Ha, there went another, tumbling with his head half off his shoulders—so, a helmet crumpled, and the skull beneath it.
Back and forth the battle raged, breaking and tearing, ruining the chamber and the lives of men, and over it lifted the great calm disc of Earth and the million scornful stars. Back and forth, trampling, sundering, killing and laming, and Rikard was painted with blood and his arms grew weary from swinging the ax.
The chamber began to clear as men fell; it was floored with corpses and one had room to cast a spear or take a flying leap down on the head of an enemy. The soldiers had suffered hideously, but there were many Temple dead, ordinary guardsmen, scantily armored commoners, Engineers with their spacesuits pierced or their helmets cloven. The fight was breaking into knots and clusters, small whirlpools of murder swaying back and forth over the great blood-wet space, men springing through the air at each other. It seemed to Rikard, as he raised blurred eyes toward holy Earth, that the disc had grown noticeably gibbous—had they fought that long?
"Over here! Stand and fight, men of Coper!"
It was Rayth, backed into a corner above a high heap of fallen Temple men, foremost in a grim and haggard line of troopers hurling back wave after wave. Rikard shook his head, a sudden dark sense of destiny on him, and moved across the floor with lifted ax.
"You," said Rayth, very softly. "You—the triple turncoat—" Suddenly he threw back his head and laughter pulsed in his throat. "Oh, it was lovely, man, lovely, I never thought you had that kind of brains! Shall we play the game out?"
He stepped from his line, tossing his sword and catching it again, kissed his hand to Leda, and fell into an alert position before Rikard. The barbarian growled, squared off, and fell on him.
Rayth danced aside from the shrieking ax, and his blade whipped in against Rikard's throat. The rebel rolled, barely ducking the thrust, and Rayth grinned without much malice and sprang at him. His sword clattered and yelled, biting the Nyracan's arms, bouncing off the hard-held guard to sing around his opponent's ears. Rikard fell back, grunting in surprise, and Rayth pursued him, lightfooted, leaping, playing with him.
Scream and clangor of steel, hoarse gasps for breath, bounding human forms in a strange and terrible grace of murder, clash and bite and two faces staring into each other's eyes across the web of flying metal. Rikard hewed out again and again, cleaving empty air; his phantom enemy was somewhere else to rake him until he staggered and splashed his blood on the floor.
Leda yelled and sprang on Rayth from behind. His sword whirled around, caught in the guard of hers and sent it spinning free, and slewed back to meet Rikard's charge. He retreated before the rebel's rush, laughing, parrying blow after clumsy blow, waiting for the end.