Paul of Dune

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  “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.

  Those who seek fame and glory are least qualified to possess it.

  —RHEINVAR THE MAGNIFICENT, Jongleur artiste (rumored to be a Face Dancer)

  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.

  What is the point of being the Emperor of the Known Universe if people don’t do as I say, when I say it? That is very troubling to me, Hasimir.

  —PADISHAH EMPEROR SHADDAM IV, letter to Count Hasimir Fenring

  “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.

  Just as Leto Atreides was shaped by his father, so it was with young Paul. A strong sense of honor and justice passed from generation to generation. This made what eventually happened to Paul an even greater tragedy. He should have known better.

  —BRONSO OF IX, The True History of Muad’Dib

  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 brok
en 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.”