Paul of Dune hod-1

by Brian Herbert

  Even so, the significance of the victory on this battlefield had been tremendous, and pivotal. Here, the notorious Baron Harkonnen had perished. Here, the Sardaukar had suffered their first defeat in history. Here, a proud Corrino Emperor had surrendered.

  Now the unrelenting sun hung directly overhead, heating the sandy and rocky slopes below, where another crowd had gathered to see Muad’Dib. The observers wore stillsuits, most of which were fitted in the traditional Fremen style, unlike the replicas sold to pilgrims. Water and souvenir vendors worked the noisy crowd, calling out as they hawked their wares. Colorful banners fluttered in a hot breeze. Everyone waited for him to address the multitudes.

  Paul said quietly to Stilgar, who stood like a weathered rock, “The lines of good and evil were clearly drawn when we fought on the plains of Arrakeen, Stil. We knew where we stood against the allied Houses, and used the moral high ground to rally and inspire our fighters. But so many are already dead in my Jihad, many of them innocents. In time, they will say I was worse than the Corrinos and Harkonnens ever were.”

  Stilgar looked scandalized, his convictions unshaken even after what he had seen in the sacking of Kaitain. “Usul! We use violence only to cleanse, to wash away evil and save lives. Many more would die if not for your Jihad. You know this. Your prescience has told you so.”

  “It is as you say, but I worry that there is something I have not considered, another path I should have chosen instead. I cannot merely accept anything. I must keep searching.”

  “In dreams?”

  “With conscious prescience, too, and Mentat logic. But everything guides me back to the same path.” “Then there is no other path, Usul.”

  Paul smiled at the statement. If only he could be as utterly certain as Stilgar was; the naib had always been a man of absolutes.

  When it was time to speak to the crowd, Paul mounted the steps of the immense monument that had been erected in his honor, a life-size replica of a sandworm sculpted by a renowned — and enthusiastically converted — sculptor from Chusuk. Plaques around its base carried the names of every world that had surrendered to Muad’Dib so far. There were many more blank plaques in anticipation of more victories.

  Right now, a performance was required. Carrying a maker hook, though only as a prop, Paul mounted steps on the side of the gray plastone beast whose eyeless head turned toward the basin below and the sprawling city of Arrakeen. With his own symbolic maker hook, Stilgar followed.

  When the two stood side by side atop the head of the replica worm, they secured their hooks into sculpted rings and posed as if they were again riding the behemoth to victory. Behind them on the back of the statue, real Fremen soldiers stood in similar postures. The soldiers’ cheers were echoed by the crowd in a growing sonic tumult that could be heard all the way to the city.

  Years ago, when preparing his son for dangers on Arrakis, Duke Leto had advised him to capitalize on the local superstition that Paul might be the long-awaited Mahdi, the Lisan-al-Gaib. But only if he had to. Now, he had done that to an extent that went far beyond anything his father had ever anticipated.

  Paul’s voice boomed out, transmitted by speakers on the worm. “I come here today in all humility to honor those Fremen and Atreides soldiers who died on the Shield Wall and in the basin below, fighting to free us from tyranny.” The crowd let out a huge roar of approval, but he raised his hands to quiet them. “Know this from the lips of Muad’Dib. We have won the opening battles of the Jihad, but there are many more to be fought.”

  The holy war was becoming a living organism with its own momentum, and he had been its catalyst. Paul knew there were also moral battles to be won, challenges that promised no clear victors and losers, only murky results. One day when this phase of the Jihad was complete, there would be time for reflection, a time for the people to recognize his failings and weaknesses as a ruler, that he was not a god. That would be the beginning of understanding… but it would take a very long time.

  Finished with the ceremonial requirements, Paul and Stilgar climbed back down the steps. The bearded Fremen reported good news. “Muad’Dib, as you expected and hoped, Ecaz surrendered to us immediately without any bloodshed. Your address to the Landsraad reminded the old Archduke of his loyalties and obligations to House Atreides. He has sent his representative to deliver his fealty in person. The delegate claims he knew you when you were but a boy.”

  Curious, Paul looked to where a rangy man stood at the base of the statue, dressed in the fashion of a Swordmaster, with embellished decorations, epaulets, and billowing lavender pantaloons that made him appear to be a dandy. The man seemed familiar, especially when he removed his feathered, broad-brimmed hat and bowed with a flourish. “Muad’Dib may not remember me… but Paul Atreides should.”

  Now he recognized the balding Whitmore Bludd, a man with a purple birthmark on his forehead. He was one of the most capable fighters in the history of Ginaz. Duncan Idaho had studied under him, and Bludd had served as a ronin for House Ecaz for many years. “Swordmaster Bludd! How could I forget you from my father’s War of Assassins against Grumman?”

  “Ah, those were magnificent, heroic days.” The foppish man unrolled a signed surrender parchment. “Ecaz has always supported the Atreides. We owe you a debt of honor, and blood. Of course, we accept you as the new Emperor.”

  Forsaking formalities, Paul threw his arms around the Swordmaster (much to the horror of the guards), and said, “You helped us. You defended us.”

  Blushing, Bludd stepped back and said, “I insist it was the other way around, my Lord. Sadly, I am all that remains of a once-great House, just an old warrior with my glory days confined to memory. The recent trip to Kaitain proved a bit too much for the Archduke, and he has retired to his home.” Next, Bludd extended a small ornamental box. “However, I brought a gift for you from Ecaz, as a token of my allegiance.”

  “The box has already been inspected, Usul,” Stilgar said quietly.

  Paul lifted the lid and saw a pinkish seashell fragment the size of his own hand. Smiling, Bludd explained, “The remains of a conch shell from Mother Earth. See how light dances across the surface. Archduke Armand owned it for years — now it is yours.”

  Paul ran a hand over the smooth, pearly luster. The touch gave him an odd but pleasing sensation that he was in contact with an article from the birthworld of humanity. He handed the box to a nearby Fedaykin guard. “Have this delivered to my apartments.”

  Bludd spoke in a conversational, relaxed tone, “It’s frightfully hot on this planet. Fortunately, I’m not a man who perspires much, or I’d be drained to the last drop.”

  “This is Dune, Swordmaster. From now on, you would be wise to wear a stillsuit,” Paul said. Undeniably, Bludd was a dandy, but Paul had always admired the man anyway, not only for his fighting skills and loyalty, but for his organizational talents. Interesting possibilities rolled through the Emperor’s mind.

  In the past weeks, he had begun to accumulate the manpower and resources he needed for the construction of his huge new palace. While Korba had expressed an interest in guiding the project “for the glory and legend of Muad’Dib,” Paul wasn’t entirely sure that the zealous Fedaykin had the large-scale management skills or construction experience to oversee such a mammoth project. But Whitmore Bludd, in spite of his extravagant tastes, was a no-nonsense man and quite talented. He had a knack for getting things done. Duncan Idaho had always spoken highly of him.

  “I would like you to remain here with us, Swordmaster Bludd. I can use someone with your talents to oversee a construction project far superior to anything the Corrinos ever built.” He explained briefly what he desired for his new Palace, then said, “I want your vision and your dedication.”

  Bludd took a step backward in comical astonishment. “You would entrust me with such a fabulous undertaking, my Lord? Of course I accept the challenge! Why, I will create a citadel so grand it will strike even God himself with awe!”

  “I think that’ll
be just about good enough for Korba,” Paul said with a wry smile.

  11

  So many worlds were once the subject of songs and poems. Now, alas, they seem better suited to inspire dirges and epitaphs.

  —GURNEY HALLECK, Battlefield Poetry

  In quieter times, Gurney had often played ballads about Galacia’s beautiful and supposedly wanton women, but he had never before visited the small, cool world. Until now. Unfortunately, he saw more carnage than beauty. Part of it was his own fault, for promoting Enno too quickly to the rank of lieutenant — after the young soldier’s near-drowning in the practice pool.

  In his new position, Enno showed a proclivity for issuing orders, demanding that the fighters carry out what he saw as Muad’Dib’s vision. Since his return from the dead, Enno believed that he had a holy purpose. His presence and charisma had visibly increased, and his Fremen comrades viewed him with awe. This proved to be a problem for Gurney.

  After the battle frigates landed on Galacia, warriors ran through the streets of the village and marketplace that surrounded the colonnaded villa of Lord Colus, the planet’s Landsraad representative. With the soldiers of Muad’Dib coming toward them like D-wolves, the villagers barricaded themselves inside their homes. A few foolhardy souls stood with makeshift weapons, trying to defend their families, but the Fremen dealt harshly with any perceived resistance.

  Though Gurney was technically in charge, his control over these fighters became tenuous once they scented blood. The men took great glee in planting green-and-white banners while tearing down and defacing any signs of the ruling house of Galacia. He waded among the soldiers, using his best stage voice to command them to restrain themselves.

  One Fremen soldier repeatedly pummeled the bloodied mouth of a woman who wouldn’t stop screaming. Her husband lay dead on the floor next to her, his throat slashed by a crysknife. Gurney grabbed the brutal soldier by the back of his collar and swung his head against the doorframe, cracking his skull with a sickening sound. The woman looked up at Gurney and, instead of showing any gratitude, screamed again, spraying blood from her broken teeth. Then she ran into the house and barricaded the door.

  Gurney’s face was red, the inkvine scar pulsing dark on his jawline. This was the sort of thing Harkonnen troops had done during their slave-gathering parties, going from village to village and brutalizing the people.

  “Form ranks!” he bellowed. “Give the Galacians a chance to surrender, by the Seven Hells!”

  “They are resisting us, Commander Halleck,” Enno said with maddening calm. “We must show them they have no hope. They shall know the despair that Muad’Dib brings to all who stand against him.”

  The fighters had begun to set fire to any home whose inhabitants dared to bar the doors and windows against the invading army. The people inside would be roasted alive. Gurney heard the shrieks and saw the animal wildness of the unfettered army.

  Though he had trained them himself, Gurney was infuriated by their ferocity. It was all so unnecessary! But if he pushed too hard against their wild frenzy, he feared that they might turn against him, labeling him a heretic and a traitor to Muad’Dib.

  This type of warfare bore no semblance of the code of morality and integrity that Duke Leto Atreides had demanded of his followers. How could Paul allow this to happen?

  The jihadis had moved through the village, all the way up a central hill to the governmental villa. Lord Colus had barricaded himself inside his arched home and stationed household guards at every door. From within the villa, his private army could hold off an invading force, though not for long. Even the besieged nobleman seemed to realize that. Gurney moved to take charge of the situation before the mob could do further damage.

  The nobleman’s guards did not fire their weapons, but simply maintained defensive positions. Colus had taken down the pennants bearing the gold-and-red family crest of his house. When he raised the surrender flag, the Fremen howled and cheered and raced toward the barricaded entrance. But the gates would not open, no matter how hard the soldiers pounded against them.

  Lord Colus stepped out onto a high balcony. It was dusk, and the fires in the village tinged the sky orange as the air filled with rising smoke. The nobleman’s face was deeply lined; his thick gray hair was long enough to fall between his shoulder blades, secured in a tight braid. He looked weary and distraught. “I would offer my surrender, but never to animals! You have massacred my people and the village is on fire. For what? They were no threat to you.”

  “Surrender to us, and we will stop fighting,” Enno called, grinning at Gurney. The young officer’s uniform hung loosely on his rail-thin body.

  “You, I do not trust! I will surrender only to the honorable Gurney Halleck. I see him there among you! I demand terms. The forms must be obeyed!”

  Gurney pushed his way forward. “I am Halleck, and I accept your surrender.” He turned to the Fremen. “The forms must be obeyed. Stop the bloodshed. This planet is ours, our victory already won. Go put out those fires!”

  “Old Imperial rules mean nothing to us, Commander Halleck,” Enno grumbled.

  “It is the will of Muad’Dib.” Let them chew on that! Gurney strode up to the gates, and Lord Colus’s guards lifted the bars to open the doorway. The Atreides veteran stepped through the looming arch, and the proud nobleman came down to greet him.

  But Fremen soldiers rushed in around Gurney, and he couldn’t stop the tide. They flocked into the fortified villa, seized Galacian guards, and grabbed Lord Colus. The nobleman appeared saddened, but clung to his dignity as he was taken away.

  ***

  BY THE FOLLOWING day, the fires had been quelled and the villagers subdued, and the Fremen soldiers had temporarily taken over whatever dwellings they desired. These determined desert warriors knew how to fight, but they did not know how to govern or rebuild.

  Gurney had spent a sleepless night staring up at the rough ceiling of one of the outbuildings of the estate, considering what to do. It would be best for the people of Galacia if he led the Fremen to another battlefield as soon as possible, rather than allowing the conquerors to remain here and make things worse. This defeated world would cause no further trouble for Paul’s government. Gurney doubted they would have caused any in the first place….

  Gurney emerged from his borrowed bedchamber in the dawn light only to stare in disbelief at the severed head of Lord Colus, which was planted on a post in front of the mansion. The expression on the dead nobleman’s face looked more like disappointment than fear. His eyes stared out on a world he no longer inhabited.

  Appalled and revolted, yet strangely unsurprised, Gurney stepped forward with sad resignation. His muscles bunching, his fists clenching, the loyal Atreides retainer stared up at Lord Colus’s slack face. “I am sorry — this was never what I intended.” He intoned a verse from the Orange Catholic Bible, posing an age-old question: “‘Who is worse, the liar or the fool who believes him?’”

  He had given his word to Lord Colus, who had trusted in the value of a promise made by Gurney Halleck. Now, Gurney’s revulsion turned toward himself. I am not a man to make excuses, certainly not for my own actions. I am in command of these soldiers. I serve Paul of House Atreides.

  The Atreides considered an “honor debt” as binding as any Fremen viewed a water debt to be. His lieutenant Enno had brought dishonor to his regiment and its commander; he had made Gurney into a liar. This is my responsibility.

  In previous engagements, he had seen the blind and stubborn fury of the Jihad troops. Spurning accepted codes of warfare, they charged ahead with only vague goals and a hunger for destruction. Like maddened Salusan bulls, they stampeded any perceived enemy. Paul’s most vehement supporters never stopped to think beyond rationalizing that their actions were in concert with Muad’Dib’s wishes. Trying to stop them would be like trying to stop moving dunes in a powerful sandstorm….

  Gurney’s brows drew together, and his expression became terrible to behold. He refused to salve his
conscience with a weak explanation that he was not, after all, expected to control fanatics.

  He was the commander; they were his soldiers.

  And soldiers must follow orders. Enno and the Fremen had heard his explicit orders. They could not feign confusion or pretend to have misunderstood his promise. Enno had committed mutiny. He had defied the clear instructions of his superior officer.

  Not even turning to see who might be listening, Gurney roared a command in a voice that had once filled noisy halls with song. “Bring me Enno — immediately! And put him in chains!” Though he did not stop looking at the head of Lord Colus, he heard several Fremen scurry off into the growing daylight in response to his instructions.

  As a leader of Fremen regiments, Gurney Halleck kept a crysknife sheathed at his waist, but he did not reach for it. Instead, he drew a different blade, a well-worn kindjal with an Atreides hawk worked into the hilt. Because this was a matter of honor, an Atreides knife would work best.

  Eventually, four Fremen soldiers escorted Enno to him. As he walked along, the young man looked aloof and proud, his eyes shining with conviction. Though two soldiers held Enno’s arms, the prisoner was not shackled, as Gurney had ordered. The shades of Thufir Hawat and Duncan Idaho must be laughing at him now for letting his troops slip out of his control.

  “Why is this man not in chains? Were my instructions not clear?” he shouted, and the Fremen soldiers flinched, taking offense at his tone. Two of them let their hands stray toward their own crysknives. Gurney stepped toward them, his inkvine scar darkening on his face. “I am your commanding officer! Muad’Dib gave you orders — orders on your lives, damn you! — to follow my instructions. I act in the name of Muad’Dib. Who are you to question me?”

  Enno, though, was the main problem, and Gurney would deal with the other insubordination later. Pointing at the grisly trophy atop the gatepost, he demanded, “Did I not accept this man’s surrender? Did I not grant him terms?”