“Father is not happy with you, Irulan.”
“I know. We’ll have time to talk about that.”
Rugi summoned what bravery she possessed. She released Irulan’s hand, taking her arm instead, and the two of them strolled together away from the spaceport, followed by the Sardaukar retinue. “I thought Salusa Secundus was bad.” Rugi stared at the dusty streets, and winced at the noise and stench. “But this place is much, much worse.”
5
You can have all your paradise worlds; I see Eden in the desert, and that is enough for me.
Jericha had impressive mountains — gray, craggy peaks thatched with glistening snow that provided too many hiding places for Thorvald’s rebels. In the five years since the start of the Jihad, Stilgar had seen many things that went beyond the wildest things he’d ever thought of as a Fremen naib. In Sietch Tabr he had considered himself a wise and powerful man, yet he had never seen beyond the horizon of his own planet. Dune had been enough for him then.
But when Muad’Dib asked him to do more, he could not refuse. In preliminary reports, Stilgar had heard about the harsh conditions that awaited his troops once they got high above the tree line to the windswept fastnesses where Memnon Thorvald’s guerrilla troops had concealed a weapons stockpile. He had laughed at the warnings about weather. Cold, snow, blizzards — such weather could not possibly be more dangerous than the sandstorms he had endured for most of his life.
As the date of the Great Surrender ceremony approached, more than a thousand representatives had already traveled to Arrakeen to pledge themselves and show their humility. Stilgar longed to be back in Arrakeen where he could stand at Muad’Dib’s side and be the first to embrace him. But the press of the Jihad did not slow for festivals or celebrations. The fighting would not stop, no matter what Muad’Dib decreed. For now Stilgar had another job to do.
The nine surviving rebel nobles in Thorvald’s persistent insurrection had sent a defiant announcement to a number of fringe worlds. Thorvald had proclaimed his own gathering of opposition leaders and provided cryptic instructions on where to meet.
Paul had looked genuinely sad as he dispatched Stilgar and a special group of crack soldiers to Jericha. “Everyone else in my Empire needs to prove their loyalty to me, Stil, but not you, and not Gurney Halleck.”
For the important assignment Stilgar had selected a few of his best Fremen warriors, including Elias, one of the bravest of Muad’Dib’s death commandos. Most of this army, though, was composed of Caladan troops, trained and dispatched by Halleck as he did his part to continue the fight. Jericha was a water-rich world, and after his unsettling debacle in the marshes on Bela Tegeuse, Stilgar had requested soldiers with more proficiency in the type of environment they were likely to encounter.
Their path to the rebel stockpile in the Jerichan mountains was slow and tedious. In a brilliant tactical move, Thorvald’s followers had obtained and deployed powerful suspensor-field jammers, dangerous and expensive Ixian technology available only on the black market. The jammers were capable of shutting down the engines of scout fliers and airborne assault ships. Stilgar had discovered this to his dismay when he’d sent his first assault team to investigate and destroy the enclave. Every ship in the first wave crashed, plummeting into the rugged mountains before they could manage to get off a single shot.
So, Stilgar had been forced to plan another approach. Since standard flying vehicles and even ‘thopters were not reliable against the jammers, he decided to use a more conventional means of locomotion. From small tundra villages — whose men and women enthusiastically swore their loyalty to Muad’Dib as soon as they saw the overwhelming military force — they obtained ruh-yaks: sturdy, shaggy, and smelly beasts of burden. The creatures could carry men and equipment, and their plodding footsteps did not slow (or hasten) regardless of the load they carried. Invoking the name of Muad’Dib, Stilgar had commandeered the entire herd and all the necessary saddles, harnesses, straps, and goads.
With the ruh-yaks, his team could pass through a green stream valley and up into the barren rock to a high pass, following trails that the rebels in Thorvald’s stronghold were not likely to suspect. Based on intelligence reports, Stilgar had no doubt that his fighters would overwhelm and crush the enemy. The only question in his mind was how many lives it would cost him.
Leaving the tundra village nearly empty after the people helped Muad’Dib’s fighters, Stilgar’s men set off to find the weapons stockpile. The ruh-yaks were offensive beasts, stupid, flatulent animals whose thick, matted fur was a haven for biting insects that seemed to prefer the taste of human blood over that of the animals. Some were ornery and stubborn and often made such loud noises of complaint that Stilgar despaired of approaching his target quietly.
Proceeding up steep slopes, plodding relentlessly for more than a day, they finally reached a second river valley that led even higher into the crags. Drawing tributaries from several adjacent drainages, the mountain stream itself was wide and deep, greatly swollen by spring runoff.
“I am not certain we can ford this,” said Burbage, the highest-ranking man of Stilgar’s Caladan troops, a noncom. “Normally, I wouldn’t recommend a crossing for another month or two, until the waters go down. It’s the wrong season.”
“Muad’Dib cannot keep track of every season on every planet in his Empire,” Stilgar said. “He sent us here to wipe out a nest of vipers. Would you like to go tell him he will have to wait?”
Burbage seemed more dismayed than intimidated. He touched a long, thin mark on his cheek. “I got this scar fighting in Duke Leto’s War of Assassins, facing the charging stallions of Viscount Moritani. I have been following Atreides orders since long before Master Paul became the man you call Muad’Dib. I’ll find a way.”
The Caladan man urged his beast to the edge of the river. The current looked deceptively motionless, showing only a few feathery ripples across the surface. Nevertheless, Stilgar could hear the hollow chuckling of water that stirred past rocks on the bank.
“Deep and cold.” Burbage raised his voice to the Caladan troops. “But I can swim, and cold doesn’t bother me. Shall we go?” His men cheered, and Stilgar was caught up in their confidence.
Burbage’s ruh-yak lurched into the water with a great splash, and the other Caladan riders charged forward, cheering as if it were a game. Within moments dozens of the beasts had plunged into the deep, wide stream, striking out into the current and pushing downstream. Quickly the water became too deep for the beasts to find footing, and they began to swim.
Stilgar, Elias, and his Fremen were caught up in the charge, driven into the river, which carried them farther down the valley. When they were in the middle of the channel, algae-slick rocks just beneath the surface began to churn the current into rougher water.
Some of the Caladan troops had already made it across, while several men had fallen off of their mounts and were soaked. They splashed to the bank, laughing, pulling some of their friends back into the water to engage in horseplay. These soldiers had been born and raised around water; they had learned to swim as easily as they walked.
But Stilgar was awed by the swift and powerful current. Elias slipped off of his ruh-yak and flailed in the river, rushing downstream to where he was caught up against jutting boulders. He clung to them, bellowing for help and not willing to let go to swim for the far bank.
Burbage shouted for ropes and swimmers to retrieve the Fremen. Stilgar tried to get close enough to help Elias, but his own thrashing ruh-yak slipped beneath the water. Stilgar went under and instead of letting out a yell, he swallowed and inhaled a mouthful of the river. He began to cough and gasp uncontrollably. The weight of his heavy pack pulled him down.
The struggling ruh-yak tried to throw off its rider and the packs. The equipment fell off first, whisked along in the current. Stilgar couldn’t catch any of it, couldn’t even keep his hold on the saddle and reins. He found himself drifting free, in clothing that was soaked and heavy. The coldness of the water settled into his chest, squeezing his
