Steel is no stronger than the sinew that wields it.

-- Si-Rrit

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 defence 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 rarified rituals. Some of the newcomer's 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 river bank, 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 acknowledgement 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 grey 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.