Paul of Dune

“Duncan, we can’t just run!” Paul said, not willing to leave Goire to do all the fighting for them.

“My strategic imperative is to save you, young Master. Your father gave me my mission.” Parts of the outer walls had crumbled during the succession of explosions, and jagged breaches now opened the barrier to the wilderness beyond. Duncan silenced Paul by pushing him toward the nearest gap. “If the only way I can accomplish my mission is to take advantage of a diversion or delay, I’ll do it.”

Goire activated his body shield, and the shimmering intangible barrier cocooned him. He had his weapons. Duncan felt certain Goire was trying to atone for his mistake in allowing Victor to be killed. Did he hope Duke Leto would forgive him if he sacrificed his life now, to let Paul escape? Possibly.

Duncan hesitated, wondering if he should hand Goire the Old Duke’s sword — but that was his only weapon, and he could not surrender his best means of defending Paul.

Howling, Goire charged toward the attacking soldiers — one man against dozens, yet he rushed in. It was suicide.

Duncan dragged Paul through the broken wall rubble and into the thick foliage. The last glimpse he got of Swain Goire was when the man collided with the advancing armed soldiers, his body shield thrumming, his two wooden weapons thrashing from side to side. The assassins engulfed him, and their weapons were far sharper.

Paul and Duncan ran blindly into the jungle.

10

When a lasbeam strikes a shield, the destructive interaction is wholly disproportionate to the initiating energy. Both parties are completely annihilated. This is a perfect metaphor for politics.

—THUFIR HAWAT, Strategy Lessons

The small ornithopter flew low and fast over the grassy hills of Grumman. With whisper-quiet engines and movable wings, the vehicle made hardly any noise in its passage, just the slight, smooth sounds a large bird might make. Resser sat beside the Viscount, who piloted, ostensibly to test the new aircraft design for rounding up wild horses.

Resser was not fooled, though. He knew Hundro Moritani was preparing for war.

The Grumman soldiers, gruff and hardened warriors culled from villages out in the steppes, had been toiling in the salt tunnels and mineral shafts that riddled the ground under the dry lake bed outside of Ritka. Moritani had gathered hundreds of his stallions into corrals beyond the perimeter of the fortress shields, fitting them all with spiked armor, though he had ten times as many horses as riders. And Resser didn’t see what a mere cavalry could do against a modern military force.

As the ‘thopter flew along, the setting sun turned the windows of the fortress city orange, as if the structures were on fire. The Viscount looked intently at the illusion, paying little attention to his piloting. A downdraft caught the craft abruptly and they reeled downward, nearly scraping the ground before he regained control.

“It’s not my time to die,” the Viscount said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Nor yours. Not yet. We have work to do, Resser.” Since returning from Kaitain, Moritani had been in uncharacteristically high spirits, even though he had received a censure from the Landsraad and sparked the wrath of Shaddam IV.

The redheaded Swordmaster said, “With all due respect, my Lord, I cannot understand your tactics. Did you intentionally provoke the Padishah Emperor?”

“Absolutely. When the upcoming battle looks most terrible, I expect that our paternal Shaddam will come running to stop us from hurting ourselves.” He glared at Resser. “Never forget how my ancestors made their mark forever on Salusa Secundus, and how the damned Corrinos hunted them down for revenge.”

“I will not forget, my Lord, but I fail to see what you can accomplish in this manner. Both Duke Atreides and Archduke Ecaz survived your assassination attempt. You heard their representatives file formal protests, but they will not stop there. As we speak, they are sure to be combining their planetary militaries in order to strike Grumman hard. You may have intended this to be a War of Assassins, but you are obviously preparing for far more than that. How can we possibly defeat the armed forces of two noble Houses?”

He also knew that Duncan Idaho, his old friend from Ginaz, would be with the Atreides forces.

Moritani chuckled. “Oh, Resser, how you misunderstand! We don’t need to defeat them! We merely have to hold out long enough for the Corrino Emperor to come to the rescue — and mark my word, he will. Grumman is a powerful magnet that will draw all of our enemies at once.” Still chuckling, he gripped the controls of the ‘thopter and flew them on a daredevil run toward the stony hills behind Ritka, but Resser could see that the man’s large, squarish hands were shaking. He continued in a whisper, “And then it will all be over. Whether our noble House is known by the name of Tantor or Moritani, we have always been underestimated. After this, no one will ever forget our family name again.”

A terrible sense of foreboding came over Resser. “What do you intend to do, my Lord?”

“My son is dead, so my House will die with me.”

“You can have other children, my Lord. You can remarry.”

“No, no, Resser. When Cilia died, darkness consumed my soul. Wolfram was my proper heir, and the Ecazis just let him suffer and die — out of spite! We cannot defeat the plots of our enemies in any other way. My line shall end in a way that will be written in all of the historical chronicles. And you will help.”

Resser drew a deep breath to focus. “I swore an oath to serve you, my Lord.”

“Grumman will become a tomb for House Moritani and our three principal enemies — even for House Harkonnen, if we’re lucky. I have commanded the Baron to send his heir apparent to lead a division of disguised Harkonnen troops.” His eyes took on a distant look. “Resser, I want you to take all of the family atomics and install them in the passageways immediately beneath my fortress keep. Remove the safeguards and transfer the codes to my throne room.”

“Atomics, my Lord?” Resser clung to his seat as the ‘thopter soared over the rooftops of Ritka. Years ago Duncan had begged him to break his oath to House Moritani and abandon his service to the dishonorable Viscount, but Resser had refused. Though Duncan had disagreed with Resser’s decision, he had clearly understood it, because he was an Atreides retainer — a good and loyal fighter for his noble House, just as Resser was for his. Resser had defiantly served his role, holding to his oath even when he knew that his master broke the rules and provoked his enemies.

But atomics!

Viscount Moritani shrugged, casually continuing to pilot the craft. “Do not think of the Great Convention as if it were a sacred text, like the Orange Catholic Bible. It’s no more than an ancient agreement written by a frightened people who were still stinging from the wounds of the Butlerian Jihad. Those outdated rules no longer apply to us. Prepare the atomics, as I have commanded.” He narrowed his dark eyes. “Or will you fail me? Shall I remind you of the blood oath you swore to me? A blood oath!”

The Viscount’s words cut with a razor edge. Resser didn’t doubt that the man would command him to leap from the flying craft if he did not provide a satisfactory answer. Resser was not afraid of dying — only of making the wrong choice. Perhaps he could fight for the controls and cause the ‘thopter to crash into a hillside… which might, after all, be the best outcome for the sake of the Imperium. But he could never accept the thought of killing his own master, no matter how he tried to rationalize it.

Looking away, he replied sincerely, “My Lord Viscount, am I not the only Swordmaster who remains at your side, when all the others have vanished?”

With a deep growl of agreement, the Viscount changed course and headed toward the central fortress in Ritka. Torchpots had already been lit to mark the landing zone. The sky deepened into dusk, and Resser looked up to see the stars and imagined the many quiet worlds out there.