Steel is no stronger than the sinew that wields it.
It was twilight, and Third-Guard stood at his post by the River Gate, mag armor gleaming in the fading light, variable sword held at the ready. His post was mostly ceremonial; the Citadel's weapons systems reached into high orbit and its sensors extended across half-eight-squared octaves of the electromagnetic spectrum. He was the last line of defense before the walls of the Citadel itself, and the chance that he would stop an enemy who had somehow evaded the sophisticated layers of protection above him was vanishingly slight. Nevertheless he took his post seriously. He served the Rrit, one of the elite zitalyi of the Patriarch's personal guard. It was an honor, and he would prove himself worthy of it. His equipment was well maintained, his stance alert and ready.
“Sire! Myowr-Guardmaster!” Third-Guard leapt to attention and claw-raked. The Patriarch's Son and the leader of the zitalyi! It was well that he presented himself as a warrior should. The Rrit rewarded fealty and competence above all.
“Good watch, Third-Guard?” Guardmaster's critical eye took in his warrior's equipment and deportment at a glance, and finding nothing lacking, carried on without comment. Approving silence was high praise from the taciturn commander. Third-Guard was pleased with himself. He practiced his combat drills daily. He was lethal with anything from heavy beam weapons to his bare teeth and claws. It was his place to be that way, now more than ever that the Great Pride Circle was meeting. The leaders of the Great Prides could not see the gamma ray lasers and mag launchers that protected the Citadel. They could see Third-Guard, and it was important that what they saw impressed them. More than one had commented on the discipline and bearing of the Patriarch's Guard, wishing their own Heroes were at such a standard. That was heady talk, coming from the double-named rulers of worlds and star sectors.
And they impressed him! Kzinti whose ancestors had left Kzinhome eight-cubed generations ago! The white-pelted ice-warriors of Churrt Pride, their fur thicker than a tuskvor's, the tall and lean Vdar of Meerowsk, Dcrz Pride of ancient Kdat with their rarefied rituals. Some of the newcomers' dialects were barely understandable, their customs uniformly bizarre. The other day Chmee-Cvail himself had swept through, with a retinue of odd-faced Pierin slaves of a noticeably different breed than those who belonged to the Rrit, and just before watch he had traded stories with a retainer of Kchula-Tzaatz, heard tales of jungle hunts on steamy Jotok and the Puppeteer first contact. It was stuff to fire the imagination, and he had decided then and there to get on the next available ship headed anywhere. There was a universe out there to conquer, if he only had the liver for it. In the service of the Rrit he could not fail to win honor.
There was a splash from the Quickwater beneath the bridge. Was it just the play of the waves against the pilings? It was not repeated, and any other night he would have ignored it. Tonight… tonight it was worth investigating. He leapt easily to the riverbank, tapped his keypad, and brought up a spybot. A moment later one floated down from perimeter patrol, grav polarizer whining quietly. He beckoned it forward and gestured under the bridge. Its AI chirped its acknowledgment and the seeker tilted, slid sideways, and dropped over the rail, searching. A moment later it popped back up again.
All clear.
Good enough. The seeker hummed back up to its patrol circuit and Third-Guard relaxed, went back to his alert post, and allowed himself a little fantasy of a vast estate on some distant, yet unconquered world. He would have a name and his kits, yes, his many kits would have names too. End of watch soon, then back to the barracks and food, and tomorrow he'd see about getting signed on to an assault ship. He was zitalyi, and any seasoned commander would be glad to take his pledge.
Another splash — there was something down there. Third-Guard went to the rail and strained his eyes in the gathering gloom. The water burbled against the bridge supports. He saw tumbled rocks, the gray stone wall of the citadel rising vertically from the river shore, nothing else.
Something moved in his peripheral vision. He jerked his head up but there was nothing, just more rocks. He looked closer. Was that rock there before? Something was wrong. He didn't bother with the spybot, though its sensors were better than his eyes could hope to be; he just leapt the railing and dropped to attack crouch, beamer ready.
There was a flash of movement, something large and dark coming fast. He swung his weapon up and around, but too slow. Razor fangs dug into his neck and he felt burning pain and numbness. He tried to cry out but couldn't. Something dark and scaly filled his vision, its skin rough and rock textured, blending perfectly with the stone of the citadel wall, and then it faded into invisibility in the twilight as the world dimmed to blackness.
It is said that Telepath knew the minds of his enemies, and so became a great warrior. Because he also knew the minds of his Pride he became a great leader. None could stand against him, and so his strakh grew until he was Pride Patriarch, then Great Patriarch, and then finally Patriarch. And because he knew the minds of ally and foe alike he was a wise Patriarch, but Telepath's ambition outweighed even his great wisdom, and his yearning for power would not be stilled. He envied the Fanged God, who had dominion over the entire world and the moons and the stars, and so he tried to know the mind of the Fanged God that he could then challenge him and take his place. But no mortal Hero can know the mind of the Fanged God and retain his reason, and so when Telepath Saw what the Fanged God can See he was driven insane. The Fanged God could have killed him then, but he gives honor to those brave enough to challenge him, and so spared Telepath's life in the duel. His reason gone, Telepath was transformed from Patriarch to outcast czrav in a single day, with no strakh, with no Pride. Cjor became Patriarch, and Telepath was forgotten. He wandered eight times around the seasons, reduced to hunting sthondats just to survive. One day he wandered to the Temple of the Black Priests, who took him in and cared for him. Because he had been eating sthondats this is what they fed him, and when his reason returned they found a place for him at Cjor's side as his Telepath. And to this day it is the duty of the Black Priests to care for the telepaths, and to this day they take the lymph of the sthondat and sit by the Patriarch's side.
Pouncer woke early and splashed himself in his bathing pool before allowing his Kdatlyno groomer to dry and comb his pelt. He was uneasy about his upcoming meeting with Rrit-Conserver. Tests were not unusual in his life but this one was different, and not only because he had no idea of its nature. The Great Pride Circle was meeting in two days, Pride-Patriarchs and Emissaries from all the worlds of the Patriarchy gathered in his father's Great Hall. It was the first such meeting in his lifetime, only the second in his father's. The Patriarchy was changing; power structures as fixed as the constellations were now in flux. Even he could see that. What that meant wasn't clear, but he knew it would require him to be a strong and competent Patriarch, stronger and more competent perhaps than he was capable of being. His mood did not improve as he left his chambers and walked through the arching stone pillars in the Hall of Ancestors. The Hall was lined with portraits and statues of long-dead Patriarchs, and their eyes seemed to follow him as he walked. He felt history bearing on his shoulders like some vast weightstone. It was an increasingly common reaction in him, an acute instance of the inescapable effect of the imposing bulk of the Citadel of the Patriarch. The fortress was ancient beyond memory and huge beyond easy comprehension, a vast warren of towers, walls, courtyards, and passages. The Rrit Dynasty was thrice-eight-cubed generations old at least, and the Citadel had been their stronghold all that time. Its origins were long lost in the dim past but it certainly predated space travel. It had been extended and rebuilt and re-rebuilt so many times that it was doubtful any of the original construction remained. Even so, the stone floors of the Inner Fortress were worn deeply concave by the paw pads of countless Patriarchs. How many First-Sons had walked the Hall of Ancestors? They didn't bear counting.