Everywhere Red, Part 2 (Conclusion)
The roar that surged through the crowd took even Emis Semtur by surprise. The crowd had doubled—nay, tripled—since he took cover in Ambassador Premiere Raghn’s office, and it had apparently grown more and more violent.
Violent enough to fight back.
The Enforcers around the crowd had made motion to encircle and pacify the protest, but any warning Semtur could have given against this would have been useful only several minutes ago, and only with a crowd that was agitated, not aggressive. As the Enforcers closed in, the crowd burst out.
Shields and armor ring aloud as the crowd strikes the Enforcers. Almost immediately the resistance turns into active brawling. A nearby Enforcer is thrown, stumbling backwards onto the cold cobble—another nearby is simply pushed aside, and Semtur's head swims as various shivs, knives, broken bottles, and all manner of prods make themselves apparent, embedded in chinks in the bloody bronze plate mail. The ice atop the slick cobbles soaks blood-red under the fallen militiaman.
Part of the crowd surges towards Semtur with cries of anguish and focused rage.
The Enforcers would block the bridge–Semtur knew as much. His only refuge would be in the hall from whence he came, back through the snow.
Semtur made a hasty retreat to the path in the snow his snow-sodden legs had waded through naught two minutes before. He could hear the crowd yell behind him, pursuers angry to fight back against the government that left them exposed and unprotected–no matter what part of the government they may be.
The path through the snow was helpful for Semtur, but doubly so for his pursuers. The belligerents following him would have nearly half the resistance he would, clear as though the trail may have been. It was futile, Semtur realizes with a sudden weariness.
And they were on top of him.
He had tried to whirl round to confront the splintered portion of the mob that had pursued him, but had nearly instantly been thrown from his feet, head-first into the drifts. Fists and bludgeons rained on him, and he futilely tried to shield himself with his hands as he lay face-up in the reddening snow.
The few individuals left Semtur after a few minutes more. Rallied by the cries of the crowd somewhere in the distance, the few men and women looked to one another, nervously.
“We should go,” one of them says.
“What about…?” another quips, worriedly.
“Leave him.” The cold third voice of a man simmering with rage sent a chill through Semtur’s battered form that took away all the fight the ambassador would have had left.
Semtur groans, battered and broken, as the crowd marches through Ighodia, chanting of exodus and departure and betrayal, voices of assailed victims shrieking every so often, the orders of Enforcers being gruffly shouted and aggressively ignored.
The snow around Semtur ran red, pink snowmelt dripping into his swollen, broken face.
The snow around Coghan ran red as well.