by Larry Niven
“Second-Son! Citadel defenses, primary display.” He kept his voice calm. Second-Son positively stank of fear and needed steadying.
“Yes, sire!” Second-Son manipulated the command console and the display changed to an overhead view of the fortress. Meerz-Rrit had considered sending Second-Son out to lead a force of defenders with the rest of his inner circle, but his son’s fear ruled that out.
And he did need someone to run the displays. Let him learn command by his father’s side, gain confidence here. He was young yet for leadership, and if he was not all Meerz-Rrit might hope for, he was still blood.
“Zoom on the House of Victory.” Time to find out why Kchula was not yet in his presence. Patriarch’s Telepath would take his battle plans right out of his mind. And where is Patriarch’s Telepath?
Second-Son zoomed the display as directed, but his reply was interrupted by a buzzing from the door. A Whrloo flew in.
“Patrrriarrrch’sss Telepath doesss not commme, Patrrriarrch.” The Whrloo hovered in front of Meerz-Rrit, eyestalks lowered.
“What?”
“Parrrdon this onnne. He sssennndsss thisss messssage. Kchullla-Tzzzatzzz isss invadinnng and willll trrriummmph. The traitorrr is Sssecond-Ssson. He hasss donnne allll he cannn nnnowww forrr yourrr linnnne.”
It took a moment for the Whrloo’s speech to register. “Second-Son!” Kchula-Tzaatz he knew about, but Second-Son! Meerz-Rrit whirled but Second-Son was already in midleap, his scream echoing from the walls of the Command Lair, wtsai extended. Meerz-Rrit dropped to the floor, kicking out to disembowel. The surprise left him off balance and the kick merely ripped the skin on Second-Son’s flank. It was enough to deflect the wtsai though, and rather than plunging into his belly it sliced his thigh. He rolled to his feet, adopted the v’dak stance, and saw his opening, but fire burned from the wound up his leg and icy numbness followed it. His vision blurred and he couldn’t leap.
Second-Son regained his feet, breathing hard, his father’s blood on the edge of his blade. “Feel the sting of the p’chert, Meerz-Rrit.”
The leg collapsed and Meerz-Rrit fell to the floor, the room darkening before his eyes as the neurotoxin took hold.
“You dishonorable sthondat.”
“Patriarch now, Father.”
“First-Son still lives.” Meerz-Rrit spat the words.
“Not for long.” Contempt.
Rage swept Meerz-Rrit, and it gave him the strength to leap one last time. Second-Son wasn’t ready for it, and his father’s impact sent him sprawling, a vicious slash across his chest. In a panic he stabbed out with the wtsai but the blade skidded off Meerz-Rrit’s own wtsai, still on his belt, and then his father’s fangs were at his throat. Unable to breathe, he slashed wildly, this time connecting, driving the weapon deep into the soft belly.
Meerz-Rrit gave a strangled cry and collapsed on top of him. With shaking fingers Second-Son pried his father’s dead jaws from his throat and struggled from under the corpse. Panting, he stood over the body, exultation warring with horror and fear in his liver. He had done it, claimed his right as Patriarch with his own claws. His father lay dead at his feet, and whatever the future would bring, it was no longer the security he would have known as zar’ameer to First-Son. He trembled as the implications of what he had done came over him.
And his father! He knelt by the body, suddenly wishing for a sign of life. Memories of his kittenhood flooded back unbidden. Meerz-Rrit had always been a distant figure to him, burdened as he was by the responsibilities of his office, but he was a presence as constant as the very stones of the Inner Citadel. To have changed that fact of life was…
Enough! There was much to do and little time to do it in. But weren’t those Meerz-Rrit’s own words, when the time for thought gave way to the need for action? The sorrow would not leave his liver. He looked away from the body. First he must camouflage the crime, and then kill First-Son. A moment ago he would have exulted at the thought, driven by jealousy, but now he felt a strange reluctance. Meerz-Rrit’s other sons were much younger, still spotted kits at their mother’s teats. Only First-Son had always been there in his life, first a model for his behavior, then a foil for his thwarted ambition.
No, he no longer had the desire to see his brother dead, but now he had the need. If he wanted to live, Elder-Brother had to die. He flattened his ears. No time now for reflection. He had to act, before anyone discovered his crime and his dishonor. There were guards outside the Command Lair who could enter at any moment. He suddenly became aware that the Whrloo had left, fled during the fight. It was danger and opportunity, witness and scapegoat. He ran out to the corridor.
“Treachery! Meerz-Rrit is dead. Kill that Whrloo!” None of it was even a lie.
“Sire!” At once the zitalyi were bounding down the corridor after the hapless slave. Second-Son’s mouth relaxed into a fanged smile, and he turned and loped toward the infirmary where First-Son lay.
…and his Patriarch commanded Chmee to hold the gate. And so when Vstari of the Wild Pride led eight-to-the-fifth Heroes to the fortress and demanded surrender, Chmee refused them.
—The Warlord Chmee at the Pillars
The herd grandmother bellowed in rage and Pouncer ran like a scalded kitten across the scorching desert. Behind him the thundering tuskvor stretched from horizon to horizon, the dust of their passage rising to form a solid orange wall behind him. Ahead was nothing but sand as far as the eye could see, and it burned his pads as he ran. Fear drove his legs faster and faster but he wasn’t gaining ground. The dry air burned thirst into his throat, and his eyes watered with the hot wind. The thunder grew inexorably closer, and though he seemed to float between each step, he was going to be trampled. The grandmother bellowed again and again, the booming cries deafening, coming in steady, urgent rhythm. He looked back and saw her tusks coming for him, and in that instant he tripped, sailing in slow motion over the sand as time seemed to contract, stretching the moment into infinity, and then he was tumbling, rolling, and the herd was overrunning him, tree trunk legs pounding down to crush him into oblivion. He lay on his back, helplessly watching as the grandmother’s boulder-sized foot blotted out the sky, coming down like a drop forge.
She bellowed. The alarms were going off. She bellowed. His eyes shot open.
He was in the infirmary, in a sleepfield, white walls, medical instruments, a spray infuser strapped to a shaved patch on his upper arm. How had he got there? The alarms kept blaring rhythmically. What was happening?
A vague orange shape in front of him. “Chief Medical Officer!” His head swam with the effort of speech.
“Sire! You’re awake.”
“Why are the alarms going off?”
“It isn’t clear. There’s an attack, Heroes landing.”
“The tuskvor…”
“You’ve been unconscious. There was a creature, a rapsar, in your chamber.”
Gray skin, toxic fangs dripping, claws extended to kill…Had that been him? The memories flooded back murky and indistinct.
“Where is my father?”
“In the Command Lair.”
“Is it the kz’zeerkti? I don’t hear the lasers.” Was it sabotage? A monkey attack was far from the worst possibility. What was that thing that attacked me?
“They haven’t fired. I don’t know why.”
Pouncer rolled out of the sleepfield and stood. Immediately the world spun around and he nearly fell. Chief Medical Officer grabbed his arm to steady him and guided him back onto the sleepfield.
“Your body has been cleansed of the neurotoxin but you’re still injured. You need rest.”
Pouncer shook himself and struggled to stand again. “This is my father’s Citadel, and mine. I’m going to defend it.”
“Sire, there’s nothing you can do…”
“I can carry a beamer. I can hold a position.”
“Sire…”
Pouncer silenced him with a gesture, gathered his concentration and staggered out of the infirmary
. He paused in the hallway, leaning against the wall and breathing heavily while his vision cleared. The wounds in his shoulders had been force-healed, but the new flesh still throbbed painfully. His first thought was to join his father in the Command Lair, but he paused. There was nothing useful he could add to the direction Rrit-Conserver and his father were giving the defenders. No, better to find Guardmaster and help him lead the close defense where the Heroes of the zitalyi could see him. He was not the warrior his father was, not the diplomat, not the strategist, but he could lead from the front.
Weapons first! He headed for the arena. By the time he reached it his head had cleared and his muscles were responding better. The alarms had shut off, but the citadel was eerily deserted and he saw only one Pierin slave, its exoskin blue with fear as it scuttled to cower beneath a stairwell. Once there it contracted into a ball, its skin roughening as its chromatophores turned gray to match the shadows it hid in. Slaves lacked the liver for battle; that was why they were slaves. Distant, heavy booms shook the structure’s foundations, the sonic signature of assault landers, landing at Sea-of-Stars spaceport from the direction. There were no other sounds of battle. Why weren’t the defense weapons firing? The arena was empty, but the weapons cabinet recognized him and opened. He grabbed up his mag armor and a beamer, headed for the Patriarch’s Gate, putting it on as he ran.
The gate was open, the courtyard vacant. Outside twice-eight-cubed Heroes in Rrit colors were standing in massed rank and column as though on parade. That made no sense. Why weren’t the perimeter weapons manned? He arrived panting, found Myowr-Guardmaster marshaling the zitalyi with frantic energy.
“Guardmaster! What is happening?”
His mentor turned as he came up, eyes widening. “Sire! No!”
“What is it?”
“Drop your beamer! It’s skalazaal!”
“What?”
“Tzaatz Pride has declared skalazaal. You must use your own strength.”
As Guardmaster said it, Pouncer realized that the zitalyi were carrying variable swords only. That explained the close-ranked formation, the empty guardposts, the lack of defensive fire. Cursing, he threw the heavy beamer to the ground. He had not thought to bring a variable sword.
“Sire, take this.” Guardmaster tossed him his wtsai. It was a casual enough gesture, nothing more than practical in face of imminent battle, but Pouncer did not miss the significance of the act. A wtsai came with the earning of a name. That Guardmaster had chosen to give it to him now…
“I am honored, Myowr-Guardmaster, but I have not earned…”
“You will earn it today.” Guardmaster’s snarl was grim.
A meteor streaked toward him, brilliant even in the daytime sky. Seconds later another followed it, simultaneous with the crack of the first one’s sonic boom. In seconds the sky was full of flashes, and Pouncer stopped to watch the display. A flurry of drop troops fell out of the sky opposite the gate, scorched reentry bubbles cracking open as they touched down. They scrambled to secure a perimeter, and moments later an assault lander came in under maximum deceleration, still moving fast enough that its heavy skids dug long grooves in the soil. Its assault ramp blew down even as another came down beside it.
An arrow soared toward the attackers from the battlements behind them, falling far short. A few others followed.
“Hold your fire!” Myowr-Guardmaster’s shout was harsh. “Wait till they close.”
Pouncer grabbed his arm and pointed. “What in the name of the Fanged God is that?”
Something was coming down the lander’s assault ramp, huge and reptilian, ponderously armored, flanked by Tzaatz warriors in mag armor, variable swords held ready. Guardmaster’s eyes widened and his lips curled away from his fangs. “More rapsari, like the thing that attacked you.”
“They violate the traditions!”
“Hunting sherreks are allowed, and trained metzrr, and siege weapons drawn by zitragor.” Guardmaster’s voice was derisive beneath his tension. “Why not these?”
First-Son snorted in disgust. “Tzaatz Pride plays games with its honor before the Great Pride Circle.”
“Tomorrow the Great Pride Circle will sit in judgment on Kchula-Tzaatz. Today…” Guardmaster nodded toward the immense war beast. Its handlers had turned it to face the Citadel. Behind it a second beast was emerging from the assault lander. “…today we fight these.”
“This requires a judgment of the Circle immediately! The battle must be stopped.” Even as he said it Pouncer realized the gulf between what should be and what was.
“The battle will not be stopped, sire, and the way to ensure victory before the Pride-Patriarchs is to be victorious now.” He raised his voice to an angry snarl directed at the waiting zitalyi formation. “Hold your positions! Dress the line on the right! They’ll come to us soon enough.”
As if on cue the beasts began to advance, each one flanked by a phalanx of Tzaatz warriors in battle armor. Smaller rapsari were formed up behind the leaders, each still twice the size of a full-grown kzin.
“By the Fanged God…” A zitalyi beside Pouncer tightened his grip on his variable sword as the enemy formation approached, his voice awed.
“Steady!” Guardmaster snarled the word.
“What are we waiting for?” Pouncer asked.
“We have a surprise for these honorless curs.” Guardmaster’s voice was hushed. “Wait for it…”
The enemy advanced, a solid wall of muscle, armor, and blades. Pouncer could hear the crunch of their footsteps, hear the rapsari snarling.
“Wait for it…” the moment seemed drawn out forever. Pouncer’s claws extended of their own accord as he fought down the urge to scream and leap against the oncoming horde. What was Guardmaster waiting for?
“Nets now!” Guardmaster’s voice cut the air like a knife and the netgunners atop the Citadel battlements fired, filling the air with spin-stabilized monofilament nets to entangle the attackers. The salvo ended and Guardmaster paused for a beat, two beats, to let confusion grow in the attacking ranks. “Archers now!” A storm of arrows followed the nets to kill those too entangled to dodge out of the way. “Skirmishers forward!” He swung his variable sword overhead. From the Citadel’s battlements leapt swarms of lightly armored zitalyi. Their collective scream drowned out the whine of their grav belts; their variable swords glinted as they swept to attack. The advancing Tzaatz ranks were thrown into disarray by the arrow storm, but the Tzaatz had their own archery, insectoid creatures with modified middle legs that cocked and fired the heavy ballistae and repeating crossbows mounted on their backs as fast as their kzinti handlers could feed the arrows into them. A counter-fusillade rose up against the leapers. Immediately behind it Tzaatz grav skirmishers leapt to intercept. The skirmishers were difficult targets in midair, and most of the missiles went wide or glanced off mag-reinforced crystal iron armor, but some struck home and not all the zitalyi were alive when the Tzaatz warriors ran into them in midair. There were screams of rage and agony, and the clash of metal on metal. Bodies and body parts fell from the flurry, but the zitalyi had leapt from a height and had the momentum advantage. The huge rapsari snapped at the closest ones as they landed. The skirmishers’ casualties were heavy, but those who survived to land destroyed the cohesion of the attacker’s front line in their attack.
“Zitalyi! In battle line, advance!” The Patriarch’s guard stepped off as one at Guardmaster’s command, and Pouncer felt a thrill run through him at the sight of the disciplined ranks moving to battle.
“Now we have them!” There was grim satisfaction in Guardmaster’s voice. “First-Son, stay by my side.”
“As you command, Guardmaster.” Pouncer tightened his grip on his wtsai.
Ahead of them the first wave of zitalyi closed with the disordered Tzaatz at a steady lope. Guardmaster moved between the first and second waves, and Pouncer went with him. The close-ranked formation they were using was a ceremonial anachronism for a race that had practiced space warfare for more
generations than could be remembered. A unit trained to use the accurate, lethal, and long-range weapons gifted by technology would have been hopelessly disorganized in the situation, but the Patriarch’s Guard were as well drilled in close combat and close-order maneuver as they were in more advanced forms of force application. Pouncer had long thought the hopelessly obsolete parade-ground evolutions the zitalyi practiced a complete waste of time and effort in an age of conversion weapons. Now he realized the true worth of such training, and his liver thrilled as he watched his warriors move as a single body with a single purpose. Sunlight flashed from their mag armor as snarled commands shot back and forth. Ahead of them the Tzaatz officers tried desperately to reorient their shattered formations to receive the attack, but the surviving Rrit skirmishers were still fighting hard. As Pouncer watched, one of them leapt for a leashed trio of small, vicious rapsari. He dodged past their snapping jaws to slice at their handler and all five went down in a snarling pile of tangled limbs, adding to the confusion in the enemy ranks.
“First wave, Charge!” Guardmaster roared the words. The leading zitalyi leapt as one, their combined kill scream echoing from the Citadel walls and drowning out the sounds of battle. Eight-cubed warriors hit the Tzaatz battle line at once, carving their way forward with remorseless efficiency. Scream-snarls and the scent of blood filled the air, and Pouncer found himself thirsting for the kill. He became so caught up in the drama unfolding before him that he almost didn’t notice the Tzaatz grav skirmisher who had leapt the struggling front ranks and touched down in front of him, variable sword raised for the killing stroke. The slicewire came down and Pouncer parried instinctively with his wtsai, only to see it cut in half by the molecular-thin, magnetically stiffened blade. His instincts still saved his life, deflecting the stroke enough that the slicewire glanced off the mag armor on his shoulder instead of penetrating the articulation at his neck. He dropped to the ground and lashed out with a spin kick, connecting with his opponent’s elbow. The variable sword went flying and his opponent spun helplessly, robbed of purchase by his still-activated grav belt. Pouncer rolled to his feet and followed up his advantage with a scream and a g’rrtz high kick. The Tzaatz warrior’s head snapped back and lolled, and his body sagged limply, held up only by its grav belt.