Paul of Dune

Young Paul Atreides

10,187 AG

1

When he and Duncan rejoined the Atreides troops on Ecaz before the combined force departed for Grumman, Paul proudly wore a new Atreides uniform. After surviving in the wilds of Caladan, the young man took care to present himself properly to his father, without looking like a popinjay or a cadet who had never felt dirt under his fingernails. Paul had noticed that none of the veterans, such as Duncan and Gurney, looked overly polished. They had a hardened, professional appearance, and their weapons were worn from use and frequent cleaning. Not gaudy, but perfectly serviceable.

He and Duncan went to the landing field outside the Ecazi Palace, where the Atreides and Ecazi armies prepared for their primary strike against Hundro Moritani. This combined fighting force would be more than enough to crush the Grumman leader and avenge those who had been killed by the Viscount’s ruthless schemes.

Paul and Duncan found Duke Leto standing in the shadow of the Atreides private frigate. The young man couldn’t wait to tell him what he had been through. He wondered if the Duke would shed a tear upon learning of his mother’s death….

Leto surveyed his troops from the base of the embarkation ramp. In an instant, Paul noted the extra shadows around his father’s eyes. The scars on the nobleman’s heart had never healed from the deaths of Victor and Kailea, and the tragedy of his friend Rhombur. The murder of Ilesa had opened fresh wounds and, studying his father now, Paul saw a new haunted look. Duke Leto had been through his own ordeal here on Ecaz.

He embraced Paul, but seemed hesitant to show his relief and joy. He smiled at the Swordmaster. “Duncan, you’ve kept my son safe.”

“As you commanded, my Lord.”

As the clamor of activity continued around them, with soldiers checking weapons and hustling aboard frigates, following their sub-commanders, Paul and Duncan told their stories. In turn Leto told them how he had killed Prad Vidal by his own hand. He seemed to take no pride in it. “That is what a War of Assassins is all about, Paul. Only the correct combatants face death, not innocents.”

Armand Ecaz came to them, accompanied by two gray-suited Guild legates, a male and a female, though both looked remarkably sexless. “Leto, we have formalities to attend to.” The Archduke kept his empty sleeve pinned to his side, like a badge of honor; by now he had recovered enough that he could complete his duties without being slowed by the handicap. “Forms and agreements.”

“Yes, we follow all the rules,” Leto said bitterly. “The prescribed niceties of civilization.”

The Guild legates peered through droopy eyelids, and when they spoke they were entirely passionless, as if only husks of their bodies remained. “The forms must be obeyed,” the female legate said with emphasis.

“And we have obeyed the forms,” Leto replied, somewhat curtly. Paul knew he was anxious to dispatch the frigates to the Heighliner and head off to Grumman. He looked up at Gurney Halleck, who scowled at the bureaucrats from the entry hatchway. When Paul caught his friend’s gaze, the lumpy face transformed to a smile.

“All necessary documents have been filed with the Landsraad, and copies sent to Spacing Guild headquarters on Junction,” said Archduke Armand. “This is a proper, legally sanctioned military action.”

Leto added, “Thufir Hawat presented our case before the Emperor, and an Ecazi ambassador has done the same. Shaddam IV publicly censured Viscount Moritani, so he has implicitly accepted our grievance.”

Gurney spoke up, “‘Once God casts His game piece, it is best to stay out of the way.’” Paul had never heard the quote before, and wondered if Gurney had made it up. “And now, by the grace of God and under the shield of vendetta, we intend to hit the Grummans hard.” Gurney’s words carried an unspoken dare, as if provoking the Guild legates to try and stop them.

The strangely identical representatives simply bowed and took a step backward. “It is so. You may bring this battle to House Moritani, though the Emperor himself reserves the right to intervene, if he so chooses.”

“Intervene?” Leto asked. “Or interfere?”

Neither legate answered the question. “You have permission to load your military forces aboard the Heighliner.” They departed swiftly.

Archduke Armand snapped orders for his troops to board the frigates in an orderly fashion. Gurney hustled about, keeping the operation in order, shouting even louder than the warming spacecraft engines.

Duncan, though, remained beside the Duke, looking saddened, even shamed. He unwrapped a bundle he carried under his arm and presented the worn hilt and discolored, damaged blade of the Old Duke’s sword. “My Lord, this was your father’s weapon. You told me to carry it with honor and use it to defend House Atreides. I have done so, but I am afraid that —” He could not speak further.

Paul said, “Duncan used it to save me, many times over.”

Leto looked at the famous sword that Paulus Atreides had used for his popular spectacles on Caladan and his legendary battles during the Ecazi Revolt fighting alongside Rhombur’s father. Duncan had carried the proud blade for years, fought with it, trained Paul against it.

Duke Leto’s chuckle was a startling contrast to Duncan’s glum demeanor. “That weapon has more than served its purpose, Duncan. It shall be retired with honor when we get back to Castle Caladan. For now, I need your fighting arm and a sharp blade in your hand. You are a Swordmaster of Ginaz, in service to House Atreides. It is high time you had a sword of your own.”

Duncan looked at Paul, smiling uncertainly, then back at Leto. “A fresh new blade before going into battle on Grumman. Yes, my Lord, that would be a fine christening.”

AN ODDLY QUIET Swordmaster Bludd meticulously searched the armory and museum wing of the Archduke’s palace until he found a sword he considered appropriate for Duncan Idaho. He insisted it had to be a masterpiece of metallurgy and craftsmanship that had never been used in battle.

The foppish man carried the gleaming weapon solemnly. As he stepped forward, he flexed the blade and made quick, expert thrusts to each side. “A fitting piece,” Bludd said. “I tested it myself.” He looked teary eyed as he presented it to the Duke, who then turned to Duncan.

“When we return victorious to Caladan, our best metalsmiths will add a hawk sigil to the hilt. But this blade is yours, Duncan. Use it well, and in defense of House Atreides.”

Duncan bowed, then accepted the sword. “My own sweat will be enough to mark it until that time, my Lord. I will use this with honor.”

Leto’s voice took on a stern tone. “And you still have the charge of protecting my son’s life. We are going into a larger battle, and I can’t have you joining the fight with an inferior sword.”

All around, Paul saw military aircraft lifting off from the field — frigates, cargo vessels, fighter craft heading for orbital rendezvous with the Heighliner. Gurney Halleck, who had appeared to watch the brief ceremony, nodded when he saw the new sword.

“I think Gurney should write the ballad of Duncan Idaho someday,” Paul said.

“Duncan’s got to distinguish himself first, young pup. I can’t be writing songs about every average warrior.” Gurney smiled. “Duncan is not, and will never be, average,” Leto answered.

2

Even though the Baron despised being put over a barrel by Viscount Moritani — outright blackmail! — he struggled to find a solution that would still be advantageous to House Harkonnen. As Hundro Moritani had amply demonstrated, he was volatile, violent, unpredictable, and untrustworthy — conditions with which the Baron was familiar, yet now they were turned against him. He hated to waste a division of his own soldiers to fight in this ill-advised engagement on Grumman, a hopeless battle that could not possibly turn out well. Soldiers were expendable, of course, but they weren’t cheap.

The Viscount’s strategy was foolish, heavy-handed, and provocative, and Baron Harkonnen had been happy to grant the man as much rope as he wished, so long as he hung himself with it. Now, though, Moritani was forcing the Baron to participate in this folly, and to send his heir apparent into the jaws of the conflict.

Glossu Rabban was the eldest son of the Baron’s softhearted brother Abulurd. Since Rabban was older than Feyd, and since those two were the only direct heirs to House Harkonnen, the Baron had no choice but to name one of them his successor. Rabban fully expected to be the na-Baron, but Feyd seemed far more competent and intelligent, more worthy of the responsibility the role required.

The two brothers had a rivalry, potentially a murderous one, and Rabban was certainly capable of killing Feyd in order to assure his title. The Baron had warned him against taking such rash action, but Rabban was often deaf to warnings or common sense.

Perhaps Viscount Moritani’s ultimatum provided a neat solution to the problem. After all, House Harkonnen didn’t really have a choice.

He delayed as long as possible, then summoned Rabban into his private chambers. The Baron had removed his suspensor belt and reclined in a reinforced, overstuffed chair. Rabban marched into the room, looking as though he expected to be reprimanded for making another poor decision.

“I have good news for you, my dear nephew.” Smiling, the Baron lifted a decanter of Kirana brandy and poured a glass for himself and one for the burly, younger man. “Here, a toast. Come now, it’s not poisoned.”

Rabban looked confused, suspicious. Nevertheless he sipped the brandy, then gulped more.

“I’m making you commander of a full division of Harkonnen troops. You will be going to Grumman where you’ll help fight beside our ally, Viscount Moritani.”

Rabban grinned like a fool. “A full division on the battlefields of Grumman, Uncle? Against the Atreides?”

“Yes, you will fight the Atreides.” The Baron relished the idea almost as much as he relished the taste of his own brandy. “House Harkonnen’s involvement must be kept entirely secret, or there will be major repercussions. I saw the Emperor during the censure hearing in the Landsraad Hall. He would not be pleased to learn we are secretly aiding House Moritani. You will wear a Grumman uniform, as will all of our soldiers.”

“I will not disappoint you, Uncle.”

The Baron struggled to keep his expression unreadable. I have no expectations of you whatsoever, so I cannot be disappointed.

He sipped his brandy and smiled. For insurance, he was putting subordinate officers in place to watch his nephew and make sure he didn’t make a big mistake. Rabban, who had already drained his glass, seemed disheartened when the Baron didn’t refill it for him.

“Now, go. The troops already have their orders. You must depart immediately so that you reach Grumman before our enemies arrive. If you get there too late, there will be no one left for you to fight.”

ON THE DRY hills outside Ritka, Beast Rabban lifted his chin, drew a deep breath of the bitter-smelling air, and watched with pride as his Harkonnen soldiers marched in formation to the edge of the dry seabed. All of the troops wore the yellow uniforms of House Moritani, with padded shoulders and metallic armbands. Observing them, Rabban thought that his disguised division moved with great precision, while the Grumman counterparts seemed more like an unruly band of barbarians. But at least they were muscular, hardened by their squalid lives, and determined to fight.

Once the enemies arrived, the local terrain would determine the initial layout of the battle. Nestled into the crook of rugged foothills, the city of Ritka was defensible from the rear and sides. Shields around the fortress would protect it from aerial bombardment and projectile fire, but infantry could still pass through the shields. The dry seabed stretched out in front of Ritka, where centuries ago ships had come to port. Now it was an open expanse, the only way that opposing armies could approach en masse. Atreides and Ecazi war frigates could land on the far side of the rocky pan, out of range of Ritka’s guns. From there, the armies would emerge and make a frontal attack.

The Grumman leader, with his shaggy hair and overly bright eyes, sat astride his huge black stallion, caparisoned in spiny armor. His redheaded Swordmaster Resser rode another mount beside him. Moritani grunted appreciatively as the massed Harkonnen troops flowed into the ranks of his own soldiers. “Baron Harkonnen has met the obligations of our alliance. Our enemies will soon come, and this clash will be remembered for centuries.” He gazed wistfully out on the open plain, as if imagining the glorious battle to come. “I have no doubt the Emperor will arrive to intervene as well. Shaddam cannot resist a chance to prove his manhood.”

“I have no need to prove my own,” Rabban said, with a sneer.

“Boasting of your bravery and demonstrating it are two different things,” Resser chided coolly. “We are counting on you to lead your Harkonnen troops and hold back the invasion as long as you can. We expect to face overwhelming numbers.”

“I won’t merely hold them back, I intend to defeat them utterly,” Rabban said.

“You may try,” the Viscount said wryly. He reached out a hand as a soldier handed him a thick helmet topped with a brush of black feathers. The Moritani leader placed the helmet upon Rabban’s head and moved his steed back a step. “You are my Warlord now.”

The helmet felt heavy, and Rabban was sure he must look magnificent.

“Brom, come here!” Moritani shouted. A bearded, broad-shouldered warrior nearly as tall as the Viscount’s towering mount came forward. “Brom is your lieutenant, Rabban. He and his troops will follow your commands in battle. You are responsible for them. You are the heart that beats red blood into their veins.”

The Grumman officer looked disturbed and resentful at the choice of Rabban as commander, but when the Viscount glared at him, Brom stepped back, his expression unreadable.

“I have great plans, Rabban, and you are a key part of them. I give you a horse and a command,” Moritani said. “My Swordmaster will stay with me inside the fortress, protected by house shields. You will have the honor of being out front, but you must lead according to my orders.”

“As long as I can be in the thick of the fighting against the Atreides.” Rabban could hardly wait for the opposing armies to appear.

3

“This has gone on quite long enough,” Shaddam said, looking at the latest reports. “I have been generous, benevolent, and forgiving. I don’t care what kind of bribes Viscount Moritani has paid to the Lion Throne — I will not continue to be insulted.”

At his side on the spacious private terrace, regarding the lavish expanse of the capital city on Kaitain, Hasimir Fenring bobbed his head. “Hmmm, Sire, I was wondering when you would reach your limit. And what, aahh, will you do about it? How do you propose to respond to this flagrant defiance by the Grummans?”

Shaddam had shooed away his concubines and spent many hours in his private quarters. Lately, he was also beginning to lose interest in his new wife, Firenza, which was a decidedly bad sign, certainly for her. Instead, the Emperor preferred to survey the metropolis from this balcony. While the city itself was only the tiniest fraction of all the worlds and peoples he ruled, the impressive view helped remind him of his importance. It was good for an Emperor to shore up his confidence when he was about to take drastic but necessary action.

“The Imperium operates within a safety net of rules and laws. Any person who tries to sever the strands of our safety net endangers us all.” Shaddam smiled to himself. He liked that. The words had been spontaneous, but eloquent; he would have to use them in a proclamation someday. “Years ago, we stationed Sardaukar on Grumman to keep that Moritani madman in line, but as soon as the troops left, he returned to his old antics. Obviously the Viscount does not fear my military as much as he should.”

“More importantly, Sire, he does not fear you as much as he should.”

Shaddam turned abruptly to his friend. Fenring’s assessment was entirely correct. He scowled. “Then we must do something about him, Hasimir. I will take as many Sardaukar as I can load aboard our frigates and go personally to Grumman. This time I will bring my camp and my supporters, and we will occupy the Viscount’s planet. I will strip him of his titles and find someone else to take over the siridar fief of House Moritani.”

Fenring pursed his lips, tapped his fingers on the burnished gold balustrade. “Hmmm, it may be difficult to find someone who even wants Grumman. The planet is all used up. Even the Moritanis have been trying to unencumber themselves for some time.”

“Then we shall assign it to someone we don’t like! Either way, I want House Moritani out of there — and I mean to do it personally. I must show the Landsraad that the Emperor pays attention to any slight against his good name.”

Fenring did not seem quite as overjoyed or enthusiastic as Shaddam thought he should be. The sounds and smells of the nighttime city wafted about the men in a rich and heady stew. “Have you considered, aaahh, Sire, that this may be exactly what the Viscount wants? He has been baiting you, pushing you, as though hoping you would go there in person, rather than let someone else dirty their hands on your behalf.”

Shaddam sniffed. “For something so important, I would not delegate the responsibility — even to you, my trusted friend. Once we land with all the might of my Imperium, Viscount Moritani will abase himself before me to beg my forgiveness.”

Fenring suddenly showed interest in sparkling holographic flames that erupted as an illusionary torch from a tower, so that Shaddam couldn’t see the expression on his face when he said, “Aaahh, perhaps you expect a little too much.”

“That is not possible. I am Emperor.”

Despite the Count’s lackluster reaction, Shaddam felt good about what he had decided to do. This would not be a mere military campaign, but an awe-inspiring event, a genuine spectacle with all the pomp and glory that House Corrino could provide. This would teach Viscount Hundro Moritani — and all the Houses of the Landsraad — a valuable lesson in obedience.

4

Leading the military forces against House Moritani reminded Duke Leto of words his father had spoken when Leto was barely seven. The law is not a ball of twine, to be picked at and unraveled until there is nothing left of it.

At the time, he had not understood what Paulus meant, but the imagery had remained with him. Gradually, Leto learned the distinction between truly noble houses and those that relied on situational ethics and conditional morality. For House Atreides, the law of the Imperium truly meant something. For others, it did not. House Moritani fell into the latter category.

Now, from where he stood beside his son on the command bridge of the flagship, Leto gazed out on a morning sky thick with dropships crowded with Atreides and Ecazi soldiers, ground cannons, and other long-range armaments, while small hawkships darted through the air on surveillance assignments for the joint strike force.

Ritka was an unadorned, fortified city on the edge of a long-dry sea, butted up against rugged foothills. “Not much worth fighting for here,” Duncan observed.

“We are not here to conquer for profit, but to avenge,” Leto said.

“Look, he cowers behind house shields!” Archduke Ecaz transmitted from his command craft. “I expected no better from him.”

Leto could see that Ritka was covered by massive protective barriers, shimmering force fields that made the fortress keep impervious to projectile fire and aerial bombardment. “He is forcing us to make a conventional ground assault, with our soldiers using personal shields. Hand-to-hand combat, on a big scale.”

“Good old-fashioned bloodshed,” Gurney said. “If that’s what he wants, then we’ll give it to him.”

Paul studied the terrain, thinking of his tactical studies with Thufir Hawat. “The dry seabed gives us a huge staging area to land all our ships, deploy our vehicles and equipment, and organize our troops in tanks.”

Several divisions of Grumman warriors had formed a line on the shore of the seabed near Ritka, where they intended to face off against their enemies. Most were on foot but others sat astride muscular warhorses — House Moritani’s famed stallions. “They’ve selected the battlefield,” Leto said. “It appears they want plenty of elbow room. Good — that works better for us, too.”

“This is too easy,” Duncan warned. He and Gurney sat at illuminated instrument consoles, poring over preliminary scout surveys. “Too obvious.”

“It could be a trick to lure us closer, but Viscount Moritani is not a subtle man,” Leto said. “Get on a secure line and remind the officers and pilots to be extremely cautious.” He turned to where Paul was eagerly studying details on the projection screen. “Your first war, Paul. Many lessons for you to learn here, no matter what happens. I hope you can pick up something vital. There are rules of conduct, conventions of war.”

As if he had heard his father’s previous thoughts, Paul murmured, “The law is not a ball of twine.”

Leto smiled, always amazed at the boy’s intuitive mind, especially now, under pressure. Despite the dangers they were likely to face, the Duke knew he had done the right thing in permitting his son to accompany him into battle. Sometimes it was best to learn under fire. He knew he might not always be there to guide Paul, just as his own father’s death had thrust Leto into a position of responsibility long before he was ready. Grumman would be a proving ground, and the boy would become a fine and honorable Duke himself someday.

Once it was formally declared, a War of Assassins placed distinct legal limitations on the materiel and methods that the combatants could employ. Ultimately, the battle would boil down to hand-to-hand combat, supposedly among champions — with few casualties among innocent noncombatants. But House Moritani had already broken so many rules that Leto could not rely on the Viscount to abide by any accepted conventions in the impending combat. Even the Padishah Emperor would not be able to turn a blind eye to such flouting of Imperial law.

Duke Leto watched another flight of dropships setting down on the ground at the far shore of the dry seabed, disgorging soldiers and armaments. He placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Watch closely, Paul. We could have an unfair advantage here, but we will use no tactics that our honorable ancestors would not have condoned.”

“Even if the Viscount uses them first?” Paul asked.

“We follow our own standards — not anyone else’s.”

Paul continued to stare at the preparations and disembarkation. “In that case, although the Atreides and Ecazi forces appear to have military superiority, we’ll effectively be fighting under a handicap.”

“A code of ethics is never a handicap,” Leto said. He turned to Duncan. “Put me on the main channel. It’s time to start this.”

A shimmering bubble appeared in front of Leto, and he spoke into it, transmitting directly to the Ritka fortress. “Viscount Hundro Moritani, by the rules of kanly and the laws of the Imperium, we demand that you stand down and surrender immediately. We will guarantee you a fair legal forum to insure that true justice is served. Otherwise, your defeat will be swift and sure.”

Static sounded over the open channel, and the image of the Viscount’s Swordmaster, Hiih Resser, appeared, looking pale but determined. Duncan was clearly startled to see Resser, his former friend from the Ginaz School, but he did not interrupt as the other man spoke. “Viscount Moritani rejects your demand and charges you with violating the War of Assassins. You are making an illegal military incursion on a sovereign planet, an action that is expressly prohibited under the Great Convention.”

“You quote such rules to us?” Archduke Ecaz shouted, transmitted from his command craft. “This is no longer a War of Assassins — you have turned it into open warfare.”

As if to emphasize the fact, a volley of Grumman missiles streaked out of launchers embedded just outside the shimmering shields of the Viscount’s fortress city. Because the landed Atreides and Ecazi war frigates were also shielded, the heavy projectiles skipped harmlessly off the barriers, but a cry of outrage rose from the soldiers lining up in ranks on the battlefield.

Resser’s image had vanished as soon as the missiles were launched. It was more a gesture of defiance than an intent to cause any real damage to the opposing army, but it demonstrated the lengths to which the Grummans would go.

Bristling with anger and indignation, Leto ordered his forces to advance on the fortress city.

5

From his position of safety in the foothills, Rabban watched the impressive and well-coordinated landing of the enemy armies. The sheer number of war frigates astonished him. What an expense! He knew how much it had cost his uncle to send just one division of Harkonnen soldiers to Grumman. House Atreides and House Ecaz must have each spent at least ten times that.

To Rabban, it indicated how outraged Duke Leto and Archduke Armand must be over the wedding-day attack. He couldn’t help but smile. It was too bad that House Harkonnen couldn’t take public credit alongside Viscount Moritani, but he saw his uncle’s wisdom in letting the Grummans accept the blame.

The provocation had certainly worked… though he wished he had a better understanding of Moritani’s plans. Rabban assumed that his uncle understood what the Viscount was truly up to.

Wearing the black-plumed helmet that designated him the Warlord in charge of the defending armies, Rabban sat straight in the saddle, gazing over the battlefield. He flexed his muscles, restless to get into the fight. But he would let the Grumman warriors take the brunt of the first impact. Then he could get down to business himself.

The Ecazi army moved first, leaving the swarms of landed frigates and shielded soldiers to embark on a ground assault across the dry and dusty expanse. The flat plain would define the parameters of the battlefield. Atreides soldiers followed them in a second wave.

Rabban had stationed half of his mounted troops on the rocky shore to stand guard. Behind him and up the slopes, impenetrable house shields enveloped the Viscount’s armed fortress. They were under strict orders to wait, to remain visible as defenders of Ritka, but not to move against the enemy army.

His horse was powerful and restless and continued to shift nervously. He touched the controls on the pommel, sending a jolt to the proper nerve center of the horse’s conditioned brain, forcing it to stand still. He had neither the time nor patience to become accustomed to his mount, so he needed to keep it under control. Nearby, Brom and the other lieutenants sat astride their own trained stallions.

Marching forward in ranks across the seabed, the Ecazi and Atreides soldiers wore body shields. Rabban pressed his thick lips together, contemplating tactics. A single soldier firing a lasgun into one of those shields would create a pseudo-atomic explosion powerful enough to vaporize the entire military force. But Rabban wouldn’t go that far, even if he could find a way to escape the detonation himself. Such tactics would invite far too many questions in the aftermath.

Since the shields on both sides made projectile weapons and explosives useless, as well as aerial attacks, this battle would seem almost medieval: sword against sword, personal combat won by skill and strength. Rabban could already imagine the resounding clamor.

As the front lines of Ecazi troops marched slowly toward Ritka, he grew impatient and clenched his fists. The Viscount had ordered him to wait, specifically forbidding him to send his troops into battle. Until when? No one had told him. Rabban made a disgusted noise. It seemed foolish to ignore such a prime opportunity. Why waste so much time and let them grow closer, unchallenged? “Our troops could engage them out there right now! Is this a battle, or isn’t it?”

Before a command could leave Rabban’s mouth, though, Brom said in a deep warning voice, “Wait for the right moment. Not yet.”

“But this is insanity. What is the right moment? Look at them!”

“The Viscount knows his plan. It is not a warrior’s business to understand his master, but simply to obey and wait for the signal.”

Rabban ground his teeth together, remembering quite clearly that this unpredictable Moritani lord was not his master.

He heard loud horns, shrill whistles, and a startling clamor of metal on metal, even the sharp reports of small explosions. Brom gestured toward the expansive canvas-roofed corrals and stables that held Moritani’s prized Genga stallions. Driven ahead by screaming warriors, the monster horses flowed out of their corrals, hundreds upon hundreds of angry wild beasts armed with spikes and sharp razors. The unleashed stallions swept around the low hills, then surged in a wild, unstoppable mass across the dry plain directly toward the oncoming enemy army. The whooping, goading warriors wheeled away and retreated to the stables, letting the stallions continue their stampede.

Rabban had not expected that at all. He chuckled and looked over at Brom. “Yes, now I’m glad that we waited.”

WHEN THE ATREIDES troops followed the Ecazi army in the forward march, Paul carried his own sword as well as a dagger. He walked between Duncan and Gurney, both of whom seemed to be overprotective. After fighting off the assassin-trackers on Caladan, the young man had insisted upon participating on the battlefield, despite his father’s clear uneasiness.

Leto had said, “If you are to be a Duke someday, Paul, you must learn how to command. Keep your perspective on the whole battle and know your place. You are not a common soldier.”

“But I am not a Duke yet, Father,” Paul had replied. “As you’ve always said, before I have the right to make decisions involving the lives of the men, I must understand what they go through. This fight is more about honor than glory or conquest. Isn’t that what House Atreides is all about?”

Leto had been forced to concede with a thin smile. “If I didn’t believe that, I would never have considered letting you come to Grumman in the first place. All right, but Duncan and Gurney are not to let you out of their sight.”

Paul knew he was as good a fighter as almost any soldier in the House Atreides forces, and the other two men vouched for him. He did not doubt, though, that his father would be monitoring him closely from the command ship.

Now they marched across the virgin battlefield, following in many trampled footsteps and so far to the rear of the shielded troops that Paul doubted he would ever see any direct combat.

Nevertheless, when the raging wall of riderless horses hurtled into the armies like an unexpected sea squall, the resulting confusion and turmoil made it seem as if the battle had turned into a rout.

Waving his sword, Gurney bellowed, “Stand firm!”

Duncan pressed closer to Paul, ready to use his new sword. “This is lunacy — running horses can’t penetrate our shields!”

Paul quickly realized the true objective. “No, but they’re confusing our ranks, breaking our momentum.”

The neatly organized battle lines were suddenly scrambled. Hundreds of stallions, their hooves knifing down, careened into soldiers, knocking them over inside their protective shields. The dust thrown into the air by the thunderous stampede made it impossible to see. Static sparkles outlined the coverage area of Paul’s shield.

“Paul, stay close!” Gurney called over the tumult.

A wild-eyed horse, mottled brown-and-white, reared up before Paul. The boy ducked sideways as the sharp hooves came down and skittered harmlessly off the shield. One of the metal spines of the war horse’s armor managed to slide partly through the barrier, so that Paul had to twist away to avoid being impaled. Next to him, Duncan was trying to hold fast.

More horses crashed against shields, and many soldiers panicked at the sight of the monsters coming at them. They struck out with their blades, slashing at the horses, killing some, wounding others. Maddened by the cuts, the stallions went wild, crashing into each other, inflicting further injuries with their war spikes.

Paul remained crouched, not certain how to fight against such a force. A number of the warhorses actually broke through shields, penetrating the soldiers’ defenses and killing them. Some of the troops shouted for their commanders and tried to stand together, but the well-trained units had been disrupted into a disorganized mass. Few could hear the orders of the commanders over the uproar.

The stampede seemed to last forever, though the maddened horses were not guided; they’d simply been turned loose on the armies of Ecaz and Atreides. Dozens of the stallions were killed before the wall of wild horses passed.

Gurney began yelling at the top of his lungs, trying to impose order. “Atreides, Atreides to me! Form ranks!”

Paul could barely see through the billowing dust the stallions had stirred up on the dry plain. He felt certain that this was not the only trick Viscount Moritani would unleash upon them.

FROM HIS VANTAGE point, Rabban watched the mayhem with smug pleasure plain on his face. The enemy forces were in complete disarray from the hundreds of armored horses that had plowed through their ranks. He knew what to do next. This must be why the Viscount had told him to wait.

Now it was his turn to take charge. “I’m sending forth our armies to attack before they can re-form ranks.”

Brom glared at him. “The Viscount ordered us to wait for his signal.”

“As your Warlord I am in command of this battlefield, and I see an opportunity that the Viscount didn’t plan for.” Snarling, Rabban activated his transmitter and sent his command to the soldiers. “All troops, push forward and strike the enemy. We will never have a better chance.”

“This is not wise, Rabban!” Brom insisted, raising a gloved fist. “We follow the orders of the Viscount.”

“Your Viscount made me Warlord. Obey my instructions, or die at the point of my sword.” He gestured to the chaotic enemy army below. “Isn’t it obvious? Look!”

Reluctantly, the Grumman soldier placed a hand over his own chest armor, and turned his gaze aside.

Barking another command, Rabban ordered two of his Harkonnen officers to join the troops, which they did, galloping off on their stallions. Moments later, the disguised Harkonnen division, as well as the Grumman warriors, raised a howling battle cry and plunged forward onto the dry plain that had once been a shallow inland sea.

The Ecazi troops saw the charge and required no orders to know how to respond. With an answering howl, they raised their weapons to meet the enemy, and rushed forward.

Rabban glanced up at the shielded fortress keep, knowing that Moritani must be watching with interest, most likely applauding Rabban’s snap decision. He guided his uneasy horse down out of the hills toward the edge of the battlefield.

Brom followed. “If you insist on this fight, Warlord, we should participate ourselves — as true commanders.”

“I agree.” The two men, with fifty of the elite Moritani warriors who had been stationed with them, rode toward the edge of the seabed, ready to join the main forces immediately after the initial clash. The bulk of their troops rushed across the plain toward the enemy at full gallop.

Explosions rumbled from beneath the ground. The surface of the seabed began to collapse inward, dropping away like countless trapdoors beneath not only the Ecazi army, but the mounted Grumman soldiers riding toward them. Rabban couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “What the hell is happening?”

An entire section of the plain collapsed, revealing hundreds of underground tunnels and shafts. Rabban knew that House Moritani mined and extracted chemicals and minerals from beneath the ground, but now it seemed that someone had detonated the support walls of the fragile honeycombed shell, causing these particular tunnels to collapse.

In an instant, more than half of the Moritani and Harkonnen soldiers had plunged to their deaths, along with an equal number of the enemy Ecazi, swallowed up by the battlefield itself.

Stunned, Rabban wondered about the explosions. Who could have done that? His mind went blank. Had this entire scenario been a trap, intentionally set by the Viscount to lure the enemy across the battlefield? Suddenly, he saw the logic of it.

Furious that Moritani would keep such vital information from him, he turned to look at Brom, but saw only murderous, accusing hatred on the other warrior’s face. Brom drew his sword.

“What?” Rabban said, pointing out at the collapsed battlefield. “Your own Viscount must have done that! To our troops as well as the enemy! He should have warned —”

“The Viscount knew his plan,” Brom said. “He gave you instructions. You disobeyed.”

Rabban backed up his stallion, but Grumman soldiers began closing in around him.

6

The rumble of explosions and the billowing dust took a long time to subside. The screams continued much longer. Making certain that Paul was unharmed, Duncan Idaho struggled to grasp the disaster that had just swallowed the front ranks of the Ecazi-Atreides army. Hundreds of tunnels had collapsed beneath the advancing forces — a primitive trap, but an effective one. Moans and shouts echoed from the rubble, along with whinnies and clatters as the last frenzied stallions crashed about and stampeded away, some of them falling into the yawning pits.

Gurney stood beside Duncan, his face twisted in anger and shock. “That was intentional — like a hunter’s covered pit, with explosives planted so deep our mine sweepers could not detect them.”

“But his own cavalry charged right into the middle of it, too,” Paul said. “I don’t understand — why would the Grummans do that? By rushing out to meet us, they lost as many forces as we did. All those men… all those men…” He stared ashen at the disaster before him. “It’s as though the Viscount’s own commanders didn’t know what was going to happen.”

Out on the field, Ecazi and Atreides officers shouted orders, trying to regroup their surviving fighters into ranks. The allied soldiers gathered their weapons once more and picked their way across the hazardous ground. They were angry now, and their murmur rapidly built to an uproar.

Duke Leto’s hovering command vehicle rushed to the edge of the battlefield, and Duncan went to meet him, keeping Paul close by his side. “Your son is safe, my Lord,” he shouted over the roar of the engines. “He is here with us.”

Leto opened the hatch of the suspensor-hovering craft. The tone of his voice allowed no argument. “Paul, come aboard with me. Now.”

The young man let himself be pulled up into the hovering command vehicle. Obviously, he’d had enough of the battlefield.

As the dusty air cleared, Gurney stared transfixed at the far side of the dry seabed, where the commander of the Grumman forces, wearing a gaudy black-plumed helmet, sat astride a tall stallion not far from the shielded fortress city. The warlord had been giving the orders earlier, rushing along at the rear of the abortive charge that had been swallowed up in the collapsing seabed.

Gurney saw him up on the hillside now, with other soldiers around him. “My Lord, if Duncan and I were to take a pair of fast scout cycles, we could intercept their commander and take him prisoner. That might break the Grumman resistance.”

Duncan added, “He seems to have lost half of his troops already.”

With a firm and protective hand on his son’s shoulder, Duke Leto frowned. “Even if you succeed, I don’t think the Viscount places any value on hostages.”

But Gurney grinned fiercely. “After what just happened, it’ll be good for our morale, and it might well finish this ground assault in one bold step. Then Viscount Moritani will have to come out and command the troops himself instead of hiding in his fortress.”

Duncan raised his new sword. “I agree with Gurney.”

“You two are my best fighters.” Leto drew a deep breath. “Go and show that Grumman commander the meaning of Atreides vengeance.” The Duke summoned two fast scout cycles for the race across the plain.

Duncan nodded appreciatively at the sleek vehicles. “That warlord is only on horseback. We’ll catch up to him in no time.” He smiled at Gurney. “My new sword is thirsty for blood.”

THE ANGRY GRUMMAN WARRIORS closed in around Rabban. Five of the unmounted, well-muscled men held sharpened blades. Brom, astride his stallion, glowered at Rabban. “It is the way of the warrior. The blood of an army is the blood of its commander.”

Rabban neither understood nor cared about Grumman philosophy, despite his personal interest in violence. “Find out how many of our soldiers survived,” he shouted, trying to salvage his command. “Brom, rally the remaining fighters, and we will make a stand! The Viscount has other weapons he can use, if he ever decides to support us.”

The Grummans moved closer, appeared to be on the verge of pouncing. “This battle is already lost,” Brom said. “We will make a stand, but your head will be on a pike to watch us. Maybe your ugly face will frighten the enemy.”

Rabban’s stallion shifted again, backing away.

“The blood of an army is the blood of its commander,” repeated another Grumman warrior, advancing with his blade.

“You can’t kill me! I am the heir to House Harkonnen!”

“You are a failure.” Brom raised his sword. “And you have led us to failure.”

Rabban activated his body shield just in time to deflect the slashing blow. As the other warriors plunged toward him, he wheeled his stallion about, desperately slapping at the behavioral controls. The animal bolted. Brom pursued hotly, while the other Grumman warriors ran howling after them.

Rabban fled, knowing he was out of his element. With the attached controls, he commanded the armored stallion to take him up the steep hillside and around the fortified city, along a trail that wound through stunted evergreen trees that offered little cover.

He had intended to prove himself to his uncle in this War of Assassins, had hoped to return to Giedi Prime as a conquering general. Now he’d be lucky to make it back at all. He didn’t know if he would rather face the wrath of the Baron, or death on this faraway world.

The stallion galloped up the rugged slope with surprising grace and smoothness. Rabban felt the animal’s powerful muscles pulling beneath him, and despite the incline, the horse didn’t seem to tire. At a fork in the trail, the Genga darted to the right into a grove of taller trees that offered slightly better shelter. The horse forded a narrow stream and kept climbing.

Rabban headed up into the rocks, following a narrow valley in the parched hills, through which a stream ran. He found a game trail and followed it; other wild horses must have come down to this water to drink. He was panting hard himself, though the horse did all the work, gaining higher ground where more tangled trees covered the hilltops. The farther up he went toward the headwaters, other streams converged, making a rough white torrent that cut a deep gorge.

Rabban’s body ached so much he could barely sit in the saddle, and the rough terrain wasn’t helping. Brom was behind him somewhere and had surely summoned other Grummans to continue the pursuit. The stallion struggled past trails that branched off into side canyons. Rabban looked back, expecting angry Grumman warriors to be on his heels.

By the time he heard the humming of the enemy scout cycles, it was too late to hide.

Two men in Atreides uniforms streaked up from the valley, chasing him with cycles that skimmed over the ground, barely touching it. Rabban spun and lurched back, grabbing onto the saddle’s pommel. His fingers fumbled for the neural control buttons, but the horse was already planning its escape. The stallion reared. Unable to maintain his hold, Rabban tumbled from the horse’s back, landed hard on the rocky path and rolled partway down the hill. The animal bolted, and within seconds Rabban found himself alone.

With jet-bursts the Atreides scout cycles went airborne over the widening canyon, then headed toward him.

“BY THE SEVEN Hells, that looks like Beast Rabban!” Gurney shouted. In the slave pits, Rabban had humiliated Gurney, scarred him for life, killed his sister. “Can it possibly be him?”

Hunched over his cycle controls, Duncan had seen the same thing. As a little boy, he’d had his own experience with the man, surviving Rabban’s staged hunts through the catacombs of Barony and in the dangerous wilderness of Forest Guard Station. “It is Rabban.” Duncan shunted aside the myriad questions that sprang to mind, such as why the Baron’s nephew would be here, how much the Harkonnens were involved in this War of Assassins. His only interest right now was in capturing the man. “And now the tables are turned — we’re hunting him!”

After his tumble from the horse, Rabban had regained his feet, and was running as fast as his burly legs could carry him up the long hillside. He was heading toward the shelter of rock outcroppings that stood above the fast-flowing cascade. No doubt, Rabban intended to hide like a rat.

Side by side, Duncan and Gurney raced their scout vehicles up the slope, skimming over the land. On a flat, rough patch of stone, they set down their cycles and proceeded on foot, running. Duncan drew his sword when he saw Rabban’s black-tufted helmet wedged into a crack between the boulders where the man had discarded it. Not far ahead, they could hear him plunging forward, knocking rocks loose, blundering along a ledge.

The pursuers took different paths around the lichen-covered stones, which thrust upward and created many barriers, like a labyrinth. Duncan thought he smelled fear in the air. He licked his dry lips, tasting the faintly alkaline dust of Grumman. Earlier, he had been engrossed in the main battle, shocked by the sudden turnabout with the Viscount’s appalling tactics on the dry seabed. Now he could only concentrate upon the memories of his childhood: the terror and rage he had felt at being chased by Rabban and his fellow hunters. He had barely survived by outsmarting Rabban and escaping… but in the intervening years, how many other victims had this man killed?

Too many.

Duncan put on a burst of speed, knowing that Gurney Halleck hated the Harkonnen brute as much as he did. Though they were friends, Duncan did not want to surrender the satisfaction of the kill, even to his bosom friend.

The outcroppings of stone channeled Rabban’s flight into particular directions, and as he ran, he would have chosen the easiest route. Every time Duncan rounded a towering pinnacle, he expected to see his enemy there, waiting to ambush him.

Finally, the path petered out among towering talus boulders. Duncan passed a dead tree, rounded a tall rock, and found an open ledge — a cliff, forty feet above the rushing cascade that raced down the gorge toward the dry plains. Rabban stood at the dead end in dismay, looking over the precipice. He turned toward his pursuer, desperately clutching a fighting knife that seemed to have more jewels than blade, a clumsy ornament rather than a deadly weapon.

Duncan lifted his sword and stepped closer to him, feeling a deadly calm inside. “I would rather run you through, Rabban. But if you choose to stumble and fall off the cliff, that would be satisfactory as well.”

Rabban spat forcefully at him, but the wad of spittle struck to the inside of his personal shield and went no farther, dripping and sparkling against the invisible barrier.

“You don’t even recognize me, do you?” Duncan said, thinking Gurney might have made more of an impression on the so-called Beast. “He’s over here!” Duncan glanced quickly aside as his comrade approached.

While Duncan’s attention was diverted for an instant, Rabban plunged at him with the dagger. “Don’t need to remember you,” the other man grunted. “I can kill you.” Duncan easily parried, and Rabban did not compensate enough for the presence of the shield, so that his dagger was deflected. Duncan was much more proficient at close-in fighting, and his new razor-edged sword slashed along the meat of his opponent’s upper arm, drawing a bright scarlet line of blood.

Rabban growled and swung the dagger again, but it slid ineffectually off Duncan’s blade. Duncan pushed, shield against shield. “Second time I’ve beaten you — and this time I’m not just a child.”

Rabban’s heel slipped off the edge of the cliff, and the close-set eyes flew wide open as he lost his balance. Duncan instinctively reached out to grab the man, but Rabban fell, dropping into the foamy white torrent below.

Gurney shouted, more in disappointment than concern. The two men stood watching as Rabban flailed helplessly in the sweeping water, narrowly missing one of the wet dark boulders, and was swept tumbling down the cold stream. His shield continued to shimmer, protecting him from rocks, but he could still drown.

“Now how are we going to fetch him?” Duncan said in disgust.

“Maybe there’s a big waterfall ahead,” Gurney added. “We can hope.”

They heard angry shouts, more horses coming. Duncan spotted other Grumman warriors approaching up the hillside and converging from a side canyon. “We have to go,” he said.

Gurney nodded. “The Duke needs to know that the Harkonnens are involved here as well.”

“I would rather have Rabban’s head for proof, but our word will be good enough for the Duke.” Duncan looked at the fresh stain on his new sword. “At least I’ve blooded my blade.”

“Wipe the blood on your sleeve. Maybe it can be tested.”

As the Moritani forces came closer, he and Gurney made it back to their scout vehicles and used jet-bursts to fly out over the canyon. As they raced away, they looked for any sign of Rabban’s battered body in the rocks. But to their disappointment, they did not see him.

7

At the edge of the collapsed plain, Duke Leto and Archduke Armand demanded a swift battlefield assessment from suspensorborne scoutcraft. Because the Ecazi troops had been in the forefront of the armies marching across the open seabed, they had suffered the largest losses to the cave-ins, with whole divisions falling into the yawning pits. Forming the rear guard, the Atreides ranks remained mostly intact, and now the Caladan army pushed forward to reinforce the Ecazis, moving onward to Ritka.

The Archduke looked devastated by this additional tragedy, but seemed to take grim satisfaction in realizing that the Moritani losses appeared to be as great as his own. Shouldn’t the Viscount’s cavalry have known better?

Even more astonishing, scout probes showed that the remaining Grumman cavalry and foot soldiers had turned upon their own, slaughtering fighters who wore similar uniforms, yellow against yellow, as if they represented two rival clans or military groups. “I don’t understand it,” Leto said, “but it makes our fight easier.”

From his adjacent command vehicle, Armand sent an angry transmission. “We must move into the chaos, my friend. Both sides have been decimated, but that merely diminishes the scale of the battle, not the reasons. The Viscount has given our soldiers all the more incentive to fight.”

Beside his father, Paul pored over the constantly changing tactical projections and weaponry assessments. Something about the pieces here did not add up. He could not comprehend the true strategy or goal of House Moritani. Something major seemed to be missing. We do not have a vital part of the data. The Viscount is relying on that.

“Something must be hiding in that fortress keep behind the house shields,” Paul said. “There’s got to be more to his plan. It’s the only way Moritani’s actions make sense.”

“I agree, Paul. I don’t believe he has played his entire hand yet.” Duke Leto looked alternately at the instruments and out through a magnification port. “We must be cautious.”

As the combined forces continued to press toward the boundary of Ritka, they followed the more stable shore to avoid the collapsed pits. Scanner scouts mapped the ground ahead, dismantling landmines and other booby traps that slowed their progress. Leto was less surprised to see the desperate measures Hundro Moritani had laid down, than he was troubled that so much of the Viscount’s strategy seemed to be a delaying tactic, not a plan for victory. He knew Paul saw it, too. Did Moritani intend to engage in a war of attrition, rather than a War of Assassins?

Just then, Archduke Armand relayed a report he had received from his front-line squads. “The Grumman forces are retreating to new positions around Ritka, reinforced by troops that were holed up in bunkers there. Their commanders are vowing to fight to the death.”

“It’ll be a bloodbath before we can get through the shields and enter the city.” Leto shook his head in frustration.

Duncan and Gurney returned from their pursuit of the black-helmeted warlord, breathless, dusty, armed with startling news. Leto’s stomach knotted in anger as they described their discovery of Rabban’s involvement. “It’s Harkonnens, my Lord,” Duncan said. “If they did not declare their participation in the War of Assassins, they will face extreme sanctions once this is brought before the Emperor.”

“That’s Rabban’s blood on Duncan’s sleeve,” Gurney said. “Can you have it tested for DNA?”

“Not here, not now,” Leto said. “Later, maybe, but that won’t prove where we got the blood. They can say we faked it, got it somewhere else. But we’ll know.”

Gurney shook his head. “Without proof, the Baron will deny everything. But we saw what we saw.”

As his father’s expression darkened, Paul came to a quick conclusion. “That may be why the Grumman troops are attacking each other — they aren’t all from House Moritani. Some may be Harkonnen soldiers disguised in Moritani uniforms, and for some reason they’ve turned on each other.”

“I have no doubt the lad is right,” Gurney said. “They’re doing our work for us.”

Still apprehensive, Leto watched the Atreides and Ecazi troops rush into their first encounter with the entrenched Moritani survivors outside the Ritka shields. “Victory first. Once we’re done, we’ll have ample time to look for additional evidence of Harkonnens.”

“You sound confident, Father.”

Leto looked at Paul. “I try never to enter a battle unless I am confident of victory.”

SEVEN HOURS HAD passed, and the sun was dropping behind the mountains, painting a palette of color across the dry, rocky hills. Though the entrenched Moritani forces continued to hold their positions around the fortress city, Atreides and Ecazi commando teams on the ground sought weak spots and entrances to Ritka, trying to reach the shield controls and shut the system down.

Then a Heighliner arrived and changed everything.

The gigantic Guildship in orbit over Grumman disgorged a force of hundreds of military frigates, which flew down in full battle formation. The new influx of weaponry and troops would alter the balance of the opposing forces so significantly that the war would be over swiftly.

With a sinking heart, Leto thought he understood why Viscount Moritani had been stalling: He must have known these reinforcements would arrive, and he needed only to hold out until they came. “It’s possible the Harkonnens have decided to show their hand. This may be a full army from Giedi Prime.”

After several urgent transmissions requesting explanations, the Atreides command vehicle finally received a response. When the comline opened, Leto was astonished to see a familiar image in the holo: Prince Rhombur of Ix.

“I thought you might like a little help, Leto, so I brought the full military of House Vernius. Those bastards tried to kill Bronso, too.”

“Rhombur, you are a sight for sore eyes!”

“That’s what Tessia always says. I’m afraid I had to make plenty of concessions to the damned technocrats, but I’m here. I couldn’t afford not to help after what you did for me….”

The Grumman troops reeled when the battle turned entirely against them. Rhombur brought his military frigates down to join the armies of House Atreides and House Ecaz. Archduke Armand had joined Leto by the time the cyborg Prince boarded the hovering Atreides command vehicle. At the entry hatch of the large craft, the two men clasped hands, then strode side by side to the bridge, Rhombur droning in his synthesized voice about new Ixian military technologies that could breach the Moritani house shields. His scarred face formed a grin. “We’ll be in the Viscount’s throne room by breakfast.”

Suddenly a powerful transmission blared out, preempting the chatter on all command frequencies, and a face filled the screens on every command bridge. “This is the Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV. By Imperial decree, I command that all hostilities hereby cease. I am required to take extraordinary action to prevent this War of Assassins from escalating into a full-scale Landsraad conflict.”

The Emperor’s image radiated smug confidence. “I have come personally to accept the surrender of House Moritani. The Viscount has already transmitted his request to present himself to me in person to face my Imperial judgment. It is the only way to avoid further bloodshed.”

Looking through the forward viewing window of his command ship, Leto saw another craft settle down next to Rhombur’s vessels, having trailed the others to the ground. This one bore the scarlet-and-gold markings of House Corrino.

8

When the next morning dawned upon the enforced peace on Grumman, an armada of Corrino warships hung in the gray sky. Guarded by Sardaukar soldiers in imposing dress uniforms, the Padishah Emperor and a delegation of noblemen and Landsraad officials gathered outside the grand entrance of the Ritka stronghold, garbed in their own importance. The huge fortress lay exposed and vulnerable, like a supplicant. Viscount Hundro Moritani had been forced into submission.

During the night, the Grumman defenders had retreated into the fortress city, and the Viscount had willingly shut down his house shields to allow the Corrino dignitaries and the leaders of the opposing armies to enter. Now, the formal group stood before tall wooden doors engraved with the spiny horsehead crests of House Moritani. The forward walls of the ancient fortification, with turrets, ramparts, and bastions, towered high overhead. Yellow banners snapped in a cold breeze.

In the delegation from the offworld armies, Paul stood with his father, along with the one-armed Ecazi Archduke and the cyborg Ixian Prince, waiting for the ornate doors to open. Overnight, they had cleaned themselves and changed out of their battle clothes into dress uniforms that proudly displayed their House crests on the lapels and collars. Armand’s empty sleeve was pinned up by a medal bearing the symbol of House Ecaz.

Paul noted how old and scarred the Ritka fortress looked; over the centuries, it had obviously survived numerous battles. Beneath the crest on each door, carved panels depicted military exploits from the long and checkered history of House Moritani, some of which Paul already knew from his studies. Conspicuously absent, however, were depictions of the modern atrocities the Viscount had committed against Ginaz and Ecaz.

As they waited to enter, Paul realized he had never stood so close to Shaddam IV before. And he had to admit to himself that the Padishah Emperor looked quite majestic and powerful, surrounded by the trappings of his office. Did the man really rule a million worlds, or was that just hyperbole? The Emperor seemed satisfied and eager to wrap up the Moritani “unpleasantness” and make his way back to Kaitain. He and his retainers were obviously vested in the idea that disputes could be resolved through the force of law, but that assumption remained valid only so long as all parties abided by the same rules.

“I don’t think this will end as neat and clean as the Emperor expects,” Gurney said in a low tone. “The Viscount doesn’t finish conflicts by signing a piece of paper.” From what he’d seen so far, Paul could only agree. He had a queasy feeling in his stomach, and saw tension on his father’s face.

Looking around at the waiting party, however, Paul sensed an eagerness on the part of many of the Imperial retainers, minor Landsraad observers, and officials of various committees. They appeared filled with admiration that Shaddam could solve the problem simply through the force of his presence. The Sardaukar remained alert, their puissant rifles at the ready.

With a grating fanfare of strange Grumman horns, the heavy doors swung inward, and men in yellow livery somberly led the visitors into the nobleman’s reception hall. There, Viscount Hundro Moritani stood alone in the middle of the chamber wearing thick layers of furs and fine, colorful cloth. At the far end of the room, his blocky throne remained pointedly empty. His brow was moist with perspiration, and he looked red-eyed, haggard, and edgy.

Shaddam IV strode in, followed by his entourage. He surveyed the room with disdain, frowning at the brutish throne and faded tapestries on the walls. “This place will be adequate for the surrender ceremony and my decrees, but I do not intend to remain here long afterward.”

The Atreides party followed the Emperor into the room, but Duncan’s step faltered when he noticed the redheaded young man who stood at attention beside the defeated Viscount. “Hello, Duncan Idaho,” said Hiih Resser. “Old friend.”

Paul had heard stories of Duncan’s comrade, who had remained on Ginaz even when the other Grumman students were expelled from the Swordmaster school. Because of the lessons his father had taught him so many times, Paul understood the intricacies of honor that could force a man to abide by an oath even when it bound him to a bad man.

“I wish you had joined me at House Atreides,” Duncan said to him. “I’d rather be fighting at your side than against you.”

“It was not a choice I could make,” Resser answered.

“There will be no more fighting,” Shaddam interrupted them peremptorily and seated himself on the Grumman throne to preside over the ceremony. “I have already had the standard documents drawn up.” He motioned for a retainer to hurry forward and hand him a gilt-edged proclamation.

The Viscount seated himself on a chair not far from the throne, beside a squat writing desk. The station seemed designed for a chamberlain or scribe to record documents for Hundro Moritani. Now, the Grumman leader accepted his subordinate place without argument. Resser stood stiffly behind his master.

“I will need to study your terms in detail before agreeing to them,” Moritani said, with a lilting sneer in his voice.

“That will not be necessary.” Shaddam leaned forward. “The terms are non-negotiable.”

Rhombur seemed pleased by the defeated leader’s discomfiture. Standing with the Ixian, Armand Ecaz looked brittle, as if his anger had been the only glue keeping him together; Duke Leto remained carefully wary, absorbing details.

One of the Sardaukar guards presented the Imperial parchment to the Viscount, who placed it on the desk. Paul could sense a strange excitement emanating from the man, a tension that made his movements jerky and frenetic. Behind him, Resser looked nauseated.

The Grumman leader perused the document, then said, “Shall I sign using the name Moritani? Or — since this constitutes yet another instance of Corrinos stripping everything from my family — perhaps I should sign as House Tantor.”

Instead of the dramatic reaction the Viscount appeared to have expected, the Emperor and the rest of the audience responded only with puzzled muttering. “Tantor?” Shaddam asked. “Whatever do you mean?”

The Viscount exposed a concealed control panel in the surface of the small desk and instantly placed his fingers on the illuminated touchpads.

Suspecting treachery, the Sardaukar guards rushed toward him, ready to defend the Emperor. Resser drew his sword and placed himself in front of the Viscount, while Duncan drew his, in return.

“Stop!” the Viscount roared. “Or you will all die in an atomic flash — even before I wish it to happen.”

Shaddam rose from the crude throne. “Atomics? You would not dare.”

Moritani’s eyes flashed. “A Tantor would dare. The Tantors did dare, many centuries ago. When my ancestors were betrayed by Corrinos, backed into a corner and given no choice or chance for survival, they deployed all the atomics of their House and destroyed nearly all life on Salusa Secundus.”

“Tantor?” Shaddam still sounded confused. “Was that their name? No matter. They were hunted down and killed, their bloodline ended and all traces expunged from Imperial history.”

“Not all. Our survivors planted new seeds, and we reemerged, built ourselves up again, and became House Moritani. But now, our world is used up and my son Wolfram is dead — the end of our hopes for the future. We have nothing left, and neither will you, Shaddam Corrino. I knew you would come personally to intervene here.” His hand was frozen over the controls, his fingers touching the activation contacts. “All my family atomics are here in Ritka, most of them placed by my Swordmaster in the catacombs beneath our feet. My fortress keep and all of Ritka will be turned into radioactive dust.” He let out a long sigh that sounded like an exhalation of ecstasy. “I just wanted you to know before the final flash of glory. I have already dispersed records to Landsraad members. From this day forward, history will never forget the name of the House that brought down the Corrinos. Once and for all, it will be done.”

All in the same instant, Shaddam shouted a command, and Sardaukar guards charged forward. But Paul saw that no one could intervene in time.

With his eyes closed and a serene smile on his face, the Viscount activated the touchpads.

9

Paul shouted to his father, trying to make contact one last time, but the incinerating flash did not come. Startled, Moritani stared down at the control panel that had just gone dim.

Duncan did not slow as he charged toward the writing desk, his sword upraised, but Hiih Resser interposed himself between Duncan and the Viscount. Instead of attacking Duncan, however, his former comrade held up his own blade in a gesture of surrender. “No need, Duncan. It’s over.”

Sardaukar collided with the Viscount, throwing him bodily to the floor and roughly dragging him away from the chair and the console. He thrashed and fought, but he was no match for the Emperor’s elite soldiers.

Resser gave up his sword, extending it hilt-first to Duncan, speaking with sadness. “Honor does not know politics, only obedience. He was my noble master, and I swore my loyalty to him. But in this I could see no way to condone his action, so I took matters into my own hands.”

“What did you do?” Duncan asked.

“I placed the atomics around the city, just as the Viscount ordered. I knew what he intended to do. But I could not allow him to trigger the warheads in the spectacular holocaust he planned. It would have been an unforgivable crime against the Emperor, the people of Grumman, and all of you, whom he has already wronged so greatly.” He took a long breath, and his agitated expression relaxed slightly. “So I disabled the linkages.”

Moritani screamed at him. “You betrayed me! You broke your blood oath!”

Resser turned to the Viscount. “No, my Lord. I swore to follow your commands, and more importantly I swore to protect you. I planted the atomics, just as you ordered. Then, by preventing you from killing yourself, all of these nobles, and the Emperor himself, I saved your life and many more. My honor is intact.”

“HEAR YE ALL,” announced the Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV in a ponderous voice. “Heed our decision and our Imperial command.”

Having moved his court back to his flagship, he sat now in his decadent jeweled robes on a portable simulacrum of the Lion Throne. His somber gaze swept the gathered nobles, the prisoners, and the observers inside the metal-walled chamber. Shaddam sounded greatly important, as though the Grumman victory was solely his doing.

Feeling out of place, Paul stood beside his father, along with Duncan, Gurney, Archduke Armand, and Prince Rhombur, still in their formal attire.

Viscount Moritani, on the other hand, wore rumpled fur-lined robes, his hair disheveled, his eyes bloodshot, looking both wild and cunning. The man made Paul uneasy simply to look at him. Though he was a nobleman, Hundro Moritani was carried into the Emperor’s presence by Sardaukar, restrained in a stiff-backed metal chair that contrasted sharply with the flamboyant throne on which the Emperor sat. Moritani’s arms were bound at the wrists by shigawire and his legs fastened to the chair. Putting a nobleman in restraints was unheard of, but the Sardaukar chief of security had insisted on it.

House Atreides had a legitimate blood-grudge against the Viscount, as did Archduke Ecaz, but Paul was sure that Shaddam would give his own vengeance precedence. The remnants of the renegade House Tantor? How many people had suffered from this madman’s hatred over an event that had occurred thousands of years earlier? How could anyone seek revenge after so long? Then again, the Atreides and the Harkonnens had hated each other for so many millennia that the reasons for their breach were almost lost in the distant blur of history.

Finally, looking weary yet oddly at peace, Hiih Resser stood by himself, like an island in the crowd. Shortly before the Emperor’s meeting here, in a poignant gesture Resser had asked Duncan to give him his fighting knife; Duncan had offered it to him reluctantly. “You aren’t going to do anything foolish, are you?”

The redheaded Swordmaster had hesitated for a long moment, then shook his head. “Not what you think, Duncan.” Using the sharp point, he sliced the threads of the horsehead insignia patch on his collar, cut it free, and threw it to the floor. He then excised the rank marks from his shoulders and sleeves.

Now, seeing what his Swordmaster had done, the bound Viscount Moritani spat on the floor.

Commanding the attention of all inside the royal chamber of his flagship, the Emperor extended his jeweled staff of office and struck it on the deck with a great echoing report.

“Viscount Hundro Moritani, for your crimes there can be any number of punishments. Because you have explicitly acted against House Corrino and conspired to harm Our Imperial Person, I should order your immediate execution. However, considering the cumulative consequences you must face, execution need not be the first of them.” Shaddam’s eyes glinted with anger and cruel humor. Moritani had been ordered not to speak, and threatened with a gag if he refused to obey.

“As a first and vital step, I hereby revoke all of your lands, titles, and possessions: your Grumman resources, buildings, subjects, CHOAM holdings, wealth, investments, and even your wardrobe.” He smiled. “We will provide suitable clothing for you in the Imperial Prison on Kaitain. Fifty percent of your liquidated assets shall be given to the Throne.

“The remaining half” — Shaddam spread his empty hand in a benevolent gesture — “will be split among the other wronged Houses — Ecaz, Atreides, and Vernius, in proportion to the losses they suffered at your hands.” He nodded to himself, satisfied with his munificence. But Paul noticed that his father had stiffened. Rhombur didn’t look entirely pleased either, as if he considered it an insult to reap a monetary reward for aiding his friend.

Shaddam leaned back on his throne. “As for the planet Grumman and the siridar governorship, we present it as a new holding of House Ecaz. All of its planetary wealth and natural resources are now in your control. Archduke, you may exploit this world and profit from it.”

Armand stood silent and stony. His response conveyed no joy. “Thank you, Sire.” The mined-out planet — its lands barely fertile, its population poor, unhealthy, and exhausted — was no prize. It would be more of an albatross around Armand’s neck than an asset.

“Viscount Moritani, I reserve the right to order your execution at any time. However, in the spirit of harmony in the Imperium, I propose that you be delivered forthwith to Kaitain in a prison frigate, for trial in Landsraad court. Your fellow nobles will decide your specific fate.”

The Viscount snarled bitterly, unable to restrain himself further. “I look forward to speaking in my own defense. I am sure that you and the Landsraad nobles will be most interested in what I have to say… given the proper forum. Never assume that even an Emperor knows everything that goes on in the Imperium.”

Paul studied the defiant Grumman nobleman — his mannerisms, expression, and tone of voice. He wore a cloak of madness, which made him difficult to read, but Paul detected neither bravado nor a bluff. Moritani did, indeed, have something more to say. Wheels within wheels, and another set within those.

Shaddam’s eyes narrowed, a calculating expression. “We look forward to your testimony, although perhaps certain other Great Houses might not.”

Paul looked at Duncan, recalling the encounter with Beast Rabban here on Grumman. At long last, Duke Leto actually gave a weary smile. No member of House Atreides would be disappointed if the Baron was found culpable in these heinous acts. Not only would House Moritani fall, but House Harkonnen could also be stripped. With luck, Baron Harkonnen would find himself in a cell next to Viscount Moritani.

The Emperor nodded in satisfaction. “My work here is done.” He gestured dismissively toward the furious Viscount, clapped his hands, and announced a feast to celebrate the end of the War of Assassins and the prevention of a much larger, interplanetary war.

10

The Baron was furious and went out of his way to let Rabban see it. He also felt strangely unsettled, but he carefully hid any sign of that from his blundering nephew.

Only two days earlier, he had received a terse, cryptic note signed by Duke Leto Atreides. “We trust your nephew Rabban is recovering from his sword wound. A pity we could not spend more time with him on Grumman.”

The message offered no further explanation, and the Baron felt an ominous heaviness in his chest. So, Rabban had been identified. The Atreides Duke knew the Harkonnens were somehow involved in the conflict… though apparently he possessed no proof: otherwise the message would have been accompanied by a summons to the Landsraad Court. So, Leto simply wanted House Harkonnen to know that he knew.

Infuriating, yes, but no harm done. Let the Atreides stew over their inability to take action. If they dared declare kanly on such flimsy innuendo, then the Baron would play the wronged party.

This afternoon the Beast had finally made his way back to Giedi Prime, pushed past the household guards and presented himself to his uncle without delay. For all his considerable flaws, the man did have some good points. As one example, Rabban realized how much trouble he was in, and that his fate rested solely in the Baron’s hands. That demonstrated at least minimal intelligence. Apparently, the rest of the disguised Harkonnen troops had been killed.

Looking breathless and disheveled, Rabban stood in the Baron’s study. A bloodstained healing pad was secured to the side of his head, where a medic had also shaved some of his reddish hair short to treat the injury; it gave him a battered, off-balance appearance. A wound on his arm was tightly bound with healing tape. The sword cut Leto had alluded to?

“I tremble with anticipation to learn of your adventures.” The Baron’s basso voice dripped sarcasm as he sat at his dark, richly carved desk. Feyd sauntered in, eager to hear of his older brother’s escapades as well. The rangy young man glanced disdainfully at his muscular, thickheaded brother, who shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot. Feyd lounged on a divan where he could watch.

In abrupt sentences with occasional contradictions, Rabban explained that he had been stranded with murderous Grumman soldiers, all of whom wanted his head due to their own military failures, and how the entire division of disguised Harkonnen soldiers had either fallen into the battlefield pits or been slain by vengeful Moritani barbarians. He told how he had been chased by Atreides soldiers but escaped with only a minor wound. Then, after the Vernius ships had arrived followed by the Imperial delegation, how he’d hidden in a warehouse and barely eluded capture.

His nephew wasn’t entirely without resources or imagination. Nonetheless, the Baron’s face darkened. “You were seen by Atreides soldiers. They recognized you.”

“How do you —”

The Baron slammed a beefy fist on his desk, then showed him the message from Duke Leto. “Do you understand that if you had been caught, or if you left behind any evidence of Harkonnen involvement, we would find ourselves mired in an impossible crisis?”

Rabban stood his ground. “I left no evidence, Uncle. If the Atreides Duke had any proof, he would have sent more than that message.”

The Baron smiled slightly, surprised at his nephew’s perceptive response. Feyd let out a rude noise, but made no other comment.

Rabban continued, “Fortunately, the Emperor brought such an army of retainers and servants with him that I was able to kill one and take his uniform and identification. In the confusion of his crackdown in the Ritka fortress, I slipped in among them, flew back with the Imperial entourage, then got passage back here.”

Feyd said in his most annoying tone, “So, you can be clever after all!”

The quaver had left Rabban’s voice and was replaced by confidence. “I thought I did rather well.”

“You did well getting away. You did not do well at the task I assigned you. Have you heard the Emperor’s recent announcement?”

“I heard that House Moritani has been stripped of its title and planet.”

“That isn’t the important part,” Feyd said, looking a little too knowledgeable. “Viscount Moritani was placed on a prison frigate bound for Kaitain so that he could be charged before a Landsraad Court. He vowed to testify and expose all his little secrets.”

Rabban flushed red. “You mean he’ll reveal his involvement with us?”

“Oh no, of course not,” the Baron said with treacly sarcasm. “Once he lost everything, his life on the line, and in total disgrace, we should expect the Viscount to keep our secrets because, after all, we’re such good friends.” He glowered at his nephew, and Rabban looked away.

Rabban was a first-order thinker: To him, actions were concrete, standing by themselves. If he threw a rock into a pond, he didn’t expect to see ripples. Rabban had his strengths, though the Baron rarely complimented him for them. He had various advantageous qualities. There were times when brute force was necessary, and Rabban had few peers in that arena. More important, he truly did not have any lofty ambitions. He wasn’t devious enough to seize more responsibility. The Baron didn’t have to fear a dagger in the back or poison in his drink from that nephew.

Feyd, on the other hand, had a sharp and nimble mind. It often darted from topic to topic, yet like a careful juggler, he never lost his grip on any one concept. Devious? Yes, perhaps. And for all his youth, he was already showing signs of impatience to be named the successor to House Harkonnen. The Baron didn’t need to announce his decision yet, but Feyd… lovely Feyd was the future of House Harkonnen. The Baron could see that by watching the earnest expression on the young man’s face, the shrewd eyes, the obvious eagerness to learn.

But could the young man be trusted?

“Moritani has no incentive to protect us,” Feyd pointed out. “In fact, there is every reason for him to exaggerate our participation.”

Looking at Rabban, the Baron let his older nephew stew for a few moments, then eased the man’s mind. “Fortunately, this is not a problem so great that it cannot be repaired. In fact, while you were taking your leisurely path back home, I set an alternative solution in motion.”

Rabban looked almost childishly relieved that his uncle had a plan. He didn’t even need to hear the Baron’s explanation of what he had done, only the simple comment that things would be all right.

The Baron withdrew a document from his private desk, a slender filmpaper scroll. “This came from an official news courier, telling of a tragic and mysterious incident. The prison frigate transporting Viscount Moritani was in transit aboard a Guild Heighliner, berthed alongside other passenger ships — even some leftover Imperial vessels withdrawing from Grumman. As you know, Heighliners do not pressurize their cargo holds. Alas, a freak accident depressurized several airlocks in the prison frigate and the Viscount was exposed to vacuum. I’m afraid he didn’t survive long, and his body was found bloated and frozen. The expression on his face must have been quite hideous.”

“And you arranged for this, Uncle?” Rabban said enthusiastically.

The Baron scowled at him.

Feyd snickered. “It was an accident.”

“You admire me, Feyd, I can tell,” the Baron nodded. “Someday — though not anytime soon — you will be just like me.”

Feyd’s retort was quick and surprising. “But not so fat, I trust.”

11

Over the nightside of Caladan, the Heighliner disgorged troop carriers and fighter craft, followed by the Atreides family frigate. Ever respectful of those who had fought so valiantly for him in the War of Assassins, Duke Leto insisted on sending all of his soldiers home first.

With Paul sitting beside him near a wide observation window, Leto mused, “I look forward to seeing your mother again, especially after what we have just been through. She… she can make me feel alive again. Right now, I am too numb.” Restless, the Duke stood, motioned for his son to follow, and strode down a corridor on the starboard side of the craft as the frigate descended into the atmosphere. They passed a bank of portholes that showed the running lights of the Duke’s escort ships disappearing below.

“I understand how you feel, Father. I learned a great deal from what I experienced. Most of all, I hope I never have to see battle again.”

“You may hope for that, but I fear it isn’t likely. You are the son of a Duke. Even if you don’t seek out conflict, it will find you.”

The Atreides frigate broke through the last layers of cloud cover, enabling Paul to see the twinkling lights of coastal villages below and the bright target of the Cala City Spaceport. A capricious wind buffeted the descending ship, and Leto braced himself against the unexpected movement. The frigate bounced down through the edge of the storm. Peering through wind-driven rain, Paul caught glimpses of Castle Caladan and the first group of ships already landing at the spaceport, taking indicated positions like pieces on a large game board.

A large monitor screen on the bulkhead showed a tally of ships, and each time one of the vessels set down safely, an amber blip turned green. The Duke fired instructions to his officers over the comline and received reports back from them. He was satisfied and relieved to see them all come safely home.

Their family frigate circled over the spaceport, then swooped toward the main landing field. Through a starboard window Paul saw the windblown sea crashing against the cliffs. Before sunset, the fishing fleet had come back to harbor ahead of the storm, and even though the boats were lashed to their docks, they rocked heavily against the pilings. Paul knew the good people of Caladan could easily survive storms. There would always be rough weather, but that did not diminish their love for their planet.

The frigate made a bumpy landing and taxied into a large hangar, where other landed ships had already taken shelter. As Paul and his father disembarked and stepped onto a floor wet from rain running off the smooth hull, they found Lady Jessica already there waiting for them. Damp streaks in her bronze hair and speckles of water on her cloak showed that she had been caught in the downpour on her way to the hangar.

Eschewing formality, Leto pulled her close and kissed her gently. “I’m sorry you were caught in the storm.”

“Just a little rain. Not so bad.” They held each other, speaking little although Paul knew they had much to say to each other. During Leto’s betrothal to Ilesa Ecaz, Jessica had been like a rudderless boat on the open sea. The wedding-day massacre and the War of Assassins had swept over their relationship like a rogue wave. Now, they both had decisions to make and damage to repair. Neither of them was the same as before.

Wrestling with his thoughts, Leto stared at her with his steely-gray eyes, while Jessica simply waited. Paul watched his parents until finally his father said, “There is no better time to say this, Jessica, and our son should hear it, too. I am weary of politics and feuds, and I will no longer entertain further proposals of marriage alliances from other noble Houses.” He took her hands in his. “You are my one and only lady, my one and only love for all time. Though I cannot marry you, I will never agree to marry anyone else.”

She seemed flustered. “You can’t give me such a promise, Leto. You have to keep the other nobles guessing. You must at least keep the option available, for I am only a bound concubine.”

“My love, you are much more than that to me.” Reaching over to Paul, he gathered the boy into his embrace. “And you are the mother of our son, the next Duke.”