Snippet #1362798

Marcelle hid his surprise at the appearance of the Altmer thief rather well, at least he thought so. He struck a dashing figure, the ornate wire-work on the sabre-hilt catching the morning sunlight as he brought the weapon up into a guard position, defending his torso and lower legs. A guard lurched from the brawl, his helmet knocked askew by a well aimed strike. Despite this, the guard lashed out, the shimmering blade of the long sword tracing a lazy arc towards Marcelle's neck. With speed born of hours of practice, Marcelle beat the strike aside, driving the heavy blade through the guards armour and into his gut. The guards eyes widened as the blade sunk through his viscera. He coughed, aspirating blood into Marcelle's face.

He slammed his booted foot onto the corpse, tugging the sword free with a wet tearing sound, and the spine-tingling grate of blade on bone. He hopped backwards, narrowly avoiding the battleaxe that hammered down in a wide arc. The second guard smiled wickedly, his white teeth visible through the helmet. Clearly he thought he had the advantage. He had made the biggest, and last mistake of his life.

Marcelle lunged forward, like a snake striking, his right foot stamping on the wide axehead, forcing it to the ground. The axe slipped from the guards grasp as Marcelle's left knee hammered forward, colliding heavily with stooped guards jaw. There was a loud crack as the guard's head jerked back, lolling unnaturally.

Taking a step forward, Marcelle finished the paralysed guard with a quick downward slash to the throat. He risked a glance over his shoulder, taking in the thief finishing the guard pinned under her supple body, and the hurrying figures of the Warrior and Mage. He backed up, keeping the bloody sword point trained on another group of guards approaching from the western tower. His footwork was impeccable, as he moved swiftly to a level position with the Thief. He spoke slowly and clearly, his rasping voice carrying easily over the roar of the riot. “Wait for them to charge, take the leaders then run for the river like Mehrunes Dagon is on your heels.” He hoped she would follow this plan as it was the only way he could see of getting out alive. There was no more time for thought now however, as the three front runners reached the pair.

Marcelle held his sabre held out in front of him, the point lowered so the recurved edge of the blade could be thrust through the joints in the armour, and up into lungs and hearts. He met the first guards wild strike with an overhead block, the impact of the two blades running roughly down his arm. Twisting inside his opponents guard, he slammed his free hand down on the inside of the soldier's elbow, forcing his sword hand to open, letting the weapon fall to the ground. Wasting no time, Marcelle extended his sword arm, then lashed it brutally back across his body, slicing the tip through the guards throat.

The warm caress of arterial spray brushed across Marcelle's face, as the blood pumped from the man's severed jugular. With a quick thrust of his right knee, he sent the corpse sprawling, tripping up his comrade who was a few paces behind him. Marcelle took this opportunity to spring away from the fight like a hare from a trap. His legs pumped as he hurtled down the side alley by the town wall, hearing the hiss-thump of arrows impacting around him.

Making a split-second adjustment, he lowered his shoulder, hitting the guard blocking the other exit square on in the sternum. The impact robbed Marcelle of his momentum and balance, sending him toppling to the paving stones, along with the winded guard. As he fell, his wrist jarred awkwardly, sending the sabre skittering out of his grasp and into the river. The guard, who had regained some of his energy, reached up, and locked his gauntleted hands around Marcelle's neck. As the grip tightened, Marcelle chopped both hands down on his attackers elbows, sending his hands into spasm, releasing his neck in the process. The guard cried out, slamming his helmeted head into the bridge of Marcelle's nose. Stunned, Marcelle rolled off the guard, who seized the advantage and began to throttle him again.

Opting for a different tactic, as the oxygen was starved from his lungs, Marcelle kicked up between the guard's legs, combining it with an eel like wriggle. The guard let out a yelp of pain, as the blow crushed his soft organs. Continuing the kick, Marcelle lifted the Dunmer over his head and pitched him, like a fish escaping from a boat, into the Odai. Executing a graceless roll, Marcelle dropped into the murky water, his impact making considerably less splash than the heavily armoured guard.

He watched his assailant sink, the weight of his armour dragging him to the bottom. With a lazy breast stroke, Marcelle swam forward, hooking a dagger from the guard's belt, and slashed his throat. The blood welled up into a red cloud, like the ash from a volcano, swirling hypnotically in the current.

This same current swept Marcelle out of the town, and away from trouble. It was only when he was lying on a riverbank, gasping for breath that he thought of the others. He hoped they had made it. No-one deserved to die in a pit like Balmora.