Fire, Spirit, and Soul

[Constantine Miltiadis]

The ancient fortress had stood tall upon the mountain for centuries. Its high walls ensured that the lineage of warriors that took refuge were well protected. Spires rose high into the sky and produced an amazing view of the surrounding villages and hills.

Upon one of these wind swept towers stood the commander of the insurrection forces. One leg made a ninety-degree angle and perched delicately on a crumbling section of the wall while the other remained firmly planted on the pathway that archers had once surveyed.

Green eyes pierced the dark gray mist that rolled in mighty columns like an invading army from the north and scrutinized the night’s details. A full red moon cast its calming blood hue on every facet revealed through the pitch.

Oily, neck length black hair was caught by the breeze’s fingers and tossed in handfuls around the pale olive skin of the erect figure. The man’s chest moved steadily and a large necklace with wooden charm fell between the folds of his dark, worn hide coat.

There was an aura about the man. Hell had unleashed its hounds' master and he looked upon the land from his high mountain lair. The beast master grabbed at his goatee and pursed his lips. “They’ll be coming before morning breaks,” his voice was like oil, slick and smooth. There was a rhythm to his words that betrayed his state of mind—like a well, the man’s perceptions ran deep.

Like a magi of lore, Miltiadis appeared to be talking to the whispering, playful wind. Yet, the crimson luminescence of the heaven’s soul revealed a collection of battered soldiers taking shelter on the staircase leading up to the summit of the bolstered wall.

The men were unwashed, well worn, and clothed and armored in the ancient gear of their villages. Blasters were far and few. Instead, crude slug throwers were gripped tightly in large, callused hands. Still, these were not the faces of soldiers. Instead, hunters and farmers, butchers and teachers, bankers and fishermen were arrayed with makeshift gear.

On the horizon something began to split the sea of fog. A steady thumping sound, like titans’ foot falls, reverberated through the hills. Finally, a monster’s head could be seen off in the distance—Imperial walkers were on their way.

[Constantine Miltiadis]

Constantine nodded his hair-shrouded head in affirmation. A rogue smile found purchase on his lips as he spoke, “Gentlemen, we shall soon greet the Imperials in our tradition—with loud voices and celebration.” The pack of soldiers’ teeth shone in the night as predatory eyes filled with mirth.

Miltiadis squinted; he could just make out the lines of troopers marching with the immense metal monsters. “We can’t allow them to detect our presence until the last possible moment. Kaltrapolose, take everyone into the underground.

“Heretis, have the two anti-air batteries load and prepare incase we’re spotted.” Although both men had been simple farmers in their past lives, they were now loyal and skilled guerrilla fighters. Miltiadis trusted every man under him; each’s heart overflowed with an insuperable spirit focused on one enemy, the Empire.

The men joked as they descended into the catacombs beneath the once proud fortress. Constantine took a deep, relaxing breath and clenched his jaw. His jade eyes found the blood moon high in the black sky and a prayer flowed from his lips, “Whatever Gods watch over this land, protect my boys, they are all good men. Lead them not into temptation and deliver them from the evils of the Empire.

“You may have my life, if you so wish. If that be the price for liberty, I gladly pay it. If I must be doomed to the hellish foundries of the darkest depths of the underworld, so be it. Just bring my world the knowledge of freedom and peace.” The black-haired tactician sighed heavily and disappeared into the makeshift bunker.

[Felix Ranor]

Felix had been lost in the forest for some time now. His small fleet of Space pirates had left him to die. They had rebelled againdt Jak and him. Jak'bloddy body laid next to Felix. He had been digging a grave for his formor captian when he heard the loud thuds. Felix stopped his work. Picking up his binoculars , he scanned the area. Then he spotted the army. Soliders and AT AT's alike marching to a small settlement. Felix despized the Empire. They had been a thorn in the Pirates foot for too long. Felix finished his work. Slowly Felix paid his last respects. Then he gathered his gear and set off at a run. On his way he checked his ammo. He had enough to fight for a good hour, and he also had a bag of bombs. Felix ran hard to the settlement. He reached it just in time to see the last man head into the ground. Felix yelled to him.
"OI! Oi, you."
Felix ran to him, and skidded to a halt. The man was taller than Felix. He had long black hair. The man was intimidating.
"Not to be rude, but do ya mind if I join you and ya mates? I myself also hate the Empire. I have fought them before. I could help in anyway I can. Names Felix Ranor. First mate to captian Jak of the Black Skull Pirates."
Felix stood there hapeing the man would allow him to help.

[Constantine Miltiadis]

Constantine’s hand had instinctively slid to the dark leather holster low on his hip. He frowned from behind his messy, greasy hair and tightened the muscles of his light olive face. Under normal circumstances he would never rely on an outside; yet, there seemed to be something in the man’s eyes.

Miltiadis spoke with his light accent, “You swear to do exactly as I say?” There was no way the commander would trust this man in the regular ranks—he could very well end up an Imperial spy or assassin. Keeping him close at hand would allow the tactician to watch his moves and decide on his loyalties.

[Felix Ranor]

Felix nodded to the mans question.
"Ay sir. I mean Yes Sir. I swear on my cap'ins grave to follow your every order."
Felix shifted his feet a little. He'd just sworn his alligence to someone he'd never meet in his life. The only thing in common was that they both lothed the Empire. Felix slung his bag of bombs over his sholder. Then he checked for his three blasters. All three were there. Then out of habit he grabbed the hilt of his cutlass. Felix waited to follow the man into the bunker.

[Constantine Miltiadis]

Constantine sank into the darkness of the subterranean headquarters. The smell of mold assaulted his senses; he still hadn’t accustomed himself to the scent after so many months of underground living.

The catacombs were damp and dark. Mild whispers echoed through the deep caverns as soldiers told stories and jokes to ease the tension growing with every second. Kaltrapolose, an aging soldier of fifty-three with grizzled gray beard and icy blue eyes, walked up to Miltiadis with a bold smile.

“Some caf, Sir?” The old man’s voice gave Constantine the impression that the hair on his visage grew in his throat, too.

“Thank you, Kaltrapolose. I appreciate it, eh, how are the men doing?”

The azure-eyed warrior stared intently at the newcomer, a look of scorn painted defiantly on his features. “They’re holding up, the boys will do fine, Sir.”

“I know they will, I know.” Constantine shot a glance at Ranor and took a sip of his stimulant filled drink. The caf was from local beans, very strong and gritty. The steaming cup nearly singed the commander’s mouth; yet, he still took a healthy mouthful before marching over to the nearby 2D monitor.

The display was primitive—farmers couldn’t afford fancy holoprojectors. Large icons showed the approaching walkers while smaller blips represented ground soldiers. “Three AT-AT's,” Constantine mumbled to himself. His emerald eyes narrowed in concentration and his face took on a look of complete focus. There was an aura about Miltiadis, as if he were consistently writing and rewriting an unseen, intangible plan.

[Constantine Miltiadis]

“Closer, closer,” spoke Miltiadis to himself as he gazed at the shapes representing AT-AT’s, “just a bit closer.”

New blips came into existence. “Four recon TIE’s detected, Sir,” came the voice of a sensors officer.

“I see them, tell Heretis to hold his fire until I say so.”

A red light began to blink rapidly. “Miltiadis! They’ve detected the base! Fighters are coming around for another pass!”

The AT-AT’s and soldiers reached the beginning of the high hill’s incline and began to trudge towards the ancient fortress. The large, all-terrain assault vehicles released more infantry as they began their ascent.

“Fighters will be overhead in ten… nine… eight… seven…” Miltiadis narrowed his jade eyes and forced himself to look away from the screen.

“Men, today we will change the face of our homeworld.”

“Four… three…”

“Today,” he looked deep into the souls of his 'soldiers' and saw the old men, the young boys, all of them patriots waiting for a chance to prove themselves, “is the first day of our freedom!” The warriors roared with spirit and began hitting their fists to their chests in salute.

“One.”

“Fire!” Constantine’s voice silenced the cheers and was quickly followed by the sound of laser cannons firing.

Above the underground, anti-air batteries opened up. Two shocked TIE’s were easy prey for the old cannons; however, the other two managed to turn at the sight of their brethrens fiery burial and dodged the red fire.

At the same time, the mountain literally exploded. The ground beneath the AT-AT’s erupted and became an inferno. Charge after charges cut the legs out from underneath the massive assault vehicles and sent shrapnel—in the form of rocks and durasteel—into the ranks of the infantry.

The men surged out of the underground—there was a battle to be fought.

Miltiadis turned to Felix, "Follow me!"

[Felix Ranor]

Drawing his two blasters and slinging his bag og tricks over his back he ran after Miltiadis. The ground rumbled underneath them. Felix followed in his steps takeing out soliders as he went. He'd killed a few when he saw the AT-AT. Felix froze. It was huge. Bodies crumpled under its massive feet. Screams could be heard all around him. Felix mind drifted off to another place. Men were still screaming, but it was his old crew. He was reliveing the day he was betrayed. Snapping back to his senses, Felix jumped out of the way of the steel foot. In mid air he grabbed a handful of sticky bombs, and threw them up to the body of the AT-AT. They stuck. Felix skidded on his side as the bombs exploded. He threw some more onto the legs. The exploded taakeing out the leg. Slowly the steel giant began to fall. Felix ran after Mitildis. Spering him, they both fell to the ground. Felix and Mitildis had just missed gettting crushed. Felix stood up drawing his blasters again.

[Constantine Miltiadis]

Constantine picked himself off the ground and shot an angry look at Felix, “Don’t do that again.” There was a warning in his growled words.

The only remaining AT-AT had blasted its way through the primary fortress walls. Large boulders that had once made up the first defensive perimeter now flew through the air and collided into resistance soldiers. Bodies were smashed and limbs set askew.

Miltiadis watched as his men fired from their fixed positions around the walls at the overwhelming, white-clad infantry. A sea of blanch soldiers began marching through the newly formed hole in the defenses of the citadel.

“To the breach!” Shouted the leader with a commanding voice, “No Imperial will set foot on this sacred land!” The strategist drew his straight sword in his left hand and blaster in his other.

An explosion off to the right jarred Constantine’s senses save for that of smell—the tangy, pungent scent of burning flesh wafted from the flaming bodies of battered defenders. Miltiadis’ blaster sent a hiss of energy that sent the poor souls to the churned soil.

The tactician leveled his weapon and called for a charge, “To me, My Warriors! To me! We will push back the horde!” A quick snap severed a nearby stormtrooper’s arm from body and filled the air with crimson mist.

Blaster fire, running, the sensation of a blade hitting bone and finally cleaving. The opening. An explosion. The world spun as Miltiadis found himself face down in the dirt, hand weapon spitting red vengeance at a moving cloud of pearly barbarians.

[Constantine Miltiadis]

The deep bass of a drum echoed in Constantine’s ear and pulsated. It was if a string had been twanged and allowed to reverberate for an undue amount of time. Like a pebble throw into placid water, the ripples flowed through the leader’s skull.

Biting down on his lip, Miltiadis brought his vibrosword into an arc and severed the closest pale soldier-statue’s wiggling arm from solid body. The air around the dance of chaos instantly filled with a light mist, as if a cloud had lazily floated over to the scene. The vapor dyed the soldier’s face crimson.

Another rumble and the sound took recognizable shape—it was Constantine’s own heart and pulse pounding throughout his body like a driving piston.

Everything slowed as if lagged by some great bog or powerful adhesive. Instants found themselves stretched into minor lifetimes and moments became tyrannous rulers with iron grips.

Clairvoyance was granted to the young commander. His vision etched the battle in all its horrific splendor. Each minute expression was logged and catalogued. The dried and burnt ground with tufts of amber, curled grass and slick spots turned scarlet were dotted with twisted, gnarled combatants engaged in the most gruesome of acts.

Murder was out and about, and it had no intention of going back in its box.