a mixture of fear and gratitude.
"Who are you?" the king asked.
"A traveler," Marcus said.
"You saved my kingdom."
Marcus shook his head. "I just killed some people. Nothing more."
The king gestured to his guards. "Bring him food and wine. Clean clothes. A room in the castle. Whatever he needs."
"I don't need anything," Marcus said.
"Then what do you want?"
Marcus thought about that. What did he want? To break the curse. To die permanently. To find peace. But he couldn't have any of those things.
"Nothing," Marcus said finally. "I want nothing."
He turned and started to walk away.
"Wait," the king called. "At least stay the night. Rest. You've earned it."
Marcus was tired. He had been fighting for hours. His body was covered in wounds that had healed, but the exhaustion was still there.
"One night," Marcus said. "Then I leave."
The king nodded. "Thank you. For saving us."
Marcus didn't respond. He followed a guard to a room in one of the towers. The room had a bed and a window that looked out over the countryside.
Marcus washed the blood off his body and lay down on the bed. He stared at the ceiling, thinking about nothing.
Sleep came slowly. When it did, he dreamed of all the people he had killed. Their faces swirled around him in a sea of blood. Accusing him. Hating him.
Marcus woke up screaming.