Kurt Johnstad

"Goodbye my love." He doesn't say it. There's no room for softness… not in Sparta. No place for weakness. Only the hard and strong may call themselves Spartans. Only the hard, only the strong.

"Remember us." As simple an order as a king can give. "Remember why we died." For he did not wish tribute, nor song, nor monuments nor poems of war and valor. His wish was simple. "Remember us," he said to me. That was his hope, should any free soul come across that place, in all the countless centuries yet to be. May all our voices whisper to you from the ageless stones, "Go tell the Spartans, passerby, that here by Spartan law, we lie."

His helmet was stifling, it narrowed his vision. And he must see far. His shield was heavy. It threw him off balance. And his target is far away.

Immortals... we put their name to the test.

It's been more than thirty years since the wolf and the winter cold. And now, as then, it is not fear that grips him, only restlessness. A heightened sense of things. The seaborn breeze, coolly, kissing the sweat at his chest and neck. Gulls cawing, complaining, even as they feast on the thousands of floating dead. The steady breathing of the 300 at his back, ready to die for him without a moment's pause. Everyone of them ready, to die.

And so my king died, and my brothers died, barely a year ago. Long I pondered my king's cryptic talk of victory. Time has proven him wise, for from free Greek to free Greek, the word was spread that bold Leonidas and his three hundred, so far from home, laid down their lives. Not just for Sparta, but for all Greece and the promise this country holds.

Now, here on this ragged patch of earth called Plataea, Xerxes's hordes face obliteration!

Just there the barbarians huddle, sheer terror gripping tight their hearts with icy fingers... knowing full well what merciless horrors they suffered at the swords and spears of three hundred. Yet they stare now across the plain at *ten thousand* Spartans commanding thirty thousand free Greeks! HA-OOH!

The enemy outnumber us a paltry three to one, good odds for any Greek. This day we rescue a world from mysticism and tyranny and usher in a future brighter than anything we can imagine.

Give thanks, men, to Leonidas and the brave 300! TO VICTORY!

The captain's cries of pain at the loss of his son are more frightening to the enemy than the deepest battle drums. It takes three men to restrain him and bring him back to our own.

We did what we were trained to do, what we were bred to do, what we were born to do!

The old ones say we Spartans are descended from Hercules himself. Bold Leonidas gives testament to our bloodline. His roar is long and loud.

It's been more than thirty years since the wolf and the winter cold. And now, as then, a beast approaches; patient and confident, savoring the meal to come. This beast is made of men and horses, swords and spears. An army of slaves vast beyond imagining, ready to devour tiny Greece, ready to snuff out the world's one hope for reason and justice. A beast approaches.

Immortals... they fail our king's test. And a man who fancies himself a god feels a very human chill crawl up his spine.

Hundreds leave, a handful stay. Only one looks back.

Taught never to retreat, never to surrender. Taught that death on the battlefield in service to Sparta was the greatest glory he could achieve in his life.

The Ephors choose only the most beautiful Spartan girls to live among them as oracles. Their beauty is their curse. For the old wretches have the needs of men... and souls as black as hell.

The god-king has betrayed a fatal flaw: Hubris. Easy to taunt, easy to trick. Before wounds and weariness have taken their toll, the mad king throws the best he has at us. Xerxes has taken the bait.

They have served the dark will of Persian kings for five hundred years. Eyes as dark as night… teeth filed to fangs… soulless. The personal guard to King Xerxes himself; the Persian warrior elite. The deadliest fighting force in all of Asia… the Immortals.

When the boy was born, like all Spartans, he was inspected.

Those behind cry, "FORWARD!" Those in front cry, "BACK!"

Xerxes dispatches his monsters from half the world away. They're clumsy beasts, and the piled Persian dead are slippery.

Dawn. Whips crack! Barbarians howl! Those behind call "foreward"! Those in front call "back"! Our eyes bare witness to the grotesque spectacle called forth from the darkest corner of Xerxes empire. When muscle failed, they turn to their magic. 100 nations descend upon us. The armies of all Asia. Funneled into this narrow corridor, their numbers count for nothing.