The road smelled of a death. A foul odor crept from below, a sick mixture of blood, bile, and shit that could spoil any appetite. Water and wine spilled from torn skins cut the mess below with little effect. Worse still, the wounded coiled and writhed in the muck, their gashed bellies undoubtedly spoiled. Atop of the unfortunate dead and dying stood the huddled masses, jaws set, minds made up despite the gruesome sight.
Shamoun stood among the tensed mob caked in the same mess as below. They surrounded three figures armed with blood-slicked scimitars and dressed in clouded steel. A layperson to war might arch a brow at the standoff. Dozens clearly determined to see the dark business done against three guards, who for all their training and armaments remained pathetically outnumbered. That layperson paid no mind to the mob’s arms – various tools better for parting earth than flesh – and glanced by the rioters fallen at the guards’ feet. Numbers would not drive a broom handle tipped with a bit of metal through a steel cuirass. The Pilgrim reached beneath his cloak and drew a curved, Elven dagger from its scabbard at his waist. Calling from the pit of his stomach, Shamoun bellowed, “Forward!”
When the Pilgrim charged, he did so without a mind for care. A shove here, a stumble there, and soon those around him scoffed loud. Collective grunts sounded as if in approval, as if ready to charge, so as he moved forward the mob followed too. The guards raised their swords and pikes to form a wall. Drawing nearer through the mass, Shamoun could see their exposed, glistening skin beneath their helmets. Three paces closer and the guards, exhausted, stepped back. Once, twice and on the third step the steel backs of their cuirasses clashed. Like a sounding bell, the clank of the armour stirred one of the guards who began to swing their scimitar wildly. The mob, too far to be struck, raised their pikes, shovels, and pitchforks only to have them nicked by each blow. Shamoun noted the quick glances from the rest of the guards and immediately grabbed a stone from the muck. Less than ten yards away, he threw the stone just barely over the heads of the mass. A sharp, metallic ping echoed off the buildings around them as the crazed guard stumbled back. Shocked, or perhaps dead on his feet, the guard dropped his scimitar. Suddenly and without mercy the crowd flooded.
In the brief moment, Shamoun dashed to into the second row of the mass. His elbow raised, cocked back as if drawing the string of a bow, instead with his curved, Elvish dagger in hand. Such proximity required speed and accuracy. Emerging ahead of the mass, he grabbed one guard by the spaulder, burying the blade deep inside his throat. Ignoring the barrage of wooden farming tools breaking upon his armour, the final guard fixed his attention on Shamoun. The guard turned on a heel and, arm straightening, stabbed the scimitar point toward the Pilgrim's middle. A moment too slow, he let go of his knife and jumped aside with a burning pain just over his hip. Shamoun slammed his right arm against the guard's fully extended sword arm, then in the same motion, launched himself atop his enemy. He caught the steel helmet in his hands, grabbing the guard's nose in the process, and pulled him back into the muck. The two fell, the guard onto his back, and Shamoun onto his shoulder. Lashing, the guard slid their head from out the helmet and rolled onto their knees. Soon Shamoun was on his back, straddled by the guard, surrounded by the confused crowd. Farm tools rained down, bested by the steel armour, and utterly ignored as the guard brought a metal fist down toward the Redguard. Shamoun raised the helmet, still in his hands, and barely caught the blow. The side of the helmet that might protect a cheek shot back from the punch, splitting Shamoun's brow. Feebly, the Pilgrim threw the helmet up, catching the guard square in the face and sent him recoiling onto his back.
Shamoun remained on his back and took a leisurely breath. His head rang, a stream of blood running from his brow down the side of his scalp into the braids. For a moment the world went from red, to black, to blurred imitation at the sight from before. He felt a dizzying pain in his cheek and, behind his eye, a deep pressure like a head's lament after Argonian wine. Mouth still watering at the metaphor, Shamoun felt hands grasping his arms and shoulders. He relaxed his vision until general shapes took detail. The mob raised him to his feet, a few patting his back, others inspecting his brow and looking over his body for wounds through the layer of bloody muck. Shamoun gawked a moment, mouth falling open briefly as he caught sight of what could have been his death's charge. The guard's nose was crushed, perhaps from the helmet, and readily flowing blood. However, despite that very clear injury, death looked to come from odd severe denting all over the steel cuirass. A pitchfork or a knife and a lucky strike, it didn't matter. Shamoun stumbled until his balance held true, then spotted his first target. Bending down, he pulled his dagger from the man's throat and wiped the mess off onto the body before sheathing the blade.
"Weapons! Arm yourselves here. More soldiers are coming," a familiar voice exclaimed over the crowd.
Shamoun turned to the voice and spotted his hooded allies on the rooftops. They dropped staffs, sheathed swords, daggers, spears, and a surprising number of bows and arrows. The third figure could be heard on street level organizing the mass. Bows would be little help if the soldiers were allowed to march onto them without resistance. Taking a deep breath, Shamoun recovered as much as he could in a short time and returned to work. More rioters had collected already, they'd need to prepare the line.