Duncan suddenly ducked, craned his neck as a shadow flitted through the leaves overhead. “Careful!” He held up his sword.
With a fluttering buzz, two large shapes streaked just above them, circled the matted silky mess, then darted back up above the canopy. Paul jerked his head upward, following them.
“Those were falcon-moths,” Dinari said. “Sometimes they guard their nests.”
“We are being very careful,” Bludd said in a whisper, apparently talking to himself. “Gentle … gentle …”
With a twang, he severed another anchor-cord, but this one snapped and recoiled from the tension. As Bludd scrambled out of the way, numerous layers of interlinked fabric started to unravel and split apart. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Duncan!” Paul yelled. “Trouble!”
And then, as the sheet of fabric tore open, widening the rift, caterpillars roiled out of the nest like armloads of giant maggots. The segmented creatures were a sickly, pale green, their bodies adorned with yellow spots. The shortest worms were as long as his arm; others were as thick as his thigh and nearly a meter-and-a-half in length.
The caterpillar heads were like smooth eyeless helmets sporting a set of clacking mandibles made for chewing wood. From each thorax sprouted six pointed legs that opened and closed, reaching for something to grasp. Paul saw that many tentworms were scarred and scratched from doing combat in the confines of the tent; some worms oozed gelatinous green ichor from tears in their skin. Now freed, the caterpillars lunged toward anything that moved—including Paul and the three Swordmasters.
Bludd sheathed his cutting knife and instead whipped out his thin rapier. With a flourish, he lunged forward, skewering a caterpillar and flinging it aside so he could stab the next.
“Stay out of this, Paul,” Duncan yelled. He sliced open the side of a worm with the tip of the Old Duke’s sword. “Get out of the clearing—I don’t want you hurt.”
“You trained me yourself.” Paul brandished his knife. “There are plenty of worms for all of us to kill.”
“Lad, you’ve got that right!” Dinari began slashing and chopping, butchering a dozen of the squirming bugs in only a few seconds as they tumbled toward the four intruders.
Bludd scowled at a splurt of ichor across his chest. “Bloody Hell, Rivvy! You’re a Swordmaster of Ginaz—use a bit of finesse! People will think you grew up in a slaughterhouse.”
Two caterpillars turned their spinnerets toward the wiry Swordmaster and sprayed fresh webbing on his tunic and trousers. While Bludd clawed the sticky strands away, Dinari gave him a wry look. “You’re right, Bludd—the silk does look good on you.”
When one of the tentworms reared up in front of Paul, he stabbed the smooth head with his dagger, but the knife glanced off the chitin. Turning the dagger, he thrust again, this time jamming the point between the worm’s mandibles, then twisting. He kicked the heavy carcass aside.
The other men did not pause in their mayhem. Bludd taunted from the side, “That’s fifteen for me so far, Rivvy. What’s your count?”
“Pah. I don’t have time to count!
A squirt of slime splashed onto Bludd’s face and across his ruffled tunic. Scowling, he skewered the offending worm twice for good measure. Worms still spilled from the tent, but many more carcasses lay inside, their flaccid empty bodies gnawed by their stronger brothers.
Soon dead caterpillars lay everywhere. Their squirming and squeaking sounds filled the glade, along with the slash-and-squish of hard fighting. Paul killed three more. Fighting at Duncan’s side, he waited for a group of four to lunge at them, then together they slashed and cut.
“I was hoping for the chance to train you under practical conditions, Master Paul,” Duncan said.
Paul grinned. “And how am I doing so far?”
From the corner of his eye, a flash of motion alerted him. He spun and ducked simultaneously, but not fast enough. A falcon-moth came at him like a dive-bomber, its long narrow wings like an ornithopter’s, its head torpedo-shaped. The moth slammed into Paul, moving too fast to pass through the shimmering body shield. The impact sent the moth reeling, and a dusty cloud of dislodged scales from its wings blew everywhere.
The falcon-moth’s antennae waved like feathers, each as wide as Paul’s outstretched hand. Its wings drummed against the shield as it tried to orient itself and dive in again, but Duncan slashed its abdomen. Yellowish guts spilled out.
As the dying moth wheeled away, then came back, Paul’s dagger caught the antennae. The creature flew away drunkenly and one wing caught in the loose fabric of the cocoon tent. After struggling like a fly in a spiderweb, the gutted moth crashed to the ground amid the dead caterpillars.
“Oho, a trophy for Duncan Idaho and his young companion!” Dinari bellowed. “Even I’ve never managed to kill a falcon-moth on the wing.”
“Dirty things,” Bludd spat.
Catching their breath, the Swordmasters strode about like scavengers in the aftermath on a battlefield, stabbing the few remaining worms and then wiping the slime from their blades.
“You did well, Paul,” Duncan said, wiping ichor from his face.
“Now there’s a battle to remember,” Dinari added.
Bludd said in a sing-song voice, “Young Paul Atreides, Conqueror of Caterpillars and Slayer of Squirmers! You have earned this wedding silk for your father’s bride.”
The boy walked over to the still-twitching, somehow sad form of the huge falcon-moth. “It was only trying to protect its nest. The silk didn’t mean that much to me.”
A shadowy, uneasy feeling came over him. A falcon and a hawk … how much difference was there? At the thought of what this moth had done, he felt a shudder of realization: Duke Leto would have done a similar thing, throwing himself into certain destruction if it was his only chance to save his family.
His family, Jessica and Paul … and now Ilesa Ecaz. And whatever children they might have. And how many others?
“On the bright side, we don’t have to be careful any longer,” Bludd said cheerfully. “We can retrieve all the tent-silk for ourselves. I’ve never had such an extravagant haul.”
“It’s going to be a very large wedding for Duke Leto.” Duncan smiled at Paul, sure his young ward must be excited about the upcoming celebration.
But Paul could only see all the strands of silk, the tangled webs, and the dead falcon-moth that lay among its slaughtered young.
A Whisper of Caladan Seas
Introduction
We have written a million and a half words in the Dune universe, fourteen books—plus this one—but this story is connected to none of them. “A Whisper of Caladan Seas” is actually a side tale within the original novel Dune, taking place concurrent with the Harkonnen attack on the Atreides stronghold of Arrakeen.
A Whisper of Caladan Seas
Arrakis, in the year 10,191 of the Imperial calendar. Arrakis … forever known as Dune.…
The cave in the massive Shield Wall was dark and dry, sealed by an avalanche. The air tasted like rock dust. The surviving Atreides soldiers huddled in blackness to conserve energy, letting their glowglobe powerpacks recycle.
Outside, the Harkonnen shelling hammered against the bolt-hole where they had fled for safety. Artillery? What a surprise to be attacked by such seemingly obsolete technology … and yet, it was effective. Damned effective.
In pockets of silence that lasted only seconds, the young recruit Elto Vitt lay in pain listening to the wheezing of wounded, terrified men. The stale, oppressive air pressed heavy on him, increasing the broken-glass agony in his lungs. He tasted blood in his mouth, an unwelcome moisture in the absolute dryness.
His uncle, Sergeant Hoh Vitt, had not honestly told him how severe his injuries were, emphasizing Elto’s “youthful resilience and stamina.” Elto suspected he must be dying, and he wasn’t alone in that predicament. These last soldiers were all dying, if not from their injuries, then from hunger or thirst.
Thirst.
A reassuring grunt. “Thufir Hawat would slit his own throat before he’d let the Baron touch our Duke, or young Paul.” It was the signalman Scovich, fiddling with the flexible hip cages that held two captive distrans bats, creatures whose nervous systems could carry message imprints.
“Bloody Harkonnens!” Then Deegan’s sigh became a sob. “I wish we were back home on Caladan.”
Supply sergeant Vitt was no more than a disembodied voice in the darkness, comfortingly close to his injured young nephew. “Do you hear a whisper of Caladan seas, Elto? Do you hear the waves, the tides?”
The boy concentrated hard. Indeed, the relentless artillery shelling sounded like the booming of breakers against the glistening black rocks below the cliff-perch of Castle Caladan.
“Maybe,” he said. But he didn’t, not really. The similarity was only slight, and his uncle, a Master Jongleur … a storyteller extraordinaire … wasn’t up to his capabilities, though here he couldn’t have asked for a more attentive audience. Instead the sergeant seemed stunned by events, and uncharacteristically quiet, not his usual gregarious self.
Elto remembered running barefoot along the beaches on Caladan, the Atreides home planet far, far from this barren repository of dunes, sandworms, and precious spice. As a child, he had tiptoed in the foamy residue of waves, avoiding the tiny pincers of crabfish so numerous that he could net enough for a fine meal in only a few minutes.
Those memories were much more vivid than what had actually happened.…
O O O
The alarms had rung in the middle of the night, ironically during the first deep sleep Elto Vitt had managed in the Atreides barracks at Arrakeen. Only a month earlier, he and other recruits had been assigned to this desolate planet, saying their farewells to lush Caladan. Duke Leto Atreides had received the governorship of Arrakis, the only known source of the precious spice melange, as a boon from the Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV.
To many of the loyal Atreides soldiers, it had seemed a great financial coup—they had known nothing of politics … or of danger. Apparently Duke Leto had not been aware of the peril here either, because he’d brought along his concubine Lady Jessica and their fifteen-year-old son, Paul.
When the warning bells shrieked, Elto snapped awake and rolled from his bunk bed. His uncle Hoh Vitt, already in full sergeant’s regalia, shouted for everyone to hurry, hurry! The Atreides house guard grabbed their uniforms, kits, and weapons. Elto recalled allowing himself a groan, annoyed at another apparent drill … and yet hoping it was only that.
The burly, disfigured weapons-master Gurney Halleck burst into the barracks, his voice booming commands. Flushed with anger, the beet-colored inkvine scar stood out like a lightning bolt on his face. “House shields are down! We’re vulnerable!” Security teams had supposedly rooted out all the booby-traps, spy-eyes, and assassination devices left behind by the hated Harkonnen predecessors. Now the lumpish Halleck became a frenzy of barked orders.
Explosions sounded outside, shaking the barracks and rattling armor-plaz windows. Enemy assault ’thopters swooped in over the Shield Wall, probably coming from a Harkonnen base in the city of Carthag.
“Prepare your weapons!” Halleck bellowed. The buzzing of lasguns played across the stone walls of Arrakeen, incinerating buildings. Orange eruptions shattered plaz windows, decapitated observation towers. “We must defend House Atreides.”
“For the Duke!” Uncle Hoh cried.
Elto yanked on the sleeve of his black uniform, tugging the trim into place, adjusting the red Atreides hawk crest and red cap of the corps. Everyone else had already jammed feet into boots, slapped charge packs into lasgun rifles. Elto scrambled to catch up, his mind awhirl. His uncle had pulled strings to get him assigned here as part of the elite corps. The other men were lean and whipcord strong, the finest hand-picked Atreides troops. He didn’t belong with them.
Young Elto had been excited to leave Caladan for Arrakis, so far away. He had never ridden on a Guild Heighliner before, had never been close to a mutated Navigator who could fold space with his mind. Before leaving his ocean home, Elto had spent only a few months watching the men train, eating with them, sleeping in the barracks, listening to their colorful, bawdy tales of great battles-past and duties performed in the service of the Atreides dukes.
Elto had never felt in danger on Caladan, but after only a short time on Arrakis, all the men had grown grim and uneasy. There had been unsettling rumors and suspicious events. Earlier that night, as the troops had bunked down, they’d been agitated, but unwilling to speak of it, either because of their commander’s sharp orders or because the soldiers didn’t know enough details. Or maybe they were just giving Elto, the untried and unproven new comrade, a cold shoulder.…
Because of the circumstances of his recruitment, a few men of the elite corps hadn’t taken to Elto. Instead, they’d openly grumbled about his amateur skills, wondering why Duke Leto had permitted such a novice to join them. A signalman and communications specialist named Forrie Scovich, pretending to be friendly, had filled the boy with false information as an ill-conceived joke. Uncle Hoh had put a stop to that, for with his Jongleur’s talent for the quick, whispered story—always told without witnesses because of the ancient prohibition—he could have given any of the men terrible nightmares for weeks … and they all knew it.
The men in the Atreides elite corps feared and respected their supply sergeant, but even the most accommodating of them gave his nephew no preferential treatment. Anyone could see that Elto Vitt was not one of them, not one of their rough-and-tumble, hard fighting breed.…
By the time the Atreides house guard rushed out of the barracks, they were naked to aerial attack, from the lack of house shields. The men knew the vulnerability couldn’t possibly be from a mere equipment failure, not after what they’d been hearing, what they’d been feeling. How could Duke Leto Atreides, with all of his proven abilities, have permitted this to happen?
Enraged, Gurney Halleck grumbled loudly, “Aye, we have a traitor in our midst.”
Illuminated in floodlights, Harkonnen troops in blue uniforms swarmed over the compound. More enemy transports disgorged assault teams.
Elto held his lasgun rifle, trying to remember the drills and training sessions. Someday, if he survived, his uncle would compose a vivid story about this battle, conjuring up images of smoke, sounds, and fires, as well as Atreides valor and loyalty to the Duke.
Atreides soldiers raced through the streets, dodging explosions, fighting hard to defend. Lasguns sliced vivid blue arcs across the night. The elite corps joined the fray, howling—but Elto could already see they were vastly outnumbered by this massive surprise assault. Without shields, Arrakeen had already been struck a mortal blow.
O O O
Elto blinked his eyes in the cave, saw light. A flicker of hope dissipated as he realized it was only a recharged glowglobe floating in the air over his head. Not daylight.
Still trapped in their tomb of rock, the Atreides soldiers listened to the continued thuds of artillery. Dust and debris trickled from the shuddering ceiling. Elto tried to keep his spirits high, but knew House Atreides must have fallen by now.
His uncle sat nearby, staring into space. A long red scratch jagged across one cheek.
During brief inspection drills while settling in, Elto had met the other important men in Duke Leto’s security staff besides Gurney Halleck, especially the renowned Swordmaster Duncan Idaho and the old Mentat assassin Thufir Hawat. The black-haired Duke inspired such loyalty in his men, exuded such supreme confidence, that Elto had never imagined this mighty man could fall.
One of the security experts had been trapped here with the rest of the detachment. Now Scovich confronted him, his voice gruff and challenging. “How did the house shields get shut off? It must have been a traitor, someone you overlooked.” The distrans bats seemed agitated in
their cages at Scovich’s waist.
“We spared no effort checking the palace,” the man said, more tired than defensive. “There were dozens of traps, mechanical and human. When the hunter-seeker almost killed Master Paul, Thufir Hawat offered his resignation, but the Duke refused to accept it.”
“Well, you didn’t find all the traps,” Scovich groused, probing for an excuse to fight. “You were supposed to keep the Harkonnens out.”
Sergeant Hoh Vitt stepped between the two men before they could come to blows. “We can’t afford to be at each other’s throats. We need to work together to get out of this.”
But Elto saw on the faces of the men that they all knew otherwise: they would never get out of the death-trap.
The unit’s muscular battlefield engineer, Avram Fultz, paced about in the faint light, using a jury-rigged instrument to measure the thickness of rock and dirt around them. “Three meters of solid stone.” He turned toward the fallen boulders that had covered the cave entrance. “Down to two and a half here, but it’s dangerously unstable.”
“If we went out the front, we’d run headlong into Harkonnen shelling anyway,” the gunner Deegan said. His voice trembled with tension, like a too-tight baliset string about to break.
Uncle Hoh activated a second glowglobe, which floated in the air behind him as he went to a bend in the tunnel. “If I remember the arrangement of the tunnels, on the other side of this wall there’s a supply cache. Food, medical supplies … water.”
Fultz ran his scanner over the thick stone. Elto, unable to move on his makeshift bed and fuzzed with painkillers, stared at the process, realizing how much it reminded him of Caladan fishermen using depth sounders in the reef fishing grounds.
“You picked a good, secure spot for those supplies, Sergeant,” Fultz said. “Four meters of solid rock. The cave-ins have cut us off.”
Deegan, his voice edged with hysteria, groaned. “That food and water might as well be in the Imperial Palace on Kaitain. This place … Arrakis … isn’t right for us Atreides!”
Tales of Dune Page 10
