Paul of Dune

by Kevin J. Anderson

  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.

  There is no rationality in vengeance.

  —ARCHDUKE ARMAND ECAZ

  At the edge of the collapsed pla
in, 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.

  The human race is bound not only by common genetics but also by universal standards of behavior. Those who do not willingly follow the guidelines of civilization can no longer be considered truly human.

  —Bene Gesserit axiom

  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.