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 broken 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.”
“You quote such rules to us?” Archduke Ecaz shouted, transmitted from his command craft. “This is no longer a War of Assassins — you have turned it into open warfare.”
As if to emphasize the fact, a volley of Grumman missiles streaked out of launchers embedded just outside the shimmering shields of the Viscount’s fortress city. Because the landed Atreides and Ecazi war frigates were also shielded, the heavy projectiles skipped harmlessly off the barriers, but a cry of outrage rose from the soldiers lining up in ranks on the battlefield.
Resser’s image had vanished as soon as the missiles were launched. It was more a gesture of defiance than an intent to cause any real damage to the opposing army, but it demonstrated the lengths to which the Grummans would go.
Bristling with anger and indignation, Leto ordered his forces to advance on the fortress city.
5
Trying to plan every detail of a large and complex battle is like mapping the winds — expect chaos, unpredictability, and surprises. That is all you need to know.
—JOOL-NORET, the first Swordmaster
From his position of safety in the foothills, Rabban watched the impressive and well-coordinated landing of the enemy armies. The sheer number of war frigates astonished him. What an expense! He knew how much it had cost his uncle to send just one division of Harkonnen soldiers to Grumman. House Atreides and House Ecaz must have each spent at least ten times that.
To Rabban, it indicated how outraged Duke Leto and Archduke Armand must be over the wedding-day attack. He couldn’t help but smile. It was too bad that House Harkonnen couldn’t take public credit alongside Viscount Moritani, but he saw his uncle’s wisdom in letting the Grummans accept the blame.
The provocation had certainly worked… though he wished he had a better understanding of Moritani’s plans. Rabban assumed that his uncle understood what the Viscount was truly up to.
Wearing the black-plumed helmet that designated him the Warlord in charge of the defending armies, Rabban sat straight in the saddle, gazing over the battlefield. He flexed his muscles, restless to get into the fight. But he would let the Grumman warriors take the brunt of the first impact. Then he could get down to business himself.
The Ecazi army moved first, leaving the swarms of landed frigates and shielded soldiers to embark on a ground assault across the dry and dusty expanse. The flat plain would define the parameters of the battlefield. Atreides soldiers followed them in a second wave.
Rabban had stationed half of his mounted troops on the rocky shore to stand guard. Behind him and up the slopes, impenetrable house shields enveloped the Viscount’s armed fortress. They were under strict orders to wait, to remain visible as defenders of Ritka, but not to move against the enemy army.
His horse was powerful and restless and continued to shift nervously. He touched the controls on the pommel, sending a jolt to the proper nerve center of the horse’s conditioned brain, forcing it to stand still. He had neither the time nor patience to become accustomed to his mount, so he needed to keep it under control. Nearby, Brom and the other lieutenants sat astride their own trained stallions.
Marching forward in ranks across the seabed, the Ecazi and Atreides soldiers wore body shields. Rabban pressed his thick lips together, contemplating tactics. A single soldier firing a lasgun into one of those shields would create a ps
eudo-atomic explosion powerful enough to vaporize the entire military force. But Rabban wouldn’t go that far, even if he could find a way to escape the detonation himself. Such tactics would invite far too many questions in the aftermath.
Since the shields on both sides made projectile weapons and explosives useless, as well as aerial attacks, this battle would seem almost medieval: sword against sword, personal combat won by skill and strength. Rabban could already imagine the resounding clamor.
As the front lines of Ecazi troops marched slowly toward Ritka, he grew impatient and clenched his fists. The Viscount had ordered him to wait, specifically forbidding him to send his troops into battle. Until when? No one had told him. Rabban made a disgusted noise. It seemed foolish to ignore such a prime opportunity. Why waste so much time and let them grow closer, unchallenged? “Our troops could engage them out there right now! Is this a battle, or isn’t it?”
Before a command could leave Rabban’s mouth, though, Brom said in a deep warning voice, “Wait for the right moment. Not yet.”
“But this is insanity. What is the right moment? Look at them!”
“The Viscount knows his plan. It is not a warrior’s business to understand his master, but simply to obey and wait for the signal.”
Rabban ground his teeth together, remembering quite clearly that this unpredictable Moritani lord was not his master.
He heard loud horns, shrill whistles, and a startling clamor of metal on metal, even the sharp reports of small explosions. Brom gestured toward the expansive canvas-roofed corrals and stables that held Moritani’s prized Genga stallions. Driven ahead by screaming warriors, the monster horses flowed out of their corrals, hundreds upon hundreds of angry wild beasts armed with spikes and sharp razors. The unleashed stallions swept around the low hills, then surged in a wild, unstoppable mass across the dry plain directly toward the oncoming enemy army. The whooping, goading warriors wheeled away and retreated to the stables, letting the stallions continue their stampede.
Rabban had not expected that at all. He chuckled and looked over at Brom. “Yes, now I’m glad that we waited.”
***
WHEN THE ATREIDES troops followed the Ecazi army in the forward march, Paul carried his own sword as well as a dagger. He walked between Duncan and Gurney, both of whom seemed to be overprotective. After fighting off the assassin-trackers on Caladan, the young man had insisted upon participating on the battlefield, despite his father’s clear uneasiness.
Leto had said, “If you are to be a Duke someday, Paul, you must learn how to command. Keep your perspective on the whole battle and know your place. You are not a common soldier.”
“But I am not a Duke yet, Father,” Paul had replied. “As you’ve always said, before I have the right to make decisions involving the lives of the men, I must understand what they go through. This fight is more about honor than glory or conquest. Isn’t that what House Atreides is all about?”
Leto had been forced to concede with a thin smile. “If I didn’t believe that, I would never have considered letting you come to Grumman in the first place. All right, but Duncan and Gurney are not to let you out of their sight.”
Paul knew he was as good a fighter as almost any soldier in the House Atreides forces, and the other two men vouched for him. He did not doubt, though, that his father would be monitoring him closely from the command ship.
Now they marched across the virgin battlefield, following in many trampled footsteps and so far to the rear of the shielded troops that Paul doubted he would ever see any direct combat.
Nevertheless, when the raging wall of riderless horses hurtled into the armies like an unexpected sea squall, the resulting confusion and turmoil made it seem as if the battle had turned into a rout.
Waving his sword, Gurney bellowed, “Stand firm!”
Duncan pressed closer to Paul, ready to use his new sword. “This is lunacy — running horses can’t penetrate our shields!”
Paul quickly realized the true objective. “No, but they’re confusing our ranks, breaking our momentum.”
The neatly organized battle lines were suddenly scrambled. Hundreds of stallions, their hooves knifing down, careened into soldiers, knocking them over inside their protective shields. The dust thrown into the air by the thunderous stampede made it impossible to see. Static sparkles outlined the coverage area of Paul’s shield.
“Paul, stay close!” Gurney called over the tumult.
A wild-eyed horse, mottled brown-and-white, reared up before Paul. The boy ducked sideways as the sharp hooves came down and skittered harmlessly off the shield. One of the metal spines of the war horse’s armor managed to slide partly through the barrier, so that Paul had to twist away to avoid being impaled. Next to him, Duncan was trying to hold fast.
More horses crashed against shields, and many soldiers panicked at the sight of the monsters coming at them. They struck out with their blades, slashing at the horses, killing some, wounding others. Maddened by the cuts, the stallions went wild, crashing into each other, inflicting further injuries with their war spikes.
Paul remained crouched, not certain how to fight against such a force. A number of the warhorses actually broke through shields, penetrating the soldiers’ defenses and killing them. Some of the troops shouted for their commanders and tried to stand together, but the well-trained units had been disrupted into a disorganized mass. Few could hear the orders of the commanders over the uproar.
The stampede seemed to last forever, though the maddened horses were not guided; they’d simply been turned loose on the armies of Ecaz and Atreides. Dozens of the stallions were killed before the wall of wild horses passed.
Gurney began yelling at the top of his lungs, trying to impose order. “Atreides, Atreides to me! Form ranks!”
Paul could barely see through the billowing dust the stallions had stirred up on the dry plain. He felt certain that this was not the only trick Viscount Moritani would unleash upon them.
***
FROM HIS VANTAGE point, Rabban watched the mayhem with smug pleasure plain on his face. The enemy forces were in complete disarray from the hundreds of armored horses that had plowed through their ranks. He knew what to do next. This must be why the Viscount had told him to wait.
Now it was his turn to take charge. “I’m sending forth our armies to attack before they can re-form ranks.”
Brom glared at him. “The Viscount ordered us to wait for his signal.”
“As your Warlord I am in command of this battlefield, and I see an opportunity that the Viscount didn’t plan for.” Snarling, Rabban activated his transmitter and sent his command to the soldiers. “All troops, push forward and strike the enemy. We will never have a better chance.”
“This is not wise, Rabban!” Brom insisted, raising a gloved fist. “We follow the orders of the Viscount.”
“Your Viscount made me Warlord. Obey my instructions, or die at the point of my sword.” He gestured to the chaotic enemy army below. “Isn’t it obvious? Look!”
Reluctantly, the Grumman soldier placed a hand over his own chest armor, and turned his gaze aside.
Barking another command, Rabban ordered two of his Harkonnen officers to join the troops, which they did, galloping off on their stallions. Moments later, the disguised Harkonnen division, as well as the Grumman warriors, raised a howling battle cry and plunged forward onto the dry plain that had once been a shallow inland sea.
The Ecazi troops saw the charge and required no orders to know how to respond. With an answering howl, they raised their weapons to meet the enemy, and rushed forward.
Rabban glanced up at the shielded fortress keep, knowing that Moritani must be watching with interest, most likely applauding Rabban’s snap decision. He guided his uneasy horse down out of the hills toward the edge of the battlefield.
Brom followed. “If you insist on this fight, Warlord, we should participate ourselves — as true commanders.”
“I agree.” The two men, with fifty
of the elite Moritani warriors who had been stationed with them, rode toward the edge of the seabed, ready to join the main forces immediately after the initial clash. The bulk of their troops rushed across the plain toward the enemy at full gallop.
Explosions rumbled from beneath the ground. The surface of the seabed began to collapse inward, dropping away like countless trapdoors beneath not only the Ecazi army, but the mounted Grumman soldiers riding toward them. Rabban couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “What the hell is happening?”
An entire section of the plain collapsed, revealing hundreds of underground tunnels and shafts. Rabban knew that House Moritani mined and extracted chemicals and minerals from beneath the ground, but now it seemed that someone had detonated the support walls of the fragile honeycombed shell, causing these particular tunnels to collapse.
In an instant, more than half of the Moritani and Harkonnen soldiers had plunged to their deaths, along with an equal number of the enemy Ecazi, swallowed up by the battlefield itself.
Stunned, Rabban wondered about the explosions. Who could have done that? His mind went blank. Had this entire scenario been a trap, intentionally set by the Viscount to lure the enemy across the battlefield? Suddenly, he saw the logic of it.
Furious that Moritani would keep such vital information from him, he turned to look at Brom, but saw only murderous, accusing hatred on the other warrior’s face. Brom drew his sword.
“What?” Rabban said, pointing out at the collapsed battlefield. “Your own Viscount must have done that! To our troops as well as the enemy! He should have warned —”
“The Viscount knew his plan,” Brom said. “He gave you instructions. You disobeyed.”
Rabban backed up his stallion, but Grumman soldiers began closing in around him.
6
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