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.
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
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
