Once more with feeling!

It was raining that day. Not the type of rain that drowns, no never that. It was a patter, a soft, moist multitude of kisses that barely makes a sound as they hit the brown churned up mud that was pockmarked with holes and fallen bodies. Weapons, bloodied and broken, lay inches from cold, grasping hands, as sightless eyes reflected the grim mood of the sky.

 But among the breath-less were the breathing. The men of the 17th Infantry Maine Volunteers Regiment huddled together to keep their wet and aching bodies warm as the wind started to build. Coats started to weave small figure-8s as they were teased by the moving air. Their eyes, surrounded by mud of a hundred days, blood of a hundred bodies and exhaustion of a hundred miles, stare across the churned up morass towards the enemy lines to the north. Smoke from a thousand cookfires wafted in the air, mingled with the silhouetted movements of uncountable enemies in the pale, weak sunshine coming from the dawning sun obscured by thick clouds.

 There was utter silence. No one spoke. No one moved. A swallow from the woods east of their position flew over them, never realising that 836 men of Maine were crouched down in anticipation of the coming attack. A gun was fired within the enemy encampment, but it was shot upwards, a signal to pack up camp instead of a warning at the closeness of the enemy. It hardly mattered. The Mainelanders did not react. They were battle hardened men, who had volunteered to push the enemy out of their lands. They were ready to bring death to the enemy, without mercy, without pity.

 A figure moved.

 He stood up, the hood of his green jacket was down, his hands were bare. On his hip were two hatchets, one on each side, honed to deadly edge, with a Kris tucked behind his back. He moved forward as the men of the 17th Maine silently withdrew their swords and revolvers.The time had come. For a long moment, he gazed at the enemy, arms hung loose from his side. His dark brown eyes were topped by longish black hair that had been allowed to grow over the hundred days of war. His face was youngish, with slight smile lines obvious even in the weak morning light.

 But he was not smiling. Slowly, he turned himself around, and looked at the men who would follow him to break down hell's doors. He was secretly pleased at how ready they looked, how hungry they seemed to free their land from the presence of the invaders. He was proud of every single one of them, but he knew he would never tell them. There was nothing to praise. They were just doing what had to be done. He reached up, pulled his hood over his head,and in one smooth motion, turned and sprinted towards the enemy.

 Behind him, like a massive shadow, the 17th followed their leader with revolvers cocked and swords at the ready. Wind continued to blow, muffling the muffled footfalls of boots on mud. Men slipped but were held steady by comrades abreast. The column held its integrity, moving as one like a sledgehammer coming to strike a hornets nest.

 The three men who were the sentries were the first to die. Like a green hurricane, the Green Jacket took two down with his hatchets within the first 2 seconds of combat. A moment later, the third had one of the hatchets buried in his sternum. He fell gurgling, and the Green jacket retrieved his weapon without slowing down.

 The 17th Maine crashed into the first line of tentages. Chaos reigned. Men were everywhere, in various states of dress. Most were unarmed, and were shot or cut down instantly. Some of the officers who were still asleep after a night of merrymaking had their throats cut in their sleep. Already, the blue uniforms of the 17th were soaked in the blood of the slain. As the enemy ran away from the vengeful Mainelanders,a few officers who were on duty the night before brought together a knot of their men, and gave them arms from a nearby weapons cache. The knot became a dozen, and within moments swelled to almost half a hundred men. In the heart of the retreating line, these fifty men stood their ground and waited as their sergeants pushed them into formation. Ahead of them, a tall, ebony clad officer of the Guards stood stock still as he waited for the Mainelanders to appear amongst the fleeing soldiers.

 At the sight of the Green Jacket, a cry of dismay went up. Some men started to curse, others started to utter prayers to the Gods. Veteran Sergeants bawled for silence, but to no avail. The Green Jacket had come. Involuntarily, the column took a step back.

 The Green Jacket slowed to a walk, then stopped altogether. His eyes were obscured by his hood, his lips a thin line beneath his compact nose. By his side, the twins were dripping blood, slowly being diluted by the light rain.

 The Tall officer was brave. Where the men retreated, he stepped forward. With a gloved hand, he slowly drew his short curved sword and swept of his hat before throwing it to the side. "You shall not pass, demon," rasped the tall officer,settling into a standard Guarda stance with his left foot forward, right foot back, and sword held two handed pointing straight at the Green Jacket. "We are not afraid of you."

 The Green Jacket made a sound, a barely audible repetitive sound that sounded like he was crying. His shoulders started to shake as his head tilted forward. He was laughing. With a strangled cry, the tall officer charged, his sword smoothly going into a high attack position that betrayed years of practice. The Green Jacket shuffled to his left, bringing up his right hatchet to block the coming blade. The officer let him block, and brought his left knee up into the Green Jackets midriff. The Green Jacket rolled with the hit, came up in time to catch the falling blade on crossed hatchets. Another kick, this time into the inside of his right knee sent him kneeling hard on the turf. He dodged the follow up slash from the officer before turning hard and using his momentum to land a hit. The Ebony man wasnt there. He overbalanced and felt a searing pain as a blade cut into his side. Rolling, he came up into a crouch, panting hard, trying to ignore the pain.

The Ebony man, resumed the Guarda Stance, and smiled at the read smear on his blade. "This weapon is Siamese. Imbued with ancient magics, passed down through the line of the first born sons, it is called demon-killer," rasped the Tall officer. "And with it, I will end your reign of terror."