The Temple gate burst open and the big man shot out in a flying leap that carried him over the heads of the sentries to land on the plaza grass. A spear flew after him. He grabbed it and whirled about and threw it back.
"Stop him!" roared an Engineer. "Kill him! He killed the Chief!"
The guards sprang at Rikard, yelling, and others boiled out of the Temple in their wake. He was already fleeing toward the corridor beyond. A shrieking laborer sought to bring him down—he kicked the man in the teeth, beat another aside with the flat of his sword, and pushed a way into the suddenly milling throng.
Half a dozen armed men were around him, blades flashing out. One grinned savagely in his beard. "We thought you were dead," he gasped. "You were in there so long—"
"We'll all be dead if we don't get out of here," snapped Rikard.
The raging Temple warriors were crowding through the press of humanity toward them. And from the swirling mob there seemed to rise one great groan.
"The Chief is dead.... The Chief is dead.... They killed him, the dirty murdering nobles—"
The old fellow's claim to be beloved of the people was not a lie, thought Rikard tautly, and crammed a fist into the mouth of the nearest man who rushed, weeping and cursing at him.
Swords and pikes clattered together as the guards hit the tight circle of Rayth's warriors. Rikard led the retreat, his sword whistling and thumping—he did not cut, but he hammered a way through the mob, and it fell back before his great bloody shape.
"The ramp—over there—"