The Imperial Guard, ch. 21

The Imperial Guard, ch. 21

Chapter Twenty-One

The good news was that each guard at the Citadel that night was considerably slower than Chris. The bad news was that there were at least a dozen of them, and unlike Chris, they wanted to take him back to Anwar.

As motivators went, it wasn’t a bad one.

But Catalin didn’t have time to celebrate his newfound will to fight. Even if he was willing to claw his way through the guards with his bare hands, all he could concentrate on was maintaining a firm stance and blocking the onslaught of blows they were throwing at him. He managed to strike out once, but he only glanced a guard’s armor, and upon realizing that he was semi-competent with his weapon, the others pressed him harder.

Catalin gritted his teeth. If he could reach one of his knives, then he might have a chance, but the sword was still too unwieldy for him. He couldn’t be as fast as he wanted to be.

“Cat!” With that urgent tone, he almost didn’t recognize Kite’s voice. “Step back!”

Catalin did as he was told, knowing that he didn’t have the luxury of stopping to process the order. It wasn’t until he’d retreated several steps that he realized the buffet table was gone - actually, he’d walked right under it.

He had a few seconds to gape at Kite as he hefted a portion of the table above his head, chocolate fountain and all, and hurled it to the ground.

As their attackers yelled and scrambled backwards to avoid the shards of wineglasses and platters, Catalin couldn’t quell a yelp of surprise himself. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I should ask you the same!” Chris hollered into his ear as he grabbed him by the forearm and pulled him over the remains of the table. Out of the corner of his eye, Catalin saw Damian, still behind the table, climbing onto a chair. A blockade, he dimly noted. Catalin found his own sword shoved into his free hand.

Espen stood on Catalin’s other side, having returned from bringing the others in Catalin’s place. He’d thank him later. He pressed Celeste’s sword into Espen’s hands, and tossed the guard’s saber to a soldier from Damian’s division.

He felt more than saw Espen’s raised eyebrows; his eyes were on Jaden and the guards as they took in the scene with wide eyes. “Hold onto it,” Catalin muttered. Much as he hated to say it, he wouldn’t be able to move if he had to carry it.

“Hey, hey,” one of the guards said, a little bit of fear in his voice. “Those uniforms…”

“No fuckin’ way,” another spat. “The Myrrh Ghosts?”

Catalin felt a quick shudder of irritation he couldn’t quite explain at the nickname. Damian stood up straighter, cleared his throat, and yelled over the noise, “Everyone! Please listen to me for a second!”

Jaden’s expression tightened as he figured out why they were there, and he ordered, “Shut him up.”

A wall of men and women uniformed in red came barreling towards them. Catalin suddenly noticed that several more guards had entered while he’d been trying to fend them off; they must have been on call somewhere nearby. There had been less than fifteen before, but now it looked more like thirty. He felt another tug at his arm, and Chris pulled him back and stepped in front. “Stay close,” he muttered.

Catalin started to protest, but shut his mouth quickly. Of course. They were finally getting some use out of their hours of practice.

He hung back and tried to look the part of the terrified amateur, which admittedly wasn’t hard. The gangly man who reached them first gave Catalin a brief glance, but seemed to decide that a novice who needed protection wasn’t going to be a problem, and he focused his pair of short swords on Chris. He faked a cringe, but watched the areas Chris targeted carefully. Right, eye level. Right, shoulder. Right, torso. All on the right, all above the waist.

Their opponent smirked; it was common knowledge, after all, not to show the enemy a pattern. Catalin couldn’t see Chris’ expression, but imagined he was putting on quite a show of consternation.

Finally, as Chris raised the spear for another attack and the guard prepared to block the same side again, Catalin felt Chris tense as he prepared to move to the right, and he started to take a step to the left.

Chris spun out of the way just as Catalin stepped in. Before the Carmine soldier could adjust, Catalin delivered a low roundhouse kick to his left shin, and as he started to crumble, Catalin landed another kick deep into his stomach.

As the guard hit the floor, Catalin stood above him dumbly for a moment. It was the first Carmine soldier he’d ever defeated.

“Hey!” He felt Chris grab his shoulders from behind, and he was shoved off to the side. “Focus!”

Catalin stumbled, but saw what Chris was pushing him towards: Kite had gained a sizable crowd of opponents, enough to tire him out within the next few minutes. Catalin barely even had to move towards Kite before the man reached out, grabbed his arm, and lifted him into the air.

When Chris and Catalin fought together, Catalin had to carefully observe his friend’s movements, intentions, and weaknesses. Chris would set up an opening, and Catalin would take it.

Kite’s way of fighting was much less complicated: when Kite wanted him somewhere, he would physically move him there. Rather than working together, it was more like Kite used him as a second weapon, and all he had to do was insert the right attack. It was dizzying, being swung around so quickly, but Catalin had already had enough practice to be used to it.

He didn’t want to throw any knives just yet, it was too easy to lose them. But suddenly remembering a trick Rakan had taught him with the storeroom keys, Catalin tucked the knives between the fingers of one hand and jabbed them like claws. He barely had time to see if he’d drawn blood, and adrenaline kept the thought out of his head. Using his free hand as he was wrenched to the opposite side, he hung onto Kite’s shoulder and kicked a guard’s cheekbone. As he watched his foot, he realized why his earlier attack had been so effective: he was still wearing the heeled boots.

“I understand,” Damian was saying to the crowd. “I know that you think it’s okay like this, because things could be worse. I know that, compared to fighting, giving up is easier. But, up until now, how many things have you had taken away from you?”

Catalin nearly tripped. Kite, too, noticed the similarity to Catalin’s earlier words, because he hesitated for a second, oblivious of the guard behind him staggering to his feet. Catalin recovered quicker, and he ducked under Kite’s weapon, clambered onto a still-standing table, and threw one of his knives. The guard cursed, but managed to roll out of the way.

“All of us are like that,” Damian continued, and the First Division soldiers who had come formed a tight circle around the chair their commandant stood on. “Every one of us has lost someone, and every one of us has made sacrifices to keep on living. We’ve ignored the people who didn’t make those sacrifices, or didn’t get the choice, because we didn’t want to lose the things we have left. The things we’ve come to rely on.”

As the guard pursued Kite, Catalin threw another knife, and this time it connected, gouging his forearm and landing in the floor. It only stalled him for a few seconds, but it gave Kite enough time to pry off the soldier around his neck.

“That’s fine!” Damian said, more passionately than Catalin had thought him capable of. “That’s only natural! But you should know this: whether you struggle or whether you sit still, you’ll lose those things either way.”

The nobles, still gathered in the back of the room, watched Damian as he spoke with rapt attention. Jaden turned to them and called out, “Please, everyone, go wait in the second ballroom!” When they murmured amongst each other but didn’t move, Jaden hollered, “It’s for your safet… ah, hell.” He turned back to the guards. “Escort the guests out!”

The standing Carmine soldiers made a move toward the group of nobles, a few of them stumbling, made their way towards the guests, but Chris, Kite, and the others pressed them harder, leaving no opening. Catalin, still standing on the table, had exhausted everything he could throw besides his three remaining knives: glasses, platters, wine bottles, even his shoes. It had started to resemble a common bar fight more than an act of rebellion - with him still wearing a ball gown, no less.

Chris made quick eye-contact with him, and he obediently jumped down and joined their makeshift front line.

Damian was starting to struggle to make himself heard. “Some of us have given up more than others. Some of us were entrusted with this, and some of us ended up here by accident. But each of us who came here tonight have one thing in common: we want to take back all the things we’ve lost!”

Catalin had barely joined Chris when a soldier, even younger than him, threw his sword aside in frustration and punched him in the stomach. His hand connected with Catalin’s armor under the gown, so Catalin was willing to bet it hurt him more, but the force of the blow threw him off balance. Seeing opportunity, another pair of soldiers pushed Catalin aside and sprinted towards Damian.

Damian barely even acknowledged their approach, but he sped up as he shouted, “And, for Her Highness Amara Doyle, and for myself, Damian Meyers, I want tell you one thing: that whether you decide to struggle or sit still, we’ll fight for you, regardless! As your Imperial Guard!”

And with an incongruous grin and a wink, he hopped off his chair and joined the fight.

The ballroom erupted into shouts from the gathered nobles, who had resisted Jaden’s efforts to lead them out. The captain of the guard, who had recovered from Catalin’s earlier blow, made himself heard over the din: “All right, everyone, don’t panic! No need to listen to ghosts!”

The earlier surge of anger returned in full force, and Catalin righted himself and bellowed as loud as he knew how, “We’re not ghosts! We’re obviously alive, you idiot!”

When he looked back on it later, as a war cry, it didn’t make much sense. But it sent another stir through the crowd, and for a moment, their attention was on him again.

That was when Derrick Baltus and the rest of the Imperial Guard successors showed up.

“Right,” Damian muttered, and he darted past his opponent to the crowd of nobles, grabbing a woman who stood in front, and sliding one of his swords against her throat. As she screamed in terror, Catalin finally recognized her as Saphie.

All the fighting slowly came to a stop as the guards backed away cautiously, and Catalin and the others, in turn, backed out of the ballroom alongside Damian. The older soldiers formed a wall in front of the younger ones, and Damian, with a chipper “Thanks for your time!” lead the sprint down the hallway.

***

As soon as Catalin let himself think that it was going to be that easy, he knew that he shouldn’t have. And when Damian ushered the five of them into an empty sitting room, Catalin should have seen it coming.

In any case, he clawed his way out of the dress while he had the chance. And as he peeled it off, he finally noticed his bare feet; his uniform shoes were still in the clutch that he had been carrying.

“What’s goin’ on?” Kite asked as Damian released Saphie and locked the door. “Shouldn’t we get out before they come after us?”

“Think, Kite,” Damian said. “The whole time we were in the ballroom, did you see a single arrow?”

They all realized it at the same moment, but Saphie and Kite voiced it out loud: “Talia.”

Saphie rubbed her neck and moved for the door. “I’m going to go look for her.”

“Comin’ with you,” Kite said, following.

“No, you won’t,” Damian said firmly. “Saphie, you’re going back to the other nobles. Kite, you take Cat and go straight back to Victor, okay? Christopher and I will make sure that everyone gets out.”

“Me?” Chris blurted out.

Damian narrowed his eyes and addressed Chris directly for the first time in weeks. “I need someone capable. Are you saying you’re not up to it?”

“I am,” Chris bit back, but faltered. “I am, but…” His eyes darted briefly to Catalin.

“Just who do you think I am?” Kite recovered just in time to cut off Catalin’s own reprimand. Which was good, because Catalin didn’t actually know what he would have said. “I’ll get him out, Turner. Go find Tal.”

Still stumbling over his words, Catalin found himself saying, “I’ll be fine, remember?”

“… right. No martyrs in this room.” Chris allowed himself a brief smile. “Get out of here. Don’t worry about anything else.”

Against his better judgment, Catalin nodded.

“Let’s go,” Damian said. “They’ll be searching the Citadel by now.”

Saphie was the first out the door, tearing down the hallway towards the ballroom as if in a panic. A beat later, Damian and Chris slid out soundlessly together, following Saphie, and Kite and Catalin left last, in the opposite direction down the hallway.

He let Kite drag him down the hallway, arranging his face into a vague semblance of calm. How had they lost their grip on the situation so quickly? Granted, they never really had it - but for one moment, it seemed like they had a chance of getting out.

He numbly glanced around at the walls of the Citadel: red and white, as always. How long had it taken Anwar to strip the black and gold away from every inch of the capital? In the impossible event that we win the war, he found himself thinking, how long will it take to put it back? Longer than he cared to think about. They would have to start from scratch. Scratch and outdated traditions he never even cared for in the first place.

And yet, here I am.

“Over here.” Espen’s voice broke his train of thought, and as Kite pushed him into the darkened room, he saw his would-be escort’s silhouette standing in front of a floor-length window. “Hurry up. They’re still dealing with people in the ballroom.”

“Heh. Never thought I’d be happy to see you, of all people.” Kite suddenly took Catalin by the shoulders and turned him around. “Listen, Cat, I didn’t want to leave without makin’ sure you got out, but I’m goin’ back.”

“… what?” Catalin blinked up at him. “Kite, no. We shouldn’t separate.”

“See, I know that, but…” He laughed ruefully. “I can’t just go without her, yeah?”

“No,” Catalin said with a firm shake of his head. “If you’re going, then so am I. I don’t want to leave everyone, either.”

“No good,” he said as he gripped Catalin’s shoulder tighter, “first priority is escape, remember? Go ahead. We’ll be right behind you.”

“I’m coming with you, all right?” he said, and he reached up and grabbed Kite’s hand, trying to pry it away. “Don’t make me say it again.”

“You can be wrong too, you know that?” Kite snapped. “And often, too.” When Catalin only glared up at him, he sighed heavily. “Ah, the hell with it.”

Catalin hadn’t spent a single second imagining what Kite kissing him would feel like, but had he thought about it, he wouldn’t have guessed it would be quick. But compared to the feeling of being shoved backwards, seized around the waist by Espen, and pushed out a window for the second time in his life, he hardly even noticed it at all.

***

He didn’t know how long Espen had been carrying him for, or how far from the Citadel. All he knew was that the more distance they put between themselves and the others, the more frantically he fought the man. Seeing as he was nearly clawing at Espen’s arms at that point, they must have been pretty far.

“Let me go!” he snarled. “Put me down!”

“Will you stop?” Espen merely adjusted the weight, as if carrying an unwieldy package. “We’re going back to Rei. End of story.”

Catalin responded by freeing his other arm and driving the side of his hand into Espen’s windpipe.

Espen gasped and finally dropped him, and Catalin scrambled to his feet and made to run back. But Espen, in pain or not, was quicker, and snatching his wrist, he slammed Catalin against the brick wall of a closed restaurant. He was unable to say much through his wheezing, but he managed a short curse.

“Kite doesn’t think he’ll get out,” Catalin said, gritting his teeth at the throbbing pain in his wrist.

“You don’t know that,” Espen gasped.

“I do,” Catalin said. Because Kite wouldn’t have kissed him otherwise - he himself said it, he was a damned gentleman. Despite all his bravado, he probably would have asked permission. “And if it’s that bad, I can’t just go back without them.”

“Yes, you can,” Espen retorted. “And that’s what you’re going to do.”

“What’s it to you, anyway?” Catalin scoffed, twisting in Espen’s grip. “You hate me.”

“Typical noble. Everything’s about you.” Espen’s grip tightened. “I was asked by a good friend to keep her idiot cousin alive. That’s it.”

“Then that’s not a problem,” Catalin snapped. “I’m not going to die.”

“What’s this?” Espen punctuated the sentence with a weary laugh. “You suddenly believe in what we’re doing, is that it?”

“No,” Catalin said, “not especially.”

“You want to prove something?” he demanded. “I swear, if you tell me it’s some ridiculous pride t-”

“Not that, either.”

“Then what?” he barked.

“Because I made that decision. The first one I ever got to make on my own.” Catalin met Espen’s glare with one of his own. “The specifics of that decision are none of your business!”

The fingers around Catalin’s wrist slackened just a little. “You’re not going to die, you say? Celeste would have said that, too.”

“Then I’ll make you a promise: I’m not Celeste,” Catalin said, straightening himself as much as he could. “First priority is escape. I’m just going to make sure everyone remembers that.”

Catalin didn’t think that Espen would accept it that easily, but miraculously, Espen dropped his arm and took a step back. “If that’s the case, I’m coming.”

“Not yet.” Catalin faltered a moment, surprised at his own directness, but continued, “Go back to the brothel and tell Reiselle what happened. Ask for her advice, see if we can spare anymore.”

“In that case,” Espen said, “you go.”

“No.”

“Why not?” he growled. “I’m the more experienced one, here.”

Espen may have had years of experience, but Catalin had five overprotective idiots back at the Citadel. Though that was far too embarrassing to say out loud. “Maybe so.” He shrugged. “But I’m still the commander.”

Espen’s brows sunk deep into his forehead, but he stepped back enough to let Catalin pass. “This doesn’t mean I’m going to take ord-”

“Think whatever you want!” Catalin pushed Espen aside and bolted back towards the Citadel, only then realizing that he still wasn’t wearing any shoes.

It was hard to find his way back to the Citadel when he had mostly been focused on Espen before, and Catalin had gotten himself lost in under five minutes. This didn’t stop him from running, but without a fixed direction, he found himself running in and out of the same alleyways, and before he knew it, he’d circled around to the same closed restaurant that he’d been arguing at with Espen.

He stopped for a moment, long enough to gasp, “You’ve got to be kidding me,” then took off in a different direction.

Catalin had just hit a good speed when he heard the crunch of someone’s boots in the snow behind him, but almost the second he noticed, someone’s hand closed around his forearm and pulled him to a stop.

Come on, I don’t have time for this! Using his own momentum, he swiveled around and barked, “Let me go!”

Any further bravado died in his throat when he caught sight of his assailant, who was neither Espen nor a Carmine soldier. Towering over him was a man with pale hair, a long, black coat, and a deep scar across his face that started under his left eye and ended under the right side of his chin.

“You run unexpectedly fast,” he said, in a voice that was pleasant and not at all out of breath. When Catalin only stared, the man laughed, “Well, I was going to say that you two don’t look alike at all, but that ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing’ look of yours is pretty nostalgic, isn’t it?”

***

“How did this happen?” Helena Tremont leaned against the wall and gripped both sides of her skirt, thoroughly miserable. “He was doing so well at first…”

Her mother in law bowed her head, eyes closed, then looked around at the library that the nobles had been herded into after the arrival of the Carmine Guard. “He was. It’s really a shame someone sent word to Eliade Kasshen that someone was dragging her little cousin’s name through the mud. With that self-righteous streak of hers, what could she do but come, really?”

“Mother…” Helena’s eyes widened. “You set them up? How could-”

“Don’t look at me like that, Helena,” Kathleen sighed. “These kids are promising to represent us. If they can’t deal with this much, then all they’re doing is repeating what they’ve been told to say. If…” Her face turned stony. “If someone had taken the time to test Alex from the start, someone like him never would have served in the Imperial Guard.”

“Even if that’s true,” Helena said, her fingers closing tighter, “what if they get arrested?”

She only snorted. “Then I’d say that’s a problem for all of us.”