“The Jihad has a life of its own. When I experienced visions as a young man, I knew this holy war could not be stopped, but still I tried to change the future, to prevent the rampaging violence. One man cannot stop the moving sands.”
“You are the Coriolis wind that sets the sands moving.”
“I cannot stop it, but I can guide it. I am guiding it. What people see as unforgivable violence and destruction, I know is the best of many unacceptable alternatives.” With a sigh, Paul turned away from her. He had deluded himself into believing that it would be easy to hold the reins and guide the course of the great, living creature that was the Jihad. The monster. He had made his decision believing that his choices would be clear, only to find that he was more a captive of unfolding history than any person before him. His was a terrible purpose. He rode the crest of a wave that threatened to drown him and everyone around him. Even when Muad’Dib made the best possible decisions, regardless of what his heart wanted, he could see the bloody future unfolding mercilessly for years to come. But the alternative is worse.
He had actually considered removing himself from the equation, escaping from the warp and weft of Fate’s loom. Paul could have allowed himself to tumble into the abyss of historical interpretation and the enhancement of myths.
But if he chose to die, Muad’Dib would still become a martyr. His very presence was too prominent in the hearts and minds of his followers, and they would continue without him if necessary, in spite of him. Time would have its due. Paul feared that in premature death he might cause more damage than in life.
On the bedside table, near the broken pink conch shell from Earth that Bludd had brought Paul from Ecaz, lay a stack of reports detailing troop movements, Guildship patterns, and another long list of planets that he could easily conquer. Impatiently, he knocked the papers aside.
Chani frowned at his reaction. “Are you not pleased to see so much progress? Is this not success?” Usually, she could understand his moods, but not now. “Surely, the Jihad is almost over.”
He looked at her. “Have you ever heard of Alexander the Great? He is from long ago, forgotten in the mists of time. He was a great warlord on Mother Earth, said to be the most powerful emperor of ancient times. His armies swept across continents, his own known universe, and when he reached the shore of the sea, he wept because there were no more lands to conquer. But history considers Alexander great only because he had the good fortune to die before his empire could collapse on its own.”
Chani blinked. “How can that be?”
“Alexander was like a storm. He had many soldiers and superior weapons, but after conquering each people he moved on and never had to govern.” Paul clasped Chani’s hand. “Don’t you see? Out armies have chalked up victory after victory, but beating a man is different from working with him for many years. Irulan is right: Once Muad’Dib’s Jihad is past, once I have won this long war, how am I to survive the peace? Would Alexander still be considered ‘great’ if he’d actually needed to provide food, water, shelter, education, and protection to all the people of his empire? Doubtful. He caught a fever and died before his conquests could come back to haunt him.”
“You are not some ancient forgotten leader. You must follow your destiny, Usul,” Chani whispered in his ear. “Regardless of where it leads, it remains your destiny.”
He kissed her. “You are my desert spring, my Sihaya. You and I must enjoy every moment we have together.”
They made love slowly, discovering each other again, and for the first time.
Yes, the vast universe is filled with many wonders, but it has too few deserts for my liking.
—The Stilgar Commentaries
On Bela Tegeuse, even the broad daylight was dim and damp, shrouded with fog. Stilgar did not like this place one hit. Each breath was clammy in his mouth and nose. At the end of the day, he practically had to wring out his clothing to remove the excess moisture. He felt he needed a reverse stillsuit—nose plugs and a breathing mask that would filter water out of the air, just so he could breathe. The sound of lapping water that surrounded the wide, heavily armed gun-barges was maddening.
Stilgar knew that Paul-Muad’Dib had grown up by the ocean on Caladan. Every night, the young man had gone to sleep listening to the roar of waves outside the castle. The idea of so much water was difficult for the naib to grasp. It was a wonder the boy had not gone insane.
And the swamps on Bela Tegeuse were more treacherous than an ocean, he was certain.
Since the beginning of the Jihad, even with so many legions dispersed throughout the worlds of the Imperium, he himself had planted the green-and-white banner of Fremen-led legions, as well as the green-and-black banner carried by other loyalists, on four planets. He had shed much blood, had witnessed the deaths of many friends and foes. People died in much the same way, no matter what world they came from.
Now, by the command of Muad’Dib, Stilgar led these forces to hunt down the rebellious nobleman Urquidi Basque, one of the remaining principal lords who supported Earl Thorvald’s insurgency. When Basque went to ground on Bela Tegeuse, Stilgar had assumed he would be trapped. Muad’Dib’s military frigates had deployed a fleet of gun-barges and search boats constructed by local engineers who were familiar with the terrain and ready to capture Lord Basque and his swamp rats.
Swamp rats. Stilgar did not like the sound of that.
For the past two weeks, pursuing Basque and his army had been like chasing balls of static electricity across the dune tops. Under a thick layer of clouds, the gunbarges moved slowly along, pushing against the sluggish brown water. The dim sun would set soon, and the night would bring cooling air and thickening fog. Water squeezed out of the air.
Off in the distance, Stilgar could see only the nearest two of the ten heavily armed ships in his group. The foghorns and signal whistles sounded like lost souls begging to be taken to dry land. Visibility was worse than in a sandstorm.
Last week, when they had pursued the renegade lord across a wide, shallow sea, one of the heavy gunbarges had run aground. Basque and his swamp rats had gotten away, jeering as Stilgar was forced to unload heavy weaponry and cargo from the stranded gunbarge so that it would float free of the mud bar. He’d had half a mind to ditch the vessel and continue the chase, leaving his men to fend for themselves in the swamps. But many of the fighters were Fremen, and Stilgar refused to abandon them to this wet place.
After wasting all that time, the scout boats had raced forward in search of clues. One scout returned, having found an old camp; three others vanished entirely. Stilgar ordered ‘thopters for air surveillance, but the ground-hugging fog made the aircraft worse than useless in the hunt.
Finally, as dusk settled in, adding a bruised color to the sky, they pushed into a complex river delta, where Stilgar was sure he would trap Basque. Several times now, they had seen tantalizing lights in the distance, taunting signals that likely marked their quarry.
Around him, he could see the tangled hala-cypress branches and roots, trees so different from the rare palms of Dune. The river delta was thick with them, as if they were crowded spectators gaping at an accident scene. They gave off a fetid stench, just like all the water in this swamp. The odors of fish and algae nauseated him. Every meal he’d eaten on Bela Tegeuse tasted like mud.
Stilgar stood on the mist-slick deck. Some of the gunbarges were equipped with half-shields, but the barge captains complained that the shimmering fields reduced visibility. Lookouts continued to peer into the foggy distance.
Next to Stilgar, the captain was angry at himself. “My charts are useless, a year old. The currents shift the sand and the mud, and the hala-cypress walk.”
“How can trees walk?”
“They move their roots in the mud slurry, shift into channels, and fill them up. A passage perfectly clear one month will be blocked the next.” In disgust, the captain cast his obsolete diagrams over the side, where the thin papers floated away on the currents. “I may as well just close m
y eyes and pray.”
“We can all pray,” Stilgar said, “but that should not be our only plan.”
Six mysterious lights glistened out of the growing dimness of dusk, and Stilgar saw it as the signal he had been waiting for. The decks of the gunbarges were crowded with Fremen shouting insults at the swamp rats who hid in the skeletal forests along the labyrinth of waterways.
Stilgar shouted, “They are within reach! Time to pursue them.” “I advise caution,” the captain said. “Do not underestimate Lord Basque.”
“And he should not underestimate the armies of Muad’Dib.”
With a chattering roar that sounded like one of the attacking dragonflies that had plagued them through the marshes, ten shallow-draught needleboats ripped out of the fog, spraying a wake of brackish brown water. Onboard, Basque’s swamp rats held projectile rifles, which they fired into the press of Fremen on the decks. The needle-boats turned about, firing a few more potshots, then raced back into the depths of the swamp.
Without waiting for a unified effort, two gunbarges surged forward, racing after them. Stilgar immediately saw what the rebels were doing. “A trap!”
But the pilot of the second gunbarge didn’t hear. The huge vessel pressed ahead with its powerful engines, and within moments found itself mired in slick mud and shallow water.
From the high hala-cypress branches, the real ambush struck, as Basque’s men fired down upon the trapped gunbarge. At such close quarters the barge’s heavy artillery proved useless, but that didn’t stop the Fremen from launching huge explosives from the deck guns, blowing up sections of the swamp. Fireballs ignited marsh gas and caused secondary eruptions. Yelling and howling, many of the Fremen dropped down into smaller boats and raced into the maze of trees, but the water there made Stilgar greatly uneasy.
“Shields on!” the barge captain shouted. Moments later, renewed shimmering barriers floated across the deck, protecting the soldiers but at the same time preventing them from firing their projectile weapons. The giant gunbarge pushed forward, until it scraped its keel on the mud.
“We can’t go any farther,” the captain said.
Stilgar activated his body shield and told his men to do the same. “We will proceed on our own rafts, and then fight on foot.”
Before they could disembark, submerged rebels in breather suits rose up from the murky water, passing slowly through the gunbarge’s main shield. Eight of them worked swiftly and efficiently together. Stilgar spotted them only after they had planted explosives against the gunbarge’s hull and then stroked away, passing back through the shield. He howled a warning.
Several of his men dropped overboard and bobbed in the water just as Gurney Halleck had taught them to do. They tried to pry the explosive mines loose, but the devices detonated within seconds. The swift shock wave hit against the shield, then reflected back into the gunbarge, causing even more damage. A wall of fire and hot gases bowled Stilgar over, knocking him to the deck. Coughing and blinded, he staggered to the rail, feeling the deck tilt as the scuttled gunbarge lurched and settled.
Unable to catch himself, Stilgar tumbled overboard. In the water, the cool, slimy wetness soothed his fresh burns. Dozens of bodies, and parts of bodies, floated next to him. The gunbarge was wallowing.
Stilgar swam toward the trees, anxious for something solid to hold onto. One of Basque’s men surfaced beside him in a breather suit and tried to attack, but Stilgar already had his crysknife out. He severed the man’s air hose, slashed his neck, and shoved him still twitching into a billowing crimson cloud in the marsh water.
More screams and explosions reverberated through the mist-muffled air. Two more gunbarges had been ruined by explosive mines, and another had run aground. Large artillery kept booming, leveling the forest, ripping the swamp to shreds, presumably hitting Basque’s camp, by accident if by no other means.
Nothing stopped the Fremen, now that their anger was piqued. “Muad’Dib! Muad’Dib!” they screamed, splashing forward. Stilgar had no doubt that many of them would drown, perhaps most, as they were still so unfamiliar with water. Others launched small boats.
Though the rebels continued to pick them off, the wave of Jihad fighters proved stronger than superior firepower or better defenses. His soldiers did not know how to lose, nor how to retreat.
As he sloshed his way to the knobby hala-cypress roots, Stilgar found the chaotic battle exceedingly confusing. Despite his skill in desert warfare, he did not comprehend naval tactics. He was a dry-land fighter, undefeated in hand-to-hand combat. He knew the names for every type of wind in the desert, for the shapes of dunes, and the meanings of distant clouds. But this place was alien to him.
By the time he reached the center of the swamp, standing in thigh-deep water and holding onto the moss-slick roots, enough of the screaming Fremen had survived to reach the swamp-rat camp that they made short and bloody work of the remaining rebels. He knew he must have lost hundreds of men in his battle group, but they had died in glorious service to Muad’Dib, and their families would claim that they had wanted nothing else.
He dragged himself out of the water and saw to his disgust that his legs, chest, and stomach were covered with dozens of fat, oily leeches that swelled and pulsed as they gorged themselves on his blood. He was glad that no one had seen him, for he instinctively yelled like a woman and slashed at the parasites with his crysknife, popping each blood-filled leech and ripping it from his skin.
The fighting was mostly over by the time he composed himself and trudged toward the fires of the destroyed camp and the few remaining tortured screams, as the Fremen fell upon any swamp rat who had been unlucky enough not to die in battle.
“We have won, Stil! We crushed them in the name of Muad’Dib,” said young Kaleff, who looked as if he had aged more than ten years since their conquest of Kaitain.
“Yes, another victory.” Stilgar was surprised at how hoarse his voice had become. This was not the same as a razzia against Harkonnens. This did not feel as great an accomplishment as attacking the Padishah Emperor’s huge metal hutment during a sandstorm. No, annihilating a rebel infestation on this swampy, gloomy world was not at all the same kind of fight to which he had been born. Leeches, walking trees, mud, and slime… he could not drive away the thought of how much he longed for dry sand again — the way a world was supposed to be.
The successful leader defines his own success and does not allow lesser men to change that definition.
—EMPEROR ELROOD CORRINO IX, shortly before he was poisoned
The birth of Shaddam Corrino’s first grandson — and first male heir — should have been feted with festivities and cheering crowds on glorious Kaitain. But as the fallen Emperor stood inside the birthing chamber and watched Wensicia receive her newborn baby, he thought only about what he had lost.
All those years of grooming Irulan… wasted. As Wensicia often reminded him, he had pinned his hopes on the wrong daughter.
Holding the infant now, Wensicia pretended to be happy, but even she could not hide her disappointment that her son, the next in the Corrino line, would never take his rightful place as Emperor.
Unless something can be done…
On that fateful day after the defeat on the plains of Arrakeen, Irulan had come to her father, offering a solution. “But here’s a man fit to be your son.”
He’d been a fool to listen to her. Though she had wed Paul Atreides, Irulan apparently had no influence with her husband, no formal role in government (not that he’d ever granted his own wives any more power than Irulan had). She was less than a trophy wife: Irulan had become Muad’Dib’s puppet, writing ridiculous stories as propaganda to make the religious fanatics see him as a messiah.
In nearly five years she had not even managed to get herself pregnant, which would have at least brought the Corrino bloodline back onto the throne. That would have been the tidiest way to end this mess. Irulan was beautiful, skilled, trained by the witches. How difficult could it be to seduce a young man a
t the peak of his hormonal tides? Or had Irulan made the mistake of succumbing to her own fiction, believing the myths she herself created?
Shaddam’s eyes slipped briefly out of focus. Even Hasimir Fenring had apparently abandoned him. Though Bashar Garon had tracked him down years ago and dutifully delivered the jewel-handled Imperial knife as a gift, Fenring had not come running back to Salusa. Why else does he think I allowed his insipid cousin to marry Wensicia? What could be a greater gesture of penitence than that? Even Dalak had tried to make contact, desperate to prove his worth to Shaddam, but to no avail.
If Hasimir would only work beside him again, Shaddam was sure they could find a solution to this galactic crisis. But the Count refused to come back, which led to unsettling questions. What was Hasimir really up to? Why would he voluntarily live among the disgusting Tleilaxu for years — and raise his daughter there?
Beaming and bubbling as a new father, Dalak Zor-Fenring left Wensicia’s bedside and looked up at the Emperor’s troubled expression. “Are you all right, Father?” The man’s voice sounded almost feminine in its timbre. He was five years younger than Wensicia.
Shaddam glared at him. “I have not granted you leave to call me that.”
His son-in-law backed away quickly, flushing. “Excuse me if I have been too familiar, Sire. If you are not comfortable with my expression of affection, I will never call you Father again.”
“Very little about you makes me comfortable, Dalak. I will always be Emperor Corrino to you.” Unless, of course, you deliver Hasimir Fenring to me.
Fenring’s cousin had pinched features and overlarge, dark eyes, but his physical resemblance to the Count went no farther than that. Hasimir’s dapper dress suited him well, but similar garments made Dalak look like a dandy. He was the only person in exile on Salusa who wore silk and lace. Wensicia didn’t even seem to like him (a small mercy there).
Stranded here and in disgrace, he despaired of finding any better matches for his three remaining daughters. Mercifully, even though Dalak had no formal title, at least he had some noble blood flowing in his veins, and at least he had managed to create a male child. None of Shaddam’s wives had succeeded in that.
Paul of Dune Page 19
