Warriors fell, but it was on the bodies of foemen and even dying they stabbed upward at the enemy. Bitter, bloody, utterly ruthless, the struggle swayed about the rocketship. It was old Khazak that fought, the planet of warriors, and, even as he hewed and danced and slew, Janazik thought bleakly that he was trying to end the gory magnificence of that age; he was bringing civilization and with it the doom of his own kind. Khazak of the future would not be the same world.
If they won—if they won!
"To me!" he yelled. "To me, men of Aligan! Hai, Aligan! Krakenau! Dougald!"
They heard and rallied round him, the last gasping survivors of his band. But there were few of Volakech's men left, few.
"Volakech! Aid the king! To me, men of Volakech!" The rebel shouted at the top of his lungs. And Anse lunged in at him, beating against the swift armor of the axe.
"Anse!" Janazik's urgent shout cut through the clangor of battle. "Anse, here! We're blasting free!"
The human hardly heard him. He forced his way closer in against Volakech, his sword whistling about the usurper's helmeted head.
"Anse!" shouted Janazik. "Anse—Ellen needs you—"
With a tiger snarl, Anse broke free from his opponent and whirled about. A rebel stood before him. There was an instant of violence too swift to be followed, and Anse leaped over the ripped body and up to Janazik.
The Khazaki stood by the airlock. There was a ring of corpses before him; his sword ran blood.