lungs like an icy fist. He kept going under, choking and coughing; he hadn’t been able to draw a decent breath since his accidental gulp of water. The stream seemed so deep, so cold.
He saw a light above and struck out for it, but something grabbed his shoulder, sharp and powerful, like a monster’s claw under the water. A tree branch. Tangled in it, he couldn’t stroke upward. As his need for air became more and more desperate, he forgot everything Gurney Halleck had taught him about swimming. He felt something tear at his skin. The strap of his pack was snagged on the waterlogged branch.
He had to breathe. His lungs were being crushed. His vision was growing dark. He
The only breath he could draw, though, was filled with cold, liquid blackness.
HE AWOKE SPEWING bile-tasting water from his mouth and nostrils. Burbage had pressed hard on Stilgar’s upper stomach, making him retch and forcing the water out of his lungs.
A battered and bedraggled Elias stood over him, looking deeply worried, as the naib drew several shuddering breaths. “He will be like Enno, a Fremen dead from too much water and come back to life.”
“No fighters will be drowning today,” Burbage said with a nod.
Stilgar tried to say that he would be fine, but he vomited again, rolled over, coughed, and spat up more water. His knees and arms trembled. He had no words to explain what he had seen within the light and the water. In the darkness of death he remembered something, but it was fading quickly. A warm, tingling amazement began to spread through him.
Burbage had already sent his soldiers up and down the riverbank to retrieve as many packs as possible. Seventeen ruh-yaks had gone under, while others wandered, wet and dazed, on both sides of the river. Some had vanished completely.
“We’re going to miss our weapons and supplies. Now we’ll have to move faster to get up to the mountain stockpile,” Burbage said. “Otherwise we’ll run out of food and fuel before we get there. We’d better hope the rebel larders are well supplied.”
Stilgar got to his feet. The sunlight seemed brighter, the drying water on his skin and the foul taste in his mouth were undeniable signals that he was alive. A part of him knew that he had surrendered to death, and would have stayed there if these men hadn’t brought him back. It was God’s will that he was still alive. He had more work to do for Muad’Dib.
Still slightly disoriented, he recalled when he had first sworn fealty to the young man who would eventually become the leader of the Fremen and the whole Imperium. A huge chamber filled with Fremen, shouting, cheering… and he had drawn his crysknife, pointing it over the heads of the throng. The cavern tilled with a roar of voices, an echoing chant.
Paul had made him kneel, taken the naib’s crysknife, and made him repeat, “I, Stilgar, take this knife from the hands of my Duke. I dedicate this blade to the cause of my Duke and the death of his enemies for as long as our blood shall flow.”
And much blood had flowed.
But now, through his near-drowning, Stilgar had also come to a deep realization, perhaps even an epiphany. With his own eyes, he had looked upon green forests and swamps. He had seen the sea and fast-flowing rivers. Soon, he would be up in the mountain snows. But Muad’Dib had nearly lost his services because of a clumsy accident. He was certain of where he belonged.
A Fremen was out of place when he was not in the desert. Stilgar needed to serve Muad’Dib back on Dune. He had been named planetary governor of Arrakis, and Muad’Dib had offered him a position as his Minister of State. He did not belong on the battlefield anymore. He knew that now, as clearly as he knew anything. Others could do this fighting. He would be far more valuable on Arrakeen, fighting political battles.
After he accomplished this mission, he would return to Muad’Dib — and find a way to remain with him on Arrakis.
6
Weapons come in an infinite variety of shapes and designs. Some look exactly like people.
As little as I am, I can still defeat you.” Marie grinned at Thallo. “You may have fooled them into thinking you are perfect, but I know you have weaknesses.” The girl crouched in a fighting stance, which made her look even smaller than she really was. Less threatening and deceptively benign. Like her rival on the grassy playfield, she wore a full-body filmsuit and remained barefoot.
“You look just like a harmless child,” he countered mildly. “But I no longer make the mistake of underestimating you.”
It was early afternoon, a cool day in Thalidei, with trees swaying in a breeze blowing across the polluted lake. Tleilaxu men held onto their weather-hats. Despite the illusion of freedom, Thallo’s trainers and observers were always close by. Two lab technicians watched from opposite sides of the field, dictating notes into lapel imagers that sparkled in sunlight.
In the guarded park, Thallo towered statuesque and confident over Marie. He moved only enough to watch the little girl as she circled him. “You bruised me yesterday,” he said, “but it will not happen again.”
“You enjoyed the bruises.” That time, after Marie had struck his lower legs with hard kicks, Thallo had limped back to the laboratory building, unable to hide the pain. Technicians had rushed to apply fast-healing medical packs on him, but Dr. Ereboam insisted on tending the injuries himself, shooing everyone else out of sight — including Marie — before peeling away the beige filmsuit.
Marie realized the truth: Because the albino researcher knew about Thallo’s propensity for cutting himself and had carefully hidden the fact from his peers, Ereboam couldn’t let anyone see the fresh scabs and old scars. The girl wondered how often the mysterious and insular Tleilaxu lied to each other.
Today, Thallo’s limited range of movement suggested that his legs still hurt. Nevertheless, he lunged unexpectedly, striking out at her with a stiff-fingered hand, but she slipped to one side so that he missed her by centimeters. His blow brushed past her, and she didn’t even feel the breeze.
With her varied and intense training, Marie considered herself more than a match for this maladjusted Tleilaxu creation. Still, she played — and fought — with him, observing carefully, continually learning, and Thallo was learning from her as well. They would be a formidable fighting team.
Using perceptive techniques her mother had taught, Marie had come to understand Thallo. He had exceptional fighting skills and a wealth of encyclopedic knowledge, but the Tleilaxu treated him as a specimen, a valuable experiment, a child. Sometimes he acted the role of child for his own amusement. Spurts of action and game playing were only distractions for him, after which he would often wallow in depression, as if slipping into a dark chasm. He was falling now; she could see it.
She kicked at his shins with her hardened feet. He dodged, moving back defensively. She pursued, kicking again and again, but narrowly missed each time. Despite her best efforts, even when she was certain the blows had landed perfectly, she never managed to touch him.
Thallo taunted her. “You have to do better than that!” His voice didn’t sound quite right; it seemed to come from all directions, as if the breeze scattered it all around her. Was he throwing his voice to distract her?
Marie executed a series of speed-somersaults, spinning past him and then coming around from behind. Finally, just as he turned to face her, she landed with her hands on the grass and launched her tiny body toward him in a proven Bene Gesserit bullet maneuver. She hit the middle of his abdomen — and passed completely
