Tale of the Week 300: Sparta! - VOTING THREAD
Sparta!
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Submission 1 The tale has been told a thousand times,
Of the day our martyrs brought peace
They fought in battle and gave their lives,
A sacrifice made to save Greece
Yet to you I will tell this tale once more,
For those brave souls deserve their story told
Of their valiant efforts in battle,
And their heroic deaths so bold:
“Once an army of thousands,
Only three-hundred remained
To ensure their people’s freedom,
To die as they were trained
Only three-hundred remained,
Yet their phalanx would not fall
For Spartans do not break;
Even in death they stand tall
Those Spartans are a people fierce,
To the Persian dogs they did now bow
Even as the horde descended,
To Xerxes’ might they do not cow
Standing at that pass in unison,
As an army of millions marched in malice
They defended us from the monster,
Who threatened us from his palace
And with each passing moment,
Yet another of that three-hundred fell,
From that unstoppable tide of Persians,
To the River Styx where lost souls dwell
Their stand stretched from hours to days,
While the others retreated to fight once more
Finally the last Spartan fell,
But in their sacrifice won us the war”
For Thermopylae was the struggle of legends:
As Leonidas’ spirit lives on in us to this day
And if the invaders ever return,
Just like Leonidas, us Greeks will stand tall,
Ever ready to drive them away
Submission 2 Boom.
A frigate just beyond the transpara-steel windows erupted into a spout of flame, which all to quickly collapsed in on itself as the crushing void of space robbed the fire of its needed oxygen. Three seconds later, fragments of the shattered vessel showered against the bow of the station, a rattle of plinks felt more than heard as the bits of metal and plastic struck and then glanced away into space.
“You must know, you cannot escape,” a man said, his words meant to threaten, but sounding thin and scared in the wide room. “If your people don’t let off, we’re all dead.”
“Escape?” The Duchess stared at the man, her head cocked ever so slightly to one side. She knew his type, all bluster and bravado while the guns are far from home, but bring an ounce of violence onto his stoop, and suddenly he has engagements elsewhere. A coward.
“When did your people force mine to peace?” she said, the final word dripping with disdain.
“We didn’t force anything,” the man snapped back. “We won, you lost. War over. That’s the way of things.”
“The way of things?” she said quietly, half to herself. She looked around the room, a cavernous thing, utterly useless, and doubly so given the harsh limitations of space stations. The entire complex had been built for no other purpose than to sign a treaty, and regularly meet the old enemy, ‘Keep up relations.’ The thought brought a dry chuckle to the back of her throat. Her nation had been defeated, and then they’d been the ones forced to build this monstrous waste. And after all that, the gloating victors thought she’d be glad to see them again.
“We fought an honorable war, your people and mine,” the Duchess said softly, “but when you won, you forgot those old ways. Forgot what it is to nod with respect to a vanquished foe.”
“This is not the thirty-second century. People died and there was a price to be—”
The man’s words were cut short as the Duchess crossed over to him, impossibly fast, and thrust him against the wall. In a flash she had a dagger against his throat, its edge glistening red as it caught the light of the explosions outside.
“A price to be paid?” she said, her eyes fierce. “My people have paid it and paid it again. A hundred times over we have sacrificed to slake your greed. We are done. This is the first thrust,” she continued, slowly sliding the point of her blade into the man’s neck, “and it will end when the long arm of our spear is at your world’s throat.”
The outer picket ships had been cleared away, and the dying man could see a wide swath of Imperial battleships slowly, ponderously nearing the station. Following his gaze, the Duchess flicked her eyes onto the approaching armada of death.
“There is no escape for either of us,” she said coldly. “The phalanx is here.”
Submission 3 The Briton led his war-band along the cliff-top path, watching for any sign that fierce marauders were landing to threaten his people. He shivered in the cold wind, and remembered what his grandfather had told him about the times before the cities burned and were abandoned – an age of plenty, when homes were warmed by some apparatus under the floor, towns were connected by a network of well-maintained roads and the land knew peace. He pulled his cloak tightly around him, and signalled for his war-band to halt.
A boat was approaching the beach. As the Briton led his war-band down a path from the cliff-top, he smelled wild garlic and saw a patch of lilac flowers with yellow centres which grew near the path. He remembered when he was a child, and his father showed him how to enrich a fish stew with the leaves of the lilac plant, and smiled. Perhaps the people arriving on the beach were traders?
They could share a fire and enjoy a fish stew with garlic and herbs … if the new arrivals had peaceful intentions. But could they be trusted? The Briton remembered planting lilac flowers on his father’s grave, after another band of strangers had been welcomed. Those strangers had murdered his father before escaping with weapons and food. The Briton had gathered his friends and led them on a long hunt for the murderers, before they had their revenge. After that, the Briton became the war-band’s leader.
If the folk on the boat did not come peacefully, the Briton and his war-band were ready. Their spears and shields were not the best weapons – the Briton remembered his awe, as a boy, when he had caught a glimpse of a fine set of armour made long ago – but they could suffice. The Briton enjoyed tales of old days, and was fascinated by stories of Greek warriors forming a phalanx in which each men’s shield protected his neighbour. He trained his men to form a defensive line, following the Greek example. When a group of bandits had tried to break into his town’s grain store, a disciplined line of spears and shields had sent them running. The townsfolk jeered the fleeing bandits, and cheered the triumphant war-band. Perhaps, if the men arriving on the beach had come hoping to find easily obtained loot, a show of strength would make them go elsewhere?
While the Briton watched from the cover of trees, the strangers left their boat and started a fire on the beach. When one of the strangers collected a rifle from the boat – a weapon that the Briton had seen once, but never used – he realised what he must do, to test whether the strangers were hostile. He signalled his war-band to stay hidden, and walked openly towards the strangers. If a sacrifice was needed to find out if the strangers were trustworthy, he was willing.
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Originally Posted by Kilo11
