And so it is said

that the royal men in red

are those who shall knock you down

and kill your children.

DUTY

Yjennka’s heart seemed to beat to the constant thumping of his sword against his shield. Thump, thump, thump. The soldiers beat their swords against their shields, failing to scare off the crowd. Working men, women, and some youth have gathered, all fed up with the neglectful treatment from the Queen.

It’s not that the Queen is a tyrant, but the countryside is simply so far, and the amount of paperwork needed to make changes, to help people, to do good, is mind-boggling.

Vegetables, stones, heavy objects – these were the assortment of items flying through the air of Norran Village’s marketplace bazaar, clanking off the soldiers’ helmets. Fires have broken out in the bakeries and cafés, spreading fast towards the department buildings and shops.

Jewelry, fruits, expensive silks – these were trashed as they lay on the cobbled floor, stomped on by the mass and torn apart. The acrid stench of smog stained the polished steel helmets, darkening the crimson red uniforms draped over their armor.

A villager smacking him right across the head with a sickle interrupted his train of thought. It glanced off his helmet, catching the cloth over his brigandine.

“Stupid bastard!” he yelled, shoving the villager back with his shield. He briefly lowered it to see the line of chaos he caused.

A shower of pebbles rained onto his shield, reverberating, before the villager with the sickle tried for another blow. Yjennka stomped, a sudden surge of adrenaline spiking up his spine, flowing into his arms, almost trying to lunge out at his assailant. His arms went stiff and he remained firm as he pushed against the riot’s front line.

One of the men beside Yjennka staggered, the rain of pebbles splitting his forehead open. Dazed, blood dripped down the soldier’s nose, and he took a knee to recover. There was now a gap in the line – and the angry crowd was quick to exploit it. A rioter stepped into the formation, lunging at the troops.

‘Pain. There’s a blunt pain in my back, my armor’s vibrating. Was I struck?’ Yjennka questioned. Like a blooming flower of pain, the skin bruised under the armor – ‘yes, someone is hitting me.’ Yjennka’s breath grew hot, his blood hotter, restricted by the helmet, unable to turn his head to see behind him.

A blow hit him against his temple, denting the steel helmet. His head throbbed as if it had a heartbeat of its own. The world seemed to spin, his vision tightening much like his hands, deathly gripped to his shield and his blade. It pulsed between blackness and sight. A flame seemed to pool at his pounding chest, his fingertips growing red with the rush of adrenaline.

He turned for a brief moment, attacking the man’s weak side, tearing his sword into the cloth, before gliding into the skin. After countless drills with dummy blades, this was his first time trying out real flesh – he thought it would get stuck.

The man’s eyes met his for a moment, but Yjennka had no mind, his fear freezing his thoughts, his body desperately falling back on his training. His gaze focused on the blood pouring down the man’s belly, seeping into his pants, staining his boots.

The weight of the sword dragged along, ripping through the bone, bits of cartilage tagging along. As if putting a brush to canvas, the blade trailed a long red streak – darker at the top, lighter at the bottom.

A momentary pause before an artery sprayed the iron-scented blood onto Yjennka. His lips gaped, tasting the stuffed air, the metal tang of blood stinging his tongue, mixed with the sour, bitter ashes in the air. There was this strange ease, like a calmness to cutting down a man. As the blood splattered onto him, his red coat remained unaffected – much like his mind.

Then a burning question popped into his head, breaking his blank state. ‘Did I just kill him?’ Yjennka wondered.

The man toppled onto his back, soaking into the dirt, the crimson liquid oozing, mixing with the mud. There was this sense of automation in his strikes, as if it was breathing. One more strike, just like in training – and Yjennka thrust his blade into the man’s neck, his glittering blade staining with the Regiment’s signature red.

‘I’ve killed someone. I’ve killed an enemy. I’ve accomplished what a soldier is meant to do,’ his mind raced, wild new thoughts flickering in his head. Too stunned to move, a sense of both terror and excitement welled up in his chest. His hands trembled, yet his heartbeat remained at a jogger’s pace.

‘How long will my luck last? How many more can I kill before I am killed?’

One of the fellow Red Regiment soldiers grabbed Yjennka by the collar. It was Hadel, the company sergeant. “Don’t fall off track, Yjenn, keep your shield up!”

The chaos blinded Yjennka to the devastating position he was pushed into. Slowly, their small unit was surrounded, caught in their own complacency, or perhaps their fear, or perhaps by sheer dumb luck.

Men kept falling, stumbling and falling onto their backs, and the cohesion loosened. They inched backwards, slowly losing ground, getting caught between a dead end and a violent mob. The bazaar was walled off – brilliant idea from the advisors of the Royal Court – and now the Red Regiment had no escape.

The women and youth at the start of the riot disappeared. Yjennka and his comrades stared down hordes of angry men, lines of makeshift weapons indicative of who they were fighting – rakes, hammers, axes, and other arrays of working tools.

Nonetheless, Yjennka’s allegiance is towards the royal family. He had a job to do, and it was very simple: Kill, don’t die.

Desperate for a break, Yjennka and his colleagues made a short retreat into a tunnel, originally meant for the sale of cold goods that couldn’t sit in the sun – now a tourist street, complete with restaurants, cafés, and bookshops. Or, was.

To block off the tunnel entrance, Hadel shoved down a large stand, mangoes and half-melted ice cubes splattering all over the blood-stained floor. He quickly stepped back as bricks, broken pieces of wood, and sharp objects came flying in from the other side.

“Okay. We are trapped. Any bright ideas, boys?” Hadel asked, stepping over the cold fruit.

Yjennka looked up at him. “The Royal Court thought this would be a standard protest, not a damn rebellion.”

“Royal Court, royal bullshit,” Hadel responded. “Is this your first battle, Yjenn?”

He kicked around a few mangoes before chopping a sizable one with his longsword.

“Just relax, Yjenn. Have a mango. You killed someone earlier, didn’t you? Good job. Here’s your reward. Welcome to Norran Village.”

Yjennka stared at him, the offer of a cold mango in his hand. ‘A reward? For killing a man? The price of a man’s life is half a cold mango?’

“I… I have no appetite.”

“You don’t have appetite for what I’m about to tell you, either. Eat,” Hadel commanded.

And so Yjennka cupped the mango in his hands, the frost cooling his adrenaline-hot hands. This was the worst place to enjoy a summer treat – the muffled mob cursed and screamed in the backdrop, some soldiers coughed up blood as they treated their wounds, and the damp, musty air was coupled with the rotten stench of dead cats.

“So,” Hadel started, “Yjennka, you’re no longer second lieutenant.”

He ripped the rank patch off of Yjennka’s shoulder, a moment of confusion lingering in the air.

‘Hae? Whae, what?’ Yjennka’s mind completely blanked, trying to process what’s going on. A grim expression was smeared across Hadel’s face, before he erected to a stout salute.

“Congratulations on your promotion, sir,” he snapped. The rest of the Regiment soldiers who could stand, they also snapped to salutes.

No longer second lieutenant, promoted to first lieutenant? Doesn’t that mean –

“The lieutenant died?!” Yjennka said, tilting his head. “He died- what do you mean he? What?”

‘Certainly not. The lieutenant can’t be dead, he’s forty and has years of experience. There’s no way he’d be dead. Not to something as simple as angry peasant farmers!’

“If you’re still stunned, have another cold mango,” Hadel said, smacking the new lieutenant in the bum. “Chop chop, Yjenn, show us what they taught you in officer academy.”

Yjennka clicked his lips. He’d never been assertive before, always taught to follow drill and turn your head where they say and sleep exactly when ordered to.

The warmth of the patch still lingered on his shoulder, now soaking in the melted ice on the floor, and his stomach fluttered as he tried to recall what an officer would say. The iron tang of blood from the wounded served as a stark reminder to what could go wrong.

A pause.

“Shoulder to shoulder, attention!”

He barked, like a puppy barking for the first time, and within seconds, a line of red-coated, brigandine-wearing, steel-helmeted warriors stood against the cracked tunnel wall, entirely at his disposal. His own voice felt like a child telling a grown-up what to do.

It felt powerful, forbidden. He’s never wielded such command before, it felt wrong. ‘These men have seen battles I’ve only studied,’ he thought. In his four years of military college, he commanded woodblocks on a map. Now he was staring down real men, with their judging glances, disbelieving sighs, and terrifying frowns.

‘Detach yourself and remember that you’re the officer,’ he reminded himself. ‘Make them bark.’

Yjennka paced around, every step heavy with nervousness. “I need some way to…” his breath hitched, eyes fixated on a mango on the floor, trying to focus his thoughts, “attack without meeting them head-on.”

‘Our numbers won’t match them. Fifty versus two hundred? If only we could surround them. But how would we…’

He gazed at Hadel. “Sergeant, we’re taking a walk. Down the tunnel, let’s scout and find out.”

The duo began a trek through the narrow passageway, barely noticing the looted stalls, overturned market carts, spilling fresh trouts, cracked bottles of ale, and even exotic spices. In its wake was destruction.

“Too far into the tunnel and we’ll be cornered. Too close to the entrance, we’ll be overwhelmed. I need the perfect midpoint… So I need to shift the men to the middle.” Yjennka thought out loud.

Hadel chuckled. “And that’s it? Wait in the middle and hope to beat them all?”

“Can we run to the other side of the tunnel and escape?”

“That cart at the entrance won’t hold out long, we’ll be cut down as we flee.”

Hadel clicked his tongue as he looked at Yjennka. “It doesn’t have to be a linear battle, Yjenn. Look around you. What do you see?”

“Umm, stalls,” Yjennka muttered, eyes frantically bouncing around, trying to find the correct answer. “Stalls, vendors… Shops? Restaurants and dining areas.”

Yjennka walked up and down the tunnel. Back and forth. Stepping over debris and zigzagging around upturned carts.

“It twists and turns. There’s choke points. Um…”

Hadel lingered near an coffee shop, an abandoned cup still wafting its scent through the air. He watched the liquid swirl like a lazy cloud.

“Funny how a little movement can change everything. Stir too fast, you spill your drink. Stir too slow, you don’t mix anything.”

Yjennka stared at him. What the hell does that-

“A mix. Of everything? With a little movement…”

He pointed at the library and cafés around him. “So we can scatter half of the men around here?”

Hadel nodded, his eyes lighting up, his hands taking a sip of the coffee, high hopes for Yjennka.

“And the other half… move and bait the enemy,” Yjennka guessed. “False retreat into a pincer maneuver. Lead them in with half the men, then close in on them from the sides with the rest of the men.”

The cup of coffee was set down. “And now you get it. Go rally the troops. Sir.”

Sir. A title Yjennka wears like an oversized coat.